Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were after him.

Gonzales had been sniffin’ around, and Grubba knew it. 

It had been one day since he heard the unmistakable shuffle of the dang ijit crawling through the vents above his office. He’d pretended to fall for his ol’ “animal in the vents” trick, but he wasn’t stupid. born in a coop maybe, but he wasn’t no spring chicken. Gonzales was onto him… And soon, the courts would be.

The thought was absurd, of course. He was too dang smart to end up behind bars, but just in case... a backup plan couldn’t hurt.

The guitar solo to Free Bird reverberated throughout Caddie (The modest black 1955 Cadillac sedan series 62 he bought to impress Goldbob. He would’ve preferred his armored stretch-limo semi with the gold rims and suspiciously souped-up engine, but today wasn’t the day to flaunt too much.) making him shake even as the coke circulated through his thick, cholesterolated, steroidal veins, washing away all his merited fears. 

When yer this rich, you can do anything ya want.’ he drawled,rolling a thick Cuban cigar between thick fingers.

His Cadillac screeched to a halt, sending the sex wax car air freshener swaying in a frenzy, its fuzzy dice gonads jiggling in tandem as lil’ Caddie parallel parked at top speed, eating a large expensive helping of pristine marble stone pavement. 

Leaving the car like that, with a quick “atta girl!”, Grubba threw open the door, his custom moo-moo leather cowboy golf boots denting the ground in quick succession.

He put his hands on his broad hips and surveyed Goldbob’s tremendously green private golf course. He sparked his cigar and took a long, deep puff.

The golf course was a lavish, surreal landscape. Everywhere past the horizon: golf plains. The sand traps looked like theyd been imported from deserts untouched by time, the clubhouse resembled a five-star resort, and the sprawling greens stretched into infinity, studded with solid gold fountains that disappeared into the distance like stars.

He whistled low under his breath. It was the kind of opulence that made you feel small, even if you owned half a city.

In a motivating way, of course.

Goldbob was practicing on the putting green when Grubba approached, sipping sparkling water from a crystal glass, his monocle perched perfectly on his face. His demeanor, and outfit—tailored golf shoes complete with a top hat—radiated the effortless privilege of someone who had never known a moment of desperation. 

Grubba spat out his cigar, tucking it into his hat for later. Surely a man like that could bail someone out with pocket change... Not that he planned to ask outright. 

_______

Grubba waved at him, flashing his famous 1000-watt smile. He adjusted the collar of his polo shirt. Today's meeting was just for recreation - A friendly round of golf to strengthen connections. To learn more about his business partner, that was all. He put on his golf-purpose flip-down sunglasses. Any other questions, they could wait... until the right moment. 

“Grubba, old chap!” Goldbob greeted, extending a golf club plated in solid gold.

Grubba tipped his gold sequined cowboy hat. “Howdy, Goldie! Hope ya don’t mind me comin’ in hot. Heard this place was somethin’ else, but hoo dang if it ain’t even better than the pictures!”

Goldbob’s mustache gleamed as he looked Grubba over. “Is... that what you’re wearing to play golf?”

“What? There a dress code ‘er somethin’? Course it is!” Grubba puffed out his chest. “Gotta dress to impress!”

Goldbob’s brow furrowed slightly before he smiled, shaking hands with Grubba—which felt extremely odd to him, considering bob-ombs didn’t have hands.  “Welcome to my private golf course. I do look forward to discussing business matters with you over a good old game of golf.”

This was it. Grubba couldn’t help but wonder if it was time to ask the question burning in the back of his mind. If he could get even the smallest hint of Goldbob’s stance on certain matters…

He set down his golf bag with an  unusually loud thud

Goldbob raised an eyebrow. “...How many clubs did you bring?”

“Just enough! Now don’t go pokin’ around in there lookin’ in my bag or nothin’—I’ll only be usin’ ol’ Reliable fer now.” He yanked out a machete, hesitated, then hastily swapped it for a driver. “Wrong weapon. Uh, I mean—this here’s my secret weapon!”

Goldbob’s faint smile didn’t waver, though there was something unreadable in his eyes. 

“Well, then,” Goldbob said, gesturing toward the first tee, “shall we?”

As they walked to the tee, he wondered if experience was a prerequisite for attending Goldbob’s games. He had been golfing a few times in the past, but no one seemed to invite him anymore for some reason…

“HOOOOOO YEAH ! LET’S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!” He yelled, startling everyone including the groundskeeper a mile away.

“Might warn ya, I’m a lil’ rusty. Never got ta golf growin’ up—Poppa told me golfin’s a game fer Freemasins! …I mean the dress code, secret meetins, sometimes I feel he was on ta somethin’ -- but don’t go thinkin’ I aint wearin’ them golfin’ jeans! – my sweet nephew Tubba plays a mean golf ball, I tell ya! Ya won't find another one like him ‘round these parts”’ He dug a photo of the Grubba-proclaimed champion of mario golf out of his wallet. “Ain’t he just the sweetest slice’a pecan pie off the ol’ summer counter ya ever done seen? Now I tell ya, back in the day I used ta…” he began 

“Yes indeed,” said Goldbob, checking his pocketwatch as Grubba rambled on.

The first tee loomed ahead. “Look,” Goldbob said. He gestured again, more frantically, toward the tee. “I’ll show you the ropes. Let’s start, shall we?” 

Hoo doggies! That Goldbob’s sure a tight fella! Welp, ain't no one I can't charm, I’ll give goldie-boy the ol grubbin’ ‘fore this games over! 

Goldbob laid his club in his portable gold briefcase, loudly snapping it shut. The sound, like a jail door clanking shut, echoed around the course

…I just gotta keep my tootsies safe!

Chapter Text

The walk to the first tee was quiet, save for the sound of Grubba’s boots scraping across the perfectly manicured greens. 

Goldbob stared at the trail of dirt on his putting line with a measured frown.  "Grubba... do you mind ?"

Grubba flashed an easy grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hoo-nelly! Didn’t see that there. Guess I gotta start lookin’ down more, huh?" 

Ask him now! He won’t find out, yer just makin a lil propositin’  

The breeze was pleasant, but it did nothing to cool the rising knot in Grubba’s chest. The silence between them gnawed at him. This was just a game, just a game

‘‘..scuse me for a second.’ Grubba muttered something about needing to grab a drink from the cart and stalked off, hopping down the gravel path.

He was barely out of sight when his smile dropped. His pulse pounded in his ears as he glanced over his shoulder to ensure Goldbob hadn’t followed. 

he hurriedly flipped open the locket ring on his left middle finger. The powder inside was fine, white, and ready. 

————

‘What took you so long?’

‘WOO! -Nothin’. Let's get on with the game!’

Goldbob didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Grubba, however, was aware of the subtle shift in Goldbob’s demeanor. The tension hung between them, heavy and unspoken. 

“C’mon, Grubba, snap out of it,” he muttered to himself under his breath, trying to shake off his discomfort, but Goldbob’s gaze was too sharp, too observant. 

————

Goldbob breathed in deeply, clearly appreciating the scent of the pine forest just beyond the tee.

“I do find this setting rather peaceful, don’t you? Some say the first tee is where everything comes together—a little like business, really.” Goldbob said with a satisfied sigh, his gaze sweeping over his private course. “A proper start is everything.”

