The X-Project

Haller and Arthur treat Warren to the joys of mini-golf as a late birthday celebration.



A billionaire, a stuntman, and a counselor walk onto a miniature golf course . . .

Jim didn't have a conclusion to that thought, it just so happened his current reality sounded like the setup for a joke. It wasn't uncommon, but his stream of consciousness still found it necessary to point it out every time.

While Haller was ruminating about his life choices, Warren was fascinated by this very kitschy and cute version of America. When outdoor mini golf was suggested, Warren wasn't going to the one to say he had no idea what it was. He'd googled and was horrified by the neon colours, the weird usage of the words "Fun for the whole family" (whose family? Not his), and the menu of nothing but greasy foods without any suggestion of alcohol to go with it. This was for Haller and Arthur though so he was on board.  He could do this.

And then they got there and it was just . . . mini.  Everything was so small. The monuments, the people, the . . . golf clubs?  He looked down at his club, which was dwarfed in his hand, and at the bright purple golf ball he had been handed. This was fine. Was there anything more American than taking their successes and miniaturizing it so it was accessible to all?  Truly, it was what America was all about.

He took a deep breath in, adjusted his visor, and smiled.  "It's so good to be amongst the common people," he announced.  His leather gloves were in his back pocket and he debated putting them on but no — let the world see that Warren Worthington the Third could be like anyone else.  He bent down and tied the laces of his bright green Henry Stuart golf cleats before standing up and brushing away non-existent wrinkles of his rain-proof Abacus golf trousers.  

"Truly a man of the people," Arthur said with a boyish grin. The stuntman was practically rocking back on his heels with how pleased he already was with this entire situation — the fact that all of the "people" present were three forty something men alone on a weekday afternoon didn't even cloud his sunshine. "Chelsea," who had been the one lone, forlorn looking attendant at the front gate, "Assured me that this was the best course here."

He swung his own club up and over his shoulders, letting it rest casually as he surveyed the mini-American green. "Ground rules, then. Are we keeping score? Am I playing blindfolded? Is this a competition or a comedy?"

"You mean people do this seriously?" Jim asked, genuinely stunned. One of the holes sported a reproduction of Mount Rushmore. The only way to play through appeared to be via Theodore Roosevelt's open mouth.

"A sad truth: there's always someone taking anything too seriously," Arthur said mournfully as he juggled his own bright yellow ball with one hand. He shook his head. "Luckily we know winning isn't the only way to have fun."

"What?"  That sentence alone personally offended Warren as he took a few practice swings.  "No one has fun losing, that's a terrible sentence.  And I for one intend on kicking both your asses like Abraham Lincoln intended."  It seemed the first hole was the Lincoln monument only it was several holes through the column.  "Why are there options? I don't understand.  How am I supposed to know which one is the right one?"

Despite every instinct to the contrary, Jim found he couldn't stop himself. "That's part of the challenge. Obviously it's not just skill, but strategy." He hesitated. "Unless you're Arthur, in which case I think a blindfold would actually make it less fair."

Arthur delivered a truly impressive look of devastation. "So, no powers then?"

The telepath spread his hands. "Warren doesn't have any powers practical to the situation. Or none beyond the money to buy and demolish the course, I guess."

"Wrong, Haller.  I think we know that one of my powers is this peak, physical body and all my perfect features, really. That's incredibly practical . . .”   And then the edible kicked in.  “Wait. If I could shrink, I could live here."

A beat.

Arthur, squinting, gave Warren a patient smile. "Bud, you do have to hit the ball. Abe awaits."

"Hmm?"  He looked down at his hand, the hideous shade of purple that he thought was neon and gazed back to the memorial.  With a nod, he walked over and put his ball on the broken nub of a tee.  He put his club down, and got into stance.  Frowned.  Tried another angle.  Glared.  Tried another.  Hesitated.

"How do I hit a mini ball?  I'm so strong.  I don't want to destroy it."

"I'm . . . sure you're very strong, but that's a regular-sized ball." Jim traded a look with Arthur, fraught with hidden meaning. A look which said: What the fuck is going on?

Warren squinted and straightened up.   "That just causes more questions."  And then he hit the ball and watched it disappear.  

"Hey.... where did it go?  is this like a vending machine not giving new candy ?  And yes.  I have used a vending machine before but only once they started accepting baking cards.   Who carries bills under 50$s on them anyways?"

"Only the desperate." Arthur shared the fraught look with Haller, paired with an additional furrow of the brow to indicate What the actual fuck?. Bravely, he stepped forward to examine the world from Warren's point of view. The man’s purple ball was down in the lower portion of the first hole. "Warren, have you ever played mini golf before? There's a first time for everyone, and I love this for you."

Warren looked at his friends,  baffled.  "Why would I play poor people golf when I could play insanely rich people golf?"

Jim stared at the perplexed billionaire for a moment before turning back to Arthur. They were twenty feet away from a day-glo Statue of Liberty.

"I mean, he's got you there."

"Who would want to play real golf when you could have this?" Arthur gestured broadly in the other direction, to where they were also twenty feet away from a day-glo Golden Gate Bridge. There was a commitment to a very particular aesthetic here.

"I still have no clue as to what I'm doing here.  Where is my ball?"

"You know what, don't worry about it. We'll figure it out later." Jim placed his own ball onto the tee and grasped his club in a way that seemed vaguely accurate to what he recalled observing from the three minutes total he'd been exposed to televised golf tournaments over the course of his lifetime. He took a moment to size up the absurdly tiny clubhead, then swung.

