After a night of tossing and turning in angry frustration Hugo Chavez, The Mighty Wind, had a plan. If these grass cutters, these brainwashed slaves to the capitalist running dogs, wanted a fight they would get one. Summoning the heads of the army and air force into his office, he pointed to a detailed topographical map of the Caracas Country Club:
"Here, near the green on the second hole and along the beginning of the third fairway, are the areas fortified by these roaches, these groundskeepers, who would stop the revolution so they can lick the hand of the Yankee loving imperialist duffers. Your mission is to eliminate these areas and everyone on them, while preserving the second tee, the third green and the upper half of the third fairway. In one stroke I will break the back of the counterrevolution and combine the second and third holes,
reducing the Caracas Country Club to a seventeen hole course. Then when I retire, well of course I will never actually retire, the Venezuelan people will always need me as dictator for life, but when I start to look for other interests, I will be able to shoot lower scores."
In the Greens keepers stronghold behind the second green, Renaldo looked as grim as the smog ridden Caracas dawn. The elation of yesterday's victory was fading fast as the reality of the odds - a fleet of lawnmowers facing a real army led by an utterly ruthless egomaniac who would snuff them out like a candle just to avoid embarrassment - set in. To make matters worse, Bertina, the heroic beer cart girl hurt in the surprise attack on the first hole, needed a doctor badly. Renaldo passed among his men, arranging for one group to carry Bertina out on a stretcher improvised from an old blanket and two Big Bertha drivers and releasing the men in small groups with instructions to slip quietly through the woods towards the fourth hole, then disperse and head for home.
Renaldo gave his final instructions and left with the group carrying Bertina. The last three greens keepers were still waiting patiently when the sky began to buzz. Six eyes looked skyward, seeing nothing but a gray haze against a backdrop of gray clouds. The buzzing grew louder, then the first plane appeared just as the woods erupted - light and sound crashed in every direction as trees flew apart and turned into projectiles. The planes kept coming, wave after wave, turning back for another run and another, and the woods and the second green and part of the third fairway and the three greens keepers disappeared.
Renaldo looked back in horror, but what had he expected? The Mighty Wind was nothing if not a predictable bully. Even the greens keepers who had made a successful retreat would never be safe, the records of the Club would give Chavez their names, addresses, families. Renaldo realized there would be no simple end. With a sigh he fished his cell phone from his back pocket, and fumbled to pull a scrap of paper from the innermost compartment of his bulky wallet. In the dim light he looked back and forth between scrap and cell phone, dialling carefully. After several seconds he spoke quietly into the phone:
"Mr. Woods, sorry to call so early, hope I didn't wake you.
Glad to hear the first nine went so well. Tiger, I hate to
bother you, but I really, really need help here."