“Aaaaaaaand how!” Grubba agreed

Goldbob chuckled, tapping his club against the ground with a casual flourish. “You’re not just here for the game, are you? Business is always on the mind of men like us.”

Grubba grinned, here was his opportunity! But how to reel him in without showing the bait? “I hear ya loud an’ clear! Always thinkin’ ahead! Y’know, on the topic, I been wonderin' about some thangs…” his eyes flicked toward the sky. “Ya gotta lotta influence round these parts, ain't that the truth? A lotta people, I bet, who'd do just about anythang fer ya support."

Goldbob didn’t seem to notice the edge in Grubba’s voice, too busy lining up his shot. “That’s the beauty of it all, Grubba. Money is a tool, not just a means to an end.”

“Ya gotta lotta experience‘n this sorta thang, huh?” Grubba said, keeping it vague. C’mon Grubba, steer that dang there conversatin’ like ya expertly did that Cadillac! “I reckin some’un like yew’s got some... ways a movin’ ‘round sticky situatins?”

Goldbob didn’t miss a beat. “You could say that, yes.” He swung his club casually, dribbling the ball forward a few inches. “and I think a man like you could use a little... guidance. After all, someone who knows how to get in the game like you does have a certain set of talents.”

Grubba swung his hands behind his back, hiding the locket rings on his fingers. Goldbob had a strange way of emphasising certain words, like he knew more than he let on, 

like he’d seen more than he let on.

“I’m here to help, Grubba,” Goldbob said with a lighthearted chuckle, as if to put him at ease. “But let’s see how well you can handle the game first, shall we? It’s good to know someone is up for it.”

He keeps hintin’ at somethin’. What does he know?

__________

He studied Goldbob’s mannerisms as the gold bob-omb leaned down, preparing his next putt with the utmost focus and precision. This wasn’t the Glitz Pit., where everything could be handled with force and intimidation. No, this required finesse. He needed to be seen as someone who could contribute, someone Goldbob could rely on—if not for loyalty, then at least for mutual gain…

He leaned over Goldbob’s shoulder. ‘YEEHAW! Show that ball who’s boss, Goldy-Bobby!"

Goldbob visibly flinched, his monocle nearly falling off. "Goodness gracious!” he froze, slowly turning to glare as his ball inched only a few micrometers forward. “Grubba... could you perhaps refrain from such enthusiasm ?"

Grubba grinned "Aw, don’t mind me, just cheerin’ ya on! Got a real talent for motivation, ya know?" He leaned further, poking into Goldbob with his club. "So anyway, Goldie, like I was sayin', back in my wrasslin’ days, we’d always start a big match with this whole crowd chant thing—‘Grubba! Grubba!’ Ya know, real motivatin’ stuff. I ever tell ya ‘bout that time I—"

Goldbob mid-swing, froze in place. "Shhh!"

Grubba blinked in disbelief, "What’s that?"

Goldbob glared, adjusting his monocle "I said shhh! I need to focus !" 

Grubba scratched his head, nonplussed "Oh, sure, sure. Didn’t mean ta throw ya off yer game, partner. Gotcha, loud an’ clear. Nothin’ but dead silence from ol’ Grubba now. Like a graveyard at midnight."

Goldbob sighed, readjusting his stance. He swung with impeccable form, sending the ball soaring over the fairway. Grubba, impressed, let out a loud whistle.

The ball landed a hole in one.

"YEEE-DOGGY! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT! THAT HOLE DIDN’T SEE YA COMIN’! YA DANG DID IT BOBBY-BOY!’ Grubba slapped Goldbob on the back, performing an improptu square-dance jig

The sound echoed across the course, causing a plethora of birds to flee their resting spots in alarm. A groundskeeper in the distance visibly stumbled.

Goldbob glared at him. ‘We’re playing golf, not… wrangling cattle."  He adjusted his top hat with exaggerated composure. "traditionally, one celebrates with a reserved clap, not a… rodeo outburst."

Grubba smiled past the subtle rebuke, leaning on his club. "Hoo, c’mon now, Goldie! If yer ball makes it in the hole, that’s somethin’ worth hollerin’ about, doncha think?" He only grinned wider, slapping his thick, meaty thigh "Shoot, y’all missin’ out! Golf’s just as much ‘bout heart as it is hittin’ the ball!"

"Grubba, it’s a two-foot putt. Act your age. …Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to ask, exactly how-"

‘HOO! That don’t matter none’! Ya got showmanship, sir! An’ that’s GOLD in this biz!

“Grubba, I-”

"Can’t help it, Golden girl! Gotta give the people what they want!" Grubba yelled across the barren, empty course.

————

‘Your turn.’

Grubba stepped up to the tee and looked at the ball. Sure, poppa never taught him how to land a good turn at golf. But maybe he didn’t need to be good at it. Maybe he just needed to show control .

Goldbob grinned. “Steady, now. Losing focus is what makes amateurs fall apart. One slip, and you’ll find yourself in a bunker you can’t get out of.”

That sure is one way ta put it.

He lined up his shot carefully, using the opportunity to speak a little more. “Y’know, I ran a whole fightin’ league outta nothin’. Built it up with my own two hands. Ain’t that what we businessmen do? Make somethin’ outta nothin’?”

Goldbob looked impressed, or perhaps relieved. “Quite right. Few understand the art of building something from the ground up. It’s not for the faint of heart.” 

“Yessiree! I read ya son! I tell ya this- aint it true, however high up the ol’ greasepole ya are, there's always that one fear, of fallin’ down… an’ fallin’ down at such a heighty height? That’s one big an’ long dirt nap, ya readin’ me?

Goldbob tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

“Yes…” Goldbob said, his voice warm but with an edge of curiosity, ”You see, there’s a reason I invited you here today, there are some very pressing matters I'd like to discuss………”

Pressing matters?

‘'…………Glitzville, business deals, the like.’ Goldbob continued. “Let me guess, you’ve got some plans —business plans, I imagine?”

Grubba’s heart thudded in his chest. Hoo lawdy, if I had some medicatin' right now...   He forced out a laugh. "“Yeah! The Glitz Pit's got big plans, Goldie—real big plans! ” 

Goldbob nodded, as if in agreement

He stepped forward—could Goldbob really be the one to bail him out if things went south? Don't be stupid, that there Goldbob’s just as much of a salty schmuck as any-a yer investers. Just play ta his preferences!

“Ya heard me? Y’know, I’m thinkin’ expansions, new attractions, maybe even golf — I mean, it aint gonna be as exclusive as yer course, but boy howdy, we can always dream! Hoo, I say, boy, s’gonna be huge! I’m talkin’ record-breaking huge!”

He could talk til the cows came home, but Goldbob wasn’t budging, he needed to show him something. 

He markedly placed down his golf ball.

With a deep breath, Grubba swung. "I'm gonna hit the best shot ever!" he said, only to completely miss the ball, causing Goldbob to raise an eyebrow in confusion. 

With exaggerated confidence, Grubba swung again, a bit too hard. The ball launched into the air like a bullet bill, flying over the fairway, over the hole, and disappearing from sight ridiculously far off-course. A very distant splash was heard.