The green ball rolled smoothly through a hole in the column, disappeared to take some invisible detour, and was spat out a bare six inches from the hole.

"Oh," Arthur said as he peeked over Haller's shoulder. "That'll be one up on par. Nice.” This was delivered in all seriousness.

His yellow ball went onto the tee next, and, to his credit, Arthur spent a good ten seconds considering available angles, slope of the course, and the wind speed. Satisfied, he shot.

The ball missed the memorial altogether, ricocheting off the edge of the rough to bounce against the structure. The ball fell, ignoring the hidden pipes to bounce onto the lower green, off a side wall, and then into the hole.

"Can you call it a lucky shot if it's completely expected?" Jim asked, dryly.

There was a back course.  Okay, so now this was making more sense.  While Haller and Arthur were going, Warren was watching diligently.  Through careful observation, he saw there was an intricate PVC piping system that guided the ball.  So it wasn't strictly luck.  He could absolutely win this.  And of course, he was going to.  Warren Worthington the Third wasn't a loser.

Heading to his ball, he took the shot, got it into the hole and nodded with satisfaction.  

"I'm going to demolish you both in the most respectful and professional way possible.  Just so you know."

"So, does this mean we are keeping score," Arthur said with an innocent smile. He put a hand to his heart. "As long as it is respectful."

Jim looked from one blond to the other. One unable to avoid a hole-in-one if he tried, the other . . . well, possibly intoxicated, but mostly just Warren.

Maybe it was fine to relax once in a while.

"Okay." Jim slung his club over one shoulder and glanced down. His right eye shaded to grey, and the green ball at his feet rolled itself directly into the hole.

"Then we're doing powers, and I'm going to kick your asses." Jim looked at Arthur and smiled. "Respectfully."

Warren huffed and stomped towards the St. Louis arch.  In all his years  he'd never felt the urge to go there and yet here he was and it was day glo yellow.

"This is very inaccurate and not to scale," he grumbled, focusing on his next shot.  "And for the record?  I will be the only one who wins for playing ethically.  After all, I have no powers that will help me."

Arthur's smile widened. "What happened to being so strong you might demolish the mini ball?"

Jim shook his head. "That's a handicap — wait, I think that means something different in golf."

For once, Warren chose the route of not answering, and instead decided to focus his way through the game, forgetting occasionally that powers were being used when he saw Arthur's ball hover on top of one of the holes.

"Haller, am I high or did the ball just . . . stop over the hole?"

"Both."

"Oh." And then he promptly forgot again as he raised his vape to his mouth.  

All in all, it was an entertaining day, and here they were at the last hole.  "So you're telling me that this time, I don't get my ball back, it just rolls into there and that's how the workers get it?  Why don't I just hand the ball in after winning? I don't think I understand all this depersonalization with golf.  I already have had to put up with no caddy and one club.  It's been very difficult on me."

The "there" in question happened to be a bullseye — the cartoonish figure of Uncle Sam poised in the middle with an opening and closing mouth proclaiming that he "wanted you" to sink your ball directly into his maw. The other rings rewarded lesser points for finishing the course.  

Arthur was still bouncing on his feet, entertained by the whole of this. Each of Haller's obvious cheats had received encouragement on technique and style of intervention. Had his shots also gotten progressively more ridiculous to up the challenge? Perhaps.

"If life wasn't difficult," the man born lucky said with a shrug, "how would we learn how to appreciate it? Go ahead, Warren. Plug up Mr. Sam there."

"Why would you phrase it like that?" Jim asked. He'd taken it upon himself to ensure Arthur didn't walk off the course with a scorecard full of hole-in-ones, and he was almost positive giving Warren that sort of opening had been punitive.

"Yeah Arthur, why?  You know I don't have any lube on me."  And then Warren chuckled.  "That's a lie, I always have some in my car."  

The blond man battered his eyelashes in feigned innocence, and suddenly his South African accent was noticeably thicker. "Isn't that how you treat your uncles in 'Merica? Go ahead, do your civic duty."

"I dare you to try when your uncle has the gem of Cytorrak," muttered Jim. In a louder voice he added, "Anyway, go ahead and take the shot. I'll even keep my brain to myself."

"Gesundheit," Arthur added helpfully with a finger pointed at Haller. He leaned casually against his club like it was a walking stick.

Warren gave them both a look that said he was done with their shit, and took the last shot.  As expected, it did not ring for joy, which was fine when he realized it would have given him a free pass for more mini golf.

"I bet you're both going to tell me that after all this, there isn't even a clubhouse to drink my pain away."

Jim gave this due consideration. "I don't know, do you want a bored college kid to sing you Happy Birthday while they serve you cheese fries? Because I bet we can pull that one off."

Almost immediately Warren's gag reflex kicked in and he choked a little.   "Dear Lord, why would you even suggest that?  What have I ever done to you?"

Arthur's eye traveled between the two, suddenly wary. "So," he mumbled in a low tone to Jim, "I should cancel the mascot and cake back at the concession stand? Chelsea is going to be so disappointed. She claimed it would make her day." The aforementioned bored, goth attendant had possibly meant that in another way.

 The telepath stared back at him.

"No," Jim said slowly. "No, that absolutely needs to happen. For Jean. For Jessica. And, frankly, for us." 

Stealthily prizing the phone from his pocket, the counselor turned back to the very rich, very high man who had somehow inexplicably become one of his better friends. 

"Hey Warren, Arthur has a surprise for you."