He winced but tried to keep his composure.

Goldbob shook his head. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of the old rough around here,” he commented. “But it’s all about how you recover, old sport. The real game is in the next shot.”

Goldbob’s words were an unspoken challenge. “Hoo boy!’ Grubba chuckled "Reckon I’m still workin’ on my form! Well, ain't no doubt, if this were a competition for how far one could hit the ball, I’d win!”

Goldbob simply smiled. “You certainly have enthusiasm, Grubba, it's quite the spectacle. Now here’s your second chance old boy”

Grubba lined up for the shot, focused on the ball. He adjusted his collar, wishing he’d worn something lighter. 

Remember, Grubba, them golden joes like Goldie don’t play these games for no fun. No, they’re ta make a point, ta practice power. Ta poke ‘n prod at perceived poor pups !

He could feel that bob-omb’s eyes on him, and with Goldbob’s calm, detached air, like nothing could touch him, he knew he was playing for more than just respect—he was playing for his freedom. 

Grubba swung with all his might, and the club connected—a little too well. The ball shot off like a rocket, ricocheting off a nearby tree and narrowly missing a flock of startled birds.

Goldbob tilted his head. “You’re certainly... innovative with your angles... ”

Grubba tipped his hat “Just keepin’ it interestin’! Can’t have you gettin’ bored, right?”

”...Your technique could use some... refinement. Speaking of…  Glitzville! It’s been a pleasure. Such a wondrous and lucrative place– I may have to extend my vacation. I must ask- how did you build that marvelous business of yours?" Goldbob continued smoothly. "Sounds like you had quite a strategy. Glitzville can’t have been built overnight, eh?’”

Goldbob’s voice was disarming. But his eyes—sharp and unyielding—cut through Grubba like a blade. Hoo nelly! this’s just like the time my semi-truck got stuck in a 10 foot sinkhole! This wasn’t a casual conversation. Goldbob was fishing. He was probing. It was a subtle, polite interrogation, but an interrogation nonetheless.  And Grubba had learned long ago that when someone like Goldbob started interrogating, it was only a matter of time before they started digging. 

  I cain't let him know the real me. Not yet, not ever!

“Well, ya know...” Grubba stammered, before quickly dismissing the subject.  “Lotsa... investment, big projects, some backroom deals... somethin’ I wouldn’t expect a man of your stature ta care about, ya readin’ me?"

Goldbob’s small, bemused smile never left his face. “You’d be surprised. Wealth is more than just stock portfolios and public appearances.”  he twirled his golf club, finally swinging and landing the ball perfectly on the green. He exhaled in relief.

Grubba mused over Goldbob’s perfect golf streak as the round bomb man toyed with his club. Maybe hitting so many golf balls made you start to resemble one…

"Hoo-wee, what a shot! You nailed that sucker like a—"

Goldbob turned to him with a serious look. “It’s about leverage. The right... connections.” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “ I’ve always believed in keeping channels open with the right folks. Helps avoid any... misunderstandings.” His eyes flicked to the ring on Grubba’s finger, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down his spine. “The advertising team, the public affairs committee, the judicial council…. All a great bunch of people.”

The judicial council? Great gallopin’ Goombas! He could have me locked up before I finish my next putt! Grubba swallowed hard. Did he know ? No, he couldn’t. But the look on Goldbob’s face suggested otherwise.

————

Chapter Text

The golf course stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun. Grubba and Goldbob approached the second hole.

“Hey Goldie! how d’ya reckon I play this next shot?”

Goldbob spared him a glance.“Under an assumed name.”

Grubba let out a short chuckle, but Goldbob still had that air about him—calm, detached, like he already had the whole course mapped out before he even took a swing.

“Hoo-wee! Let’s order some champagne! Ta celebate our second hole! Come on, gold-bobby! It’s the breakfast- errr- drink of champions!” He said with a wink.

“Do you really think it’s the occasion?” Goldbob dismissed him. No silent, well-trained staff materialized with an overpriced bottle of the champ juice.

Grubba hated that.

This wasn’t going how he wanted. Not one damn bit. But he wasn’t done yet. He was disappointed about the champagne, but there was something he needed more. 

How much further could he prod before it stopped being subtle? —or worse, before he gave something away himself? No. He was the best businessman on the whole damn planet, he could sweet-talk a snailicorn out of its shell. He just needed to try somethin’ a lil different.

Goldbob stepped up to his ball. Grubba exhaled slowly, watching, waiting. Then, as casually as he could manage, he threw it out there.

“Hey, Goldie, say someone got themselves into a real tight spot. Someone like me, y’know?” he asked. 

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, the kind that didn’t bring rain—just static, just a feeling that something was about to go very, very wrong. Grubba’s black and red overgrown steroidal heart stripper-danced against the bars of his ribcage, slamming against his chest as he watched for Goldbob's reaction.

Goldbob didn’t even look up. “Tight spot, you say? Well, it’s no problem for someone with the right resources. ” He savoured each word as if they brought him some sick amusement. He adjusted his grip, then added, “Jams are where innovation thrives. Tight spots bring out the best—or the worst—in a man.” Goldbob smiled faintly,lining up his shot 

Why’s he always have ta lookit me like that? Like he’s already got me figured out. What’s with that Goldbob? Sure he’s a businessman, but he wasn't nothin’ like the ladies of Glitzville, hoo they’re the best -- They love me fer what really matters- my smokin’ hot bod and not my personality! Anyways…

“You’re overthinking, Grubba. It’s just a game,”

Yeah, fer you it is, moneybags. He cleared his throat loudly. “I mean... but ain't it funny about them tight spots, how sometimes they get a lil... too tight, y’know?”

Goldbob paused mid-swing. The sun caught the glint of his monocle as he turned, peering at Grubba.“Are you proposing a thought experiment, or are you trying to ask me something?”

Grubba’s pulse jumped. He waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, nah! Just thinkin’ out loud, y’know?”

Goldbob scrutinised him with an inscrutable expression. Then, finally, he spoke… devillish amusement flickered in his eyes.

“ You strike me as the innovative type. I’m sure you’ll find a way out.” His voice was silk and knives. 

Grubba’s breath hitched. No. No, that ain’t good.

Goldbob twisted and examined his club with a detached focus “After all, money’s always the answer…” Goldbob savored each word— like he was watching a man squirm before the guillotine dropped.

He lined up his shot. “As long as you have the right kind.”

The right kind.

Grubba’s fingers curled into a fist. Darn it, that ain’t fair.

With a smooth, effortless swing, Goldbob sent the ball sailing over the bunker like it had first-class tickets. It landed with perfect precision, rolling neatly into place. Another flawless shot. Grubba had stopped cheering for Goldbob’s shots. They weren’t impressive anymore. Goldbob’s “expertise” was beginning to turn from admirable to irritating.

Grubba nodded, forcing another grin. “Course, course. Can’t build an empire without a clean slate, right? But…I’m tellin’ ya, gold sport…” his voice tightened, “sometimes folks like us end up in tight lil nookies where money ain’t the only thang that matters. Ever think ‘bout that?”

Goldbob placed his ball on the tee, his expression distant. “In my world, money is the only thing that matters.”

Grubba forced a chuckle, but it came out thin. “Aw, c’mon, ol champ, that’s just your way of sayin’ yer thinkin’ about it, right? No hard feelings if I threw ya a curveball today?”

Goldbob didn’t waver. “I don’t believe in bailing people out of trouble,” he said. “It’s better to let them learn from their mistakes. I invest in winners, Grubba,” he said smoothly, turning back to his shot. “Not liabilities.”  

Goldbob might as well have swung a steel chair into his gut. Of course he would never help. 

Desperation crept in, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out:

“What if someone came after ya? -Not the law or nothin’, nope! But folks who don’t play by the rules? Wouldn’t ya want someone t’ back ya up?”

Goldbob took his time placing the ball on the tee. His face betrayed nothing. The sun glinted off his mustache. The kind of shine a man saw right before the train lights hit him.

“Success isn’t about who backs you.” His gaze met Grubba’s. Cold. Unmovable.

“It’s about ensuring no one has cause to come after you in the first place.”

Then, with the same effortless grace, he swung. 

The ball soared, disappearing into the horizon.

Grubba watched it go, his last bit of hope sailing right along with it.

—-----

Chapter Text

Grubba hit the golf ball too far, again. “Shoot, that was my last ball!” he groaned, shading his eyes as he squinted at the distance.

Goldbob sighed, already resigned. “...let’s drive.”

Grubba turned around, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. “ drive ?”

—–

Grubba ran a hand over the golf cart’s sleek green hood, reverence in his eyes. “Well, howdy there, Cardi,” he cooed, grinning like a fool. “Ya ready to burn some rubber, girl?” He patted the dashboard with fatherly affection.

Goldbob frowned. “You’re…you’re naming the golf cart?”

He stroked her red velvet inner furnishing, his grin wide as a Fawfulized Spike. “Finally,” he muttered, gripping Cardi’s wheel with fervent enthusiasm. “Somethin’ to ease my mind.” 

The sun was high, and the course stretched out before him like a promise. This, he decided, was where the fun really started. The feel of the wheel in his hands reminded him of the drive over—200 miles an hour on the freeway, blasting Free Bird on the stereo like he owned the road. This? This was gonna be the same. Just smaller. Sillier. But hey, that was golf, right?

This would be fun. He was here to have fun after all. As far as Goldbob knew anyway…

He turned to Goldbob, who was carefully inspecting the cart’s glossy paint job for scratches. “Get in, Golden boy! We’re goin’ ball huntin’!”

Goldbob, looking as if he’d rather swim in a sea of spinies, complied, settling into the passenger seat with the air of a man stepping into uncharted—and possibly dangerous—territory.

“I got the wheel!” Grubba declared, yanking the lever into drive. “Ya just sit tight! I got cart-drivin’ skills that’n blow the wellies off a wiggler!” he grabbed the wheel, wiggling his fingers. “Hoo boy, I can feel it! That sweet, sweet speed!” He jammed his foot on the pedal.

—-

The cart coughed. Then it puttered forward at a pace that could generously be called “leisurely.” Grubba blinked.  “Hoo-nelly! Th’ girl's crawlin’ slower’n’a snifit in quicksand!” He leaned forward like that might help. “I’m faster’n this standin’ still! ” He yelled. He stomped the accelerator, eliciting nothing but a dull whir.  “C’mon, Cardi, I now y’got more than this in ya!”

Goldbob, unbothered, dusted off his cuffs, giving a faint smile. “It’s a golf cart, not a race car, Grubba.”

Grubba tapped the dash, negotiating with it. “C’mon now girl, I know ya got some fight in ya.”

The cart gave an exhausted wheeze.

“Betcha they hid a turbo button somewhere…” Grubba muttered, tapping random buttons and stomping the pedal repeatedly. The cart lurched forward and back, groaning under his abuse.

The cart jerked, sending Goldbob bouncing against the seat. “Grubba—STOP—” 

Another stomp. The cart bucked violently. Goldbob smacked into the dashboard with an undignified grunt.

He exhaled, slow and dangerous. “If you do that one more time, I’m walking.”

Grubba whistled innocently, pretending not to hear

“Hoo, lookit this!” He honked the cart’s horn. “Betcha didn’t know it had one o’ these!”

Goldbob’s eyes narrowed. “Grubba.”

Grubba honked again.

Goldbob let out a slow, measured breath, rubbing his temple. “That’s it! I’m walking back.” he hovered at the edge of the cart, preparing to jump out

Grubba grinned wide. “Aw, c’mon, Goldie! Lighten up!” he honked the horn rhythmically for emphasis.

Goldbob turned to him with a look that could turn a Koopa to stone. “If you do that one more time…”

Grubba took a moment. Then, instead of honking, He slammed the directional lever and stomped the pedal. 

“Alright, forward march!”

The cart lurched—backwards—straight into a sand trap.

——

Goldbob clutched the doorway as the cart jolted to a stop, half-buried in the sand.“Look what you’ve done!” Goldbob exclaimed as he fell backwards, slamming into the seat.

“Ain’t no thang! I’ll give her a lil’ push.” Grubba hopped out, shoving against the bumper.

Goldbob leaned out of the passenger side. “What in blazes are you doing back there?”

“Givin’ us a boost!” Grubba grunted, shoving the cart free of the sand and up a hill.“Now, if I push y’all down that hill, I bet we could hit top speed!” As the cart crested the slope, it suddenly rolled free—and immediately started picking up speed down the hill. Grubba’s eyes bulged out of his skull. “Wait—WAIT FOR ME, CARDI!” He sprinted alongside it, diving back into the driver’s seat just in time to jerk the wheel with a grin. 

The cart soared down the slope, mowing over ridges, bouncing like a chain-chomp gone loose.

“Oh heavens…” Goldbob mumbled, reaching for his golf bag like it was a sick bag.

Grubba floored it, sending Goldbob’s carefully organized bag of clubs flying everywhere.

“Grubba, this is not a soapbox derby!” he shouted, scrambling to gather his clubs.

“ Sure feels like one! Whoo-ee, this baby could hit 20 miles an hour!" He raised his arms up as the cart barrelled down the hill, gathering more and more momentum, “We’re breakin’ speed records, Goldie, Might as well call me Lightning!” he yelled.

Grubba whooped, yanking the wheel. The cart swerved violently, barely missing a tree, then nearly flattening the gardener trimming it.

"I didn’t sign up for this speed trial, grease lightning !" Goldbob whimpered, pale as a Boo 

“Howdy, feller! Need a lift?” Grubba hollered as he blazed past, waving cheerfully at the horrified groundskeeper who stared on in disbelief

“ This is NOT a tour bus! ” Goldbob barked.

"C’mon, Goldie! The more, the merrier- ooh, Hang on, Shortcut!” 

Grubba veered off the paved path, tearing across the green at full tilt. The cart bounced over a bunker, went airborne for half a second, then landed with a bone-rattling jolt.

“Grubba, where exactly are you going?!” Goldbob whimpered in a barely restrained whimper as they tore across the course like a stray bullet from the barrel of GOD NO-

“Where legends’re made!”

He weaved wildly across the course, narrowly avoiding a hazard. The cart bucked, bouncing over a ridge, barely dodging a bunker. Grubba laughed uproariously like a man possessed. Goldbob swayed in the backseat, gripping the seat as hard as his dignity.

Grubba whooped. “We’ll be at the next hole in no time!”

“That’s the lake—”

“We’ll call it a trick shot!”

“Grubba, if I end up in that water, you’ll wish you were never born.” 

“Ain’t no thang—these carts handle like a dream!”

“Just…hand me the wheel. If you’re going to ruin my day, at least let me do it stylishly.”

“The wheel’s all mine, pard!” Grubba yelled as the cart barreled toward the fountain next to the lake.

“Grubba—” Goldbob started. Then his eyes went wide.

Looking up, Grubba slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.

The cart skidded sideways, tires screeching against the grass.

The front wheels clipped the stone rim of the elaborate fountain. Time seemed to pause.

Then—gravity kicked in.

With an almighty SPLASH , the cart belly-flopped into the water, sending a geyser into the sky. Golf balls popped up like startled fish.

Water sprayed everywhere, soaking both men. Goldbob, monocle askew, sat frozen, soaked to the bone, as the cart sputtered and gave a final, pitiful honk. 

Grubba leaned back, hands behind his head, grinning like he’d just aced a hole-in-one. “Welp. That was somethin’, huh?”

The two sat there for a moment, as water slowly filled the cart, 

Then— BOOM. An explosion of soot shot from the cart’s engine.

Goldbob stared. Grubba leapt up. 

“ABANDON SHIP!” he bellowed, leaping into the water. Goldbob followed with a dignified sigh, adjusting his cuffs before he waded in.

Goldbob, dripping wet, stared at Grubba for a long moment, shaking his head. 

Then—he snorted sharply. 

“Goldie! y’alrighty?!” Grubba yelped, snapping to attention — this ain’t good, feller’s chokin’!

Goldbob turned away, covering his face. Then, to Grubba’s utter shock, he burst out laughing—a deep, rich laugh that echoed across the course. “Oh, splendid. Just splendid! And here I thought you were in business, not demolition!” Goldbob managed between chuckles. He wiped his eyes. “Shall we order champagne to toast our utter disgrace?”

Grubba blinked, mouth agape. Then, slowly, he grinned. “Ya laughin’ at me or with me, pard?”

“With you.” Goldbob smirked, surprising him. “...You’re positively barking, Grubba. But I haven't had this much fun in years.”

Grubba’s grin widened, a flicker of genuine pride in his eyes. “Told ya this’d be a good time.”

Goldbob wrung out his moustache,  still chuckling. “Well, you’re paying.”

“For Cardi?!” Grubba gasped. “She gave her life fer us, Goldie!”

“Yes, you maniac. And the rest of the course.”

Grubba waved a hand. “Eh. You’re richer’n sin. What’s a lil property damage?”

The fountain gurgled around them. Goldbob sighed,shaking his soaking wet shiny head. Then, out of nowhere—he splashed Grubba. 

Grubba, shocked, looked at him for a beat. Then, grinning ear to ear, he splashed back. Back and forth, like kids, they went—until they were laughing too hard to care. 

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Grubba felt triumphant. Sure, Cardi was totaled, and the course was a mess, but Goldbob was laughing. He was finally pushing this bail plan in the right direction! 

Goldbob glanced at him then, a spark of something genuine in his eyes. He shook his head, still laughing. “Even with all this fun, you’ve barely made a dent in my fortune.”

“Nope, not a dent!” Grubba said, climbing out of the fountain. “Come on, Goldie, let’s get back ta playin’. Reckon I can win this thang!”

Goldbob followed, shaking his head with a smile. “Lead the way, you madman.”

—-

Chapter Text

The next hole was a mid-range par 4 with a massive sand bunker guarding the green.

Goldbob lined up his shot, sipping a glass of celebratory champagne so expensive it probably had a will and legal representation. A waiter stood at the ready, holding a second glass, just in case the first one dared to run dry. 

“I’ve been enjoying Glitzville, Grubba,” Goldbob said, swinging his ball cleanly down the green. “Such an... energetic place. Don’t you just love those crowds? Walking pockets of cash, they must be! Why, the longer they cheer, the richer we both get, hmm?” 

Grubba knocked back a swig of champagne, tipping the entire bottle down his throat. Walkin’ pockets a’ cash? That’s all they are ta him? He swung his club, attempting to clear the bunker in one shot. The ball plunged straight into the bunker, like it knew it belonged there. Sand exploded everywhere.  

I ain't any better... Fighters come an’ go like coins in a slot machine – drop one in, see’f it spits out gold, or just another broken man. Win some, lose some, break a few—don’t matter so long as the show goes on. 

He adjusted his hat, the heat of the sun bearing down on him. 

Goldbob played conservatively, laying up before the bunker and landing on the green in a clean shot. “It’s what makes Glitzville so marvelous, wouldn’t you say? A place where people become... resources. Such a profitable little island in the sky!” he gushed, smiling stupidly over the rim of his champagne flute.

Grubba nearly choked on his own spit. 

Resources. Ain’t that the truth. Fighters, fans, sponsors—all of ‘em cattle for the slaughter. Difference is... I don’t lie to myself ‘bout what I do. Goldbob’s got it easy, callin’ it business. Me? I’m down in the muck, breakin’ backs just to keep my own head above water. 

Survival. That's what it is to me. “...Yup, money to be made, Goldbob.” Grubba muttered, rolling his shoulders, 

Goldbob looked delighted by this. He swirled his glass, like he was swirling the damn conversation. “Funny thing about money, old chap. It solves everything. Makes you untouchable, if you’ve got enough of it. Of course, it also buys information ... I’ve found it pays to know who’s worth trusting.

What’n tarnation does he mean by that? Has he been diggin’?

After what seemed like an eternity, Goldbob turned to him with a faint smile.

‘You know, you're really someone to talk to, a lot more fun than any of my other business partners, I hope it's no trouble if I confide a little bit. I’ve been meaning to ask you something...”

Grubba’s heart skipped a beat. This is it! Goldbob gets me. He really does. Maybe… maybe he’s the one person who truly understands. Was Goldbob about to confess a similar brush with the law? Share some secret to staying untouchable? What if Goldbob had his own dark past, and this was the moment they’d bond over it? Maybe that would mean he could finally open up too…

But then reality set in. Lookin’ fer an honest businessman’s like chasin’ a mirage in heat! Not that I give a pokey’s patoot ‘bout what he’d confess anyway- I’m better without that sappy stuff! Caint go gettin’ attached to a man that’ll have me hangin’ out t’ dry faster’n you can say ‘power-suckin’ machine’!

"Grubba, you’ve been aiming for five minutes." Goldbob said, snapping him out of his daze

"Yeah?...Gotta make it perfect, Goldie! This one’s for the record books!"

He swung, proceeding to completely miss the ball.

“Dang-nabbit!” He tried again, the ball rolled out of the bunker but stopped short of the hole. 

Goldbob watched patiently. “Your game’s improving, Grubba. You’re missing the ball a lot closer than you used to.”  He responded dryly. “Now, my question…”

Grubba turned towards Goldbob, nodding rapidly. “Well, shoot, Ask away, pard!” He yelled, barely containing the anticipation bubbling beneath the surface.

Goldbob’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been wondering if you might help me with a... little problem…”

A problem? 

“…in Glitzville.”

In Glitzville?

"Yes, you see, the wife’s been asking me if you’d be willing to make certain... adjustments .”

"Adjustments"? Was that a euphemism? That’s it. This is some kinda code… He stroked his golf club, leaning forward on it so hard it sank halfway into the ground. “Go on…” Grubba urged, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

“For instance... Goldbob continued

“Yes?” He whispered, nearly losing his balance

Goldbob leaned in, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yes, Goldie?!” Grubba hissed. The golf club rattled frantically under his support.

Goldbob looked over his shoulder, then he turned back to Grubba. He parted his lips, but for a second, no sound came out, like he was hesitating. Then, finally, he whispered the answer to him in a breathy hush:

 “...Installing a sauna in the Glitz Pit.”

CRACK.

The club snapped in half. The ground gave way beneath him.

He fell flat on his face.

“ WHAT?! ” 

A damn sauna?!

Grubba got up, brushing the dirt off him. “Hoo! Why didn’t I think o’ that?” He chuckled nervously, more to mask his confusion than anything else. “Hoo-wee, Goldie! Why didn’t ya just say so? Go ahead, partner!

Goldbob nodded earnestly, a little red in the face. “Yes, the wife insists it would be simply divine. I’d fund the whole thing, of course, but there’s that pesky fire code…”

“Oh yeah, that… hm. ”  Ehh what’s a little more dirty money?  

“Fire code schmire code—what’s a little rule bendin’ when the missus is involved, ain't that right?” He slapped Goldbob on the back with just a touch too much force. 

Goldbob beamed, and slapped Grubba back with surprising enthusiasm. “Thanks a trillion, you beautiful, greasy man! I’ll fork out a few trillion for this little venture, no problem at all! I knew I could count on you.”

Goldbob poured another glass of champagne, sipping it like he just stepped out of a business manual on how to make everyone adore you. “I must say, Grubba, your approach to business is... absolutely brilliant. You have a flair that’s simply unrivaled!”

Grubba's laugh rumbled out, even as the back of his brain was screaming he’s butterin' me up , but he ignored it. He had to. “Hoo! ‘preciate it, Goldie. Gotta keep ahead of the pack, y’know? No rest for the wicked, as they say.”

Goldbob chuckled, swiping his monocle to adjust it, but the movement just made him look even more smug. “I have to say, I’m learning a lot from you, Grubba. ...I feel like I’ve been playing it too safe for too long.”

Grubba blinked. Wait, too safe ? Hoo nelly. This is not good. He's gauging me. He’s gauging how far I'm willin’ to go. 

As Goldbob turned back to his swing, Grubba’s thoughts went back to the sauna. The exchange hadn’t been what he’d hoped.

But what if he’s testin’ me? Feelin’ me out?

…What if he knows ?

Chapter Text

Grubba’s grip on the club tightened as he stared down the nightmare hole ahead.  

The green lay just beyond a towering oak tree planted dead center in the fairway. Its branches sprawled, forming an impossible wall. A conservative play required at least ten strokes to maneuver around it at best, but a riskier, unconventional shot was out of the question.

For now, he’d have to focus on keeping up appearances. Grubba clapped his hands together “Alrighty then, pard, let’s tee up! Time ta see if that gold-plated swing o’ yours lives up to the hype!”

Goldbob set up his shot, his presence unnervingly steady. He swung, clean and measured. The ball arced gracefully, sending the ball sailing to the left of the tree, landing short of the green but comfortably in play, A safe shot, one that kept his lead intact, but sacrificed his chance to take the hole in one .

Grubba watched him with narrowed eyes. The game was slipping away, but the match wasn't the only thing weighing on his mind. 

"Safe play," he muttered as they walked to his tee.

"Calculated," Goldbob corrected, brushing grass from his shoes. "Now, let’s see how you fare."

Grubba planted his feet and stared down the tree. He could already see the path Goldbob had taken. The kind of path that wins games. 

Goldbob leant against his club thoughtfully. "You know, Grubba, I’ve always been impressed by how you manage everything at the Glitz Pit. So much attention to detail, so many fighters... Yet you always seem to have time to handle the... messier parts of the business .”

He wasn't sure if it was the heat, or if he was getting the ol’ meat sweats again.

 "What’re you talkin’ about?" 

Grubba forced a laugh, but his knuckles went white against the polished metal. He thanked the stars he was doused head to toe in gallons of Paco Robanne 1 million cologne , or Goldbob would’ve sniffed him out like blood in the water.

"Oh, nothing specific," Goldbob replied, his tone light but pointed. He poured more champagne. "Just saying it’s a lot to manage. Secrets tend to pile up in a place like Glitzville, don’t they? And secrets, well… they have a way of coming to light."

‘‘ I said, What’n tarnation are you talkin’ about?!’

Goldbob remained stoic, the face of a well seasoned businessman revelling in his well-founded skepticism.  “You’ve really got no problems behind the scenes?”

“Yer talkin’ a lotta koopa-quack, right now, sleaze ball!”

‘“You know, Grubba, there’s always someone watching in a place like Glitzville. Always someone with a sharp eye. I mean, just today I got my chair stolen! …Makes a businessman wonder just how safe his secrets are.” 

Goldbob knew something. And he was cornering him.

If he said “no”, that bombular big shot would know he was lying, and what would he do then? There was only one answer.  

He just had to pray that this goldie had no ulterior motive.

Oh, ya know... Glitzville’s got its share of nosy folks. Always askin’ questions. But I know how to keep things... quiet, if need be.”

He realized instantly that it sounded too sinister. Dang it, why’d I say that? 

Goldbob laughed, a deep booming laugh rumbling up from the depths of satisfaction. He raised his glass. “I must admit, Grubba, I’m impressed. That's really something.”

Goldbob stood a few yards away, his round face serene but his sharp eyes watching him like a hawk. He could feel the weight of those eyes, the unspoken threat behind them. Goldbob was too smart for his own good, too curious, and too connected.

Grubba fought the urge to shudder. Was it just a game to Goldbob, or was he too close to the truth? Too many questions. And Grubba knew one thing: answers had a price.

It was funny, wasn’t it? Had to be. All that work, all that careful building of an empire, all the control —and here he was, shaking like a damn leaf in front of a fancy bastard who wasn’t even lifting a finger against him

He tapped his golf club against his shoe, the rhythm oddly soothing. He’d dealt with this before, It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Just another problem to clean up, an’ tuck away where no one could ever find it. 

No. He couldn’t do it. Could he?

But then again… if he didn’t…

He adjusted his stance, trying to focus on the ball. His fingers flexed around the club, his frustration mounting. They had exchanged sharp words all day, each one a needle in Grubba’s growing frustration. The thought had been growing in the back of his mind all day, coiling tighter and tighter. Now, standing here, the solution hung in the air. But the price would be steep. He couldn’t shake the weight of it.

Disappearing Goldbob.

It would be so simple to end this here. One wrong swing. The thought was absurd... wasn’t it? But Grubba knew better. He’d seen what men like Goldbob were capable of. The destruction they could cause with just a word, a glance, a whisper in the right ear. He gritted his teeth, shaking the thought away. “C’mon now, Grubba,” he muttered under his breath. “Ain’t no reason to go there…yet. Ain’t nothin’ a little charm and elbow grease can’t fix.” 

He might be rich an’ connected, but in the end, he’s just another Bob-omb. They all go quiet the same way. 

It would be simple, too. A friendly drink at the clubhouse, Grubba’s eyes flicked to the rolling green slopes. An accidental tumble down a hill... he could even bring him home for A late-night blimp ride gone tragically wrong... Glitzville’s high-altitude charm always left room for “unfortunate accidents”. 

But the best disappearance would be… right here, right now, in the middle of the golf course, just the two of them, not a soul in sight.

His eyes flitted to the tree—a silent sentinel in the middle of the fairway. Thestaff were nowhere to be seen. Even the groundskeeper was gone. It felt like the universe was dropping hints, offering up opportunities.

His gaze fell to the golf club in his hand, running his thumb along the polished metal. It felt solid in his hand— reliable .

"Ah, the seven-iron. A versatile choice! Myself, I prefer the driver. Always felt more... commanding. But then, I’m sure you know what you’re doing." Goldbob was walking back to the champagne table now, laughing to himself. The image was almost comical—this pompous ball of gold, waddling around in his golfing gear like a sitting duck. Oblivious to the storm brewing just a few feet away. Oblivious to how easy it would be to make him disappear. 

“Thinking of your next shot, are you?” Goldbob chuckled. His tone was light, but every word felt sharpened.  “Golf’s a businessman’s game, don’t you think? Teaches focus, precision… the importance of timing.” He inspected his pocketwatch, pretending not to notice the way Grubba bristled.

Grubba started polishing his club. He forced a grin, but it felt hollow. “Yeah… sure is.”

“I think this will be the beginning of something very prosperous, don’t you, old sport?”

“Absolutely! The beginnin’ a somethin’ big! Y’know, Goldbob, yer a real diamond ’n the rough, ya hear that?” Grubba slapped his knee, his voice just a little too loud. He furiously rubbed the golf club.

Goldbob’s smile softened. “I think so too, Grubba. But you’re the one who’s been showing me the ropes.” He leaned forward, his eyes practically glowing. “I’ve got to tell you... I admire your attitude. You’re so bold. I think you’ve got the right mindset to take everything to the next level.”

Grubba had been rubbing the golf club so hard that it was now red hot from the friction. It trembled a micrometer away from Goldbob’s face like a hot poker. He weighed the burning club in his hands, imagining a sharp swing straight to Goldbob’s temple. The phrase echoed. 

Easy to disappear.

“What in blazes are you doing, old chum?” Goldbob asked, turning to him.

But easy didn’t mean clean. The police, the questions, the headlines. Goldbob wasn’t just another fighter with nothin’ to lose. He was Goldbob, dammit. Rich, connected, untouchable. Goldbob’s disappearance would be noticed, investigated. He wasn’t just a problem; he was a potential avalanche. 

Grubba’s knuckles whitened around the club. Still… letting Goldbob walk away was just as dangerous. 

“You’re quiet, old chum. Golf has a way of focusing the mind, doesn’t it?” 

The club clattered against the floor as Grubba dropped it, shaking his head like a dog throwing off water. Goldbob looked up from where he’d been rifling through his pockets.

The man donates to the damn judicial council, for cryin’ out loud. What am I thinkin’?!

“Something wrong, chum? Dropped your trusty tool there. Happens to the best of us.” He swore he could feel Goldbob’s eyes on him, but when he glanced up, the Bob-omb was preoccupied with his pocket watch. 

“Nothin’.” Grubba adjusted his stance, turning his focus to the ball. He forced a grin, But the idea lingered, buzzing in the back of his mind like a fly he couldn’t swat away. 

All he knew was that he couldn’t lose—not now, not ever.

______________________

"You're not planning to lose, are you?" The faint smirk on Goldbob’s face was maddening.

Grubba's hands tightened on the club. "Wouldn't count me out yet."

The tree loomed ahead as Grubba stepped to the tee. The safe route was obvious—copy Goldbob, play it safe, lose gracefully. 

It felt hopeless, but this was his only opportunity to catch up. But it was impossible, how could he possibly get the ball past the tree?

Something burned inside him. He wouldn’t let Goldbob win, not at this. 

Then, a memory flashed in his mind—Tubba Blubba, his nephew, at a dusty golf course, had shown him a legendary golf move. Attempted by few, mastered by fewer, this stroke defied the natural laws of trajectory by imparting enough spin to make the ball swerve midair.

A wild, impossible shot that required perfect precision.

The curveball. 

Grubba’s glossy, lyin’ lips curled into a grim smile. He wasn’t one for sentimentality, but the memory had stuck. Maybe it was the impossibility of the shot that appealed to him. 

The sun cast long shadows over the unkempt grass. Grubba could almost feel the dry heat of that long-ago summer day.

Tubbs stood beside him, about 10 times taller than the club he gripped. The boy’s voice echoed in his mind, full of excitement. “I'm gonna take a risk, Uncle Grubbs.” Tubbs had said, his hands wrapped tightly around the club. His stance was confident, his grip stayed firm as he lined up his shot. 

A whole crowd had gathered. The players, the audience and even the caddy turned to him in a hushed silence (all except for Grubba, who was cheering loudly) as he prepared to make his legendary move.

“It’s all in the spin! Watch!” Tubbs held the ball between his fingers, demonstrating. “You gotta twist it, like this—real careful.” he’d said, twisting the ball between his fingers before setting it down on the pin. The ball spun in place, but before it could slow down he swung, hard and sure, saying "Then you strike it right here on the side, as hard as you can.” 

The ball curved sideways through the air, defying the impossible. It swerved around the tree ahead, landing smoothly on the green.

The audience launched into a polite applause.

“THAT’S MY BOY! THAT’S MY BIG BOY! I TOLD Y’ALL THAT PRECIOUS PUP COULD PUTT!” Grubba yelled, nearly falling over in excitement.

The boy’s laughter had rung out as the ball landed exactly where he’d aimed. “See? You just gotta trust it!” Tubbs had beamed with his cute little snaggle-toothed grin, his pride shining brighter than the sun overhead. “Even if it feels like you’re gonna miss. You gotta believe it’ll work.”

Grubba cheered even louder. He pushed his way out of the crowd, still hooting and hollering, to go give Tubbs a congratulatory slap on the back, before a staff member stepped into his path.” Sir, we’ve had multiple complaints, we’re going to have to escort you.”

The security guards had then violently handled Grubba and threw him out.

Grubba blinked, pulled back to the present. 

Standing on the pristine green of the golf course, he wiped away the moist

Goldbob’s voice cut through his thoughts,.“You’re not thinking of going through the tree, are you?”Goldbob asked, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

Grubba pictured turning around, ending this rivalry right here, right now. One decisive move, and the problem would vanish.

ure from his eye, probably a bug or something. The club felt heavy in his hands.

The curveball was legendary—a shot that could spin fate as much as the ball. A gamble. But it was a way out—a chance to win. Or lose everything... He adjusted his stance, recalling Tubbs’s confident movements. He even adjusted the ball. The curveball required perfect precision, a delicate balance of power and control. It was wild, unpredictable—a lot like himself. The tree loomed ahead, a formidable obstacle. This wasn’t just a shot—it was a message. A reminder of who he was, of what he’d built.

The air smelled of grass and oil, and the sun hung heavy over the green. Every muscle in Grubba’s body was taut, a symphony of tension and focus. He had to break free from the hold Goldbob had on him.

Even if it feels like you’re gonna miss. You gotta believe it’ll work.

A sudden surge of determination washed over him. He grinned, adjusting his cap. "Try around. " 

Grubba drew his club back, slow and deliberate, letting his muscles coil. He took a deep breath, drawing the tension into his core, and swung. 

It felt like back in his fighting days, the anticipation before throwing a punch. The swing came fast—a snap of power and precision.

The ball launched into the air with a sharp crack. 

A blur against the golden sky, it hurtled toward the tree. For an agonizing second, it seemed destined to smash into the trunk. —But then, it veered, tilting into a perfect curve as the spin took hold.

The ball swept around the tree, narrowly missing the branches, and dropped onto the green, landing with a thud. It rolled, slowing with each revolution, and finally—finally—settled, spinning to a stop inches from the hole. 

Grubba let out a shaky breath. 

“Well, I’ll be…” he muttered, his grin stretching wide. 

Goldbob strolled up beside him studying the ball’s resting place. his jaw tight. “Impressive. Very impressive.” he admitted grudgingly. 

_______________

Goldbob took his next shot, but the balance of power had shifted. His chip bumped into the tree, putting him in for a bogey.

Grubba took his time walking to the hole. He tapped the ball in with a flick of his wrist, leveling the score.

They moved to the final hole, the air between them electric. As much as the thrill of his impossible shot, Grubba could feel the weight of what he hadn’t done. 

Goldbob blinked at him, clearly expecting something more. “So, what’s next, Grubba?” his voice broke through the haze. 

What’s next?

Grubba wiped the sweat from his brow. Out loud, he blurted, “Next? Hoo! I think we both know what’s next.”

But the question echoed in his mind. What was next?

_________________

Chapter Text

The emerald greens stretched ahead, shimmering under the relentless midday sun. Grubba tugged his hat lower. His driver felt heavier than usual, like it was conspiring with the humid air to drag him down. The final hole loomed large—a dogleg left with a narrow fairway lined by bunkers and a water hazard. 

Goldbob remained steady, methodical, chipping away at the course with quiet precision. A clean fairway shot, a controlled layup, a soft chip onto the green. Slow and steady. Calculated. Safe. Again, he lined up his shot. With a smooth swing, the ball cut through the air in a perfect arc down the narrow fairway. It kissed the grass with a soft tap and dipped into the hole with an almost inaudible plunk. Goldbob straightened, brushing himself off. He turned to Grubba, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his eyes.“Now that’s the way to finish,” 

Grubba’s turn. His palms were clammy against his club, the weight of his last chance hung heavy on his shoulders. The distance wasn’t far, but it might as well have been a mile. His grip tightened. Desperate to catch up, he unleashed a powerful drive.

The ball soared past the hole, veering off to the left and landing with an ignoble thud in the rough. “Just settin’ up for the next one,” he muttered, 

A drive that was too aggressive sent his ball skidding into a bunker. A rushed wedge shot overshot the green entirely. Then came the worst of it—his second-to-last approach, a make-or-break shot, landed straight in the water hazard.

Splash.

Goldbob winced sympathetically. “Unfortunate. That’s a penalty stroke, I’m afraid.”

"Nah, it’s all part of my strategy. Call it a ‘water assist.’ Still counts as par, right?" He grinned, clenching his teeth.

—-

It was the 18th hole. The final shot determined the winner.

Goldbob addressed the ball and swung smoothly, sending it sailing down the fairway. He turned to Grubba, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes."One must balance risk with strategy," he said lightly. "Too many gambles, and you might find yourself... in deep water."

The words felt like more than just a jab, more like a stab, concealed by the formal fuckwad’s best attempt at a casual tone.

“Watchit, Goldie, big swings’re all I got.” Grubba muttered.

He grabbed his driver and stepped up to the final shot. A putt. A simple putt.The ball sat on the green, only a few feet from the hole. It should be easy. He lined up. Breathed in. Exhaled.

Goldbob’s voice, smooth as ever, broke the silence. “You’ve got a lot riding on this, haven’t you? I can tell. But don’t let it show—it’s unbecoming of a man in your position.” 

As if Goldbob couldn’t get any more ominous, here he was, digging the knife deeper. The air felt thick, heavy.

Grubba laughed bitterly. He could hear the crowd turning on him, the whispers of betrayal and failure. He swung hard. The club sliced through the air with a desperate fury. The ball lipped the edge of the hole and rolled past. Just barely. it veered left, careening straight into the water hazard with a sickening plop . 

For a long second, he just stood there. Staring.

“Darn it!” Grubba growled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. The game was nearing its end, and so was Grubba’s patience. 

“Penalty” Goldbob trilled. 

Grubba’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, yeah, I know the rules, Gold-man.”

Goldbob, having already secured his birdie, retrieved his own ball from the hole. "A shame," he said smoothly. "But a good game nonetheless. Wouldn’t you agree, old chum?" He softly chuckled, a sound that set Grubba’s teeth on edge. “I must say, it’s been invigorating. We simply must do this again sometime. Though it’s only fair you pick the activity. Perhaps hunting? Could be more suited for you.” 

His breath caught in his throat. Hunting. The word hung in the air, too direct, too specific. If it wasn't a dig, it was an outright threat. Yeah I heard you've been hunting down your own fighters, now I'm joining the game.  

Grubba’s chest tightened. He knows. He has to know.

Grubba felt the words rising in his throat before he could stop them. He rounded on Goldbob, his face flushed and his eyes wild. “Yeah? Maybe you oughta watch your back, Goldie. Yer not the only one with someone in their sights!” 

His voice rose, echoing across the pristine course. It wasn’t just angry—it was feral. “This whole game! I know what ya been playin’ at!”

“I don’t know what you mean…” Goldbob said carefully. His tone was measured, calm, but Grubba thought he caught something else underneath it.

Grubba cut him off. “Sure, ya do. Ya know what I did. You’ve been sniffin’ ‘round all day, judgin’ me, laughin’ at me like I’m some kinda joke! ” He snatched his bag and stormed toward the final green, his heart pounding. Every nerve in his body screamed that he’d been exposed—that Goldbob wasn’t just toying with him on the course but was setting him up for something far worse.“This whole dog-dang game !” Grubba barked, his voice rising. “Actin’ all high an’ mighty, like yer better than me. Pretendin like ya don’t know what I dang done! What I had ta do!”

“Grubba,” Goldbob said slowly, his voice softer now, more deliberate,“Grubba, you’re mistaken. I hold no ill will toward you. If I’ve said anything to offend—”

“Offend? You think this is about some damn offense?!” Grubba’s hands balled into fists at his sides, “Yer just like the rest of ‘em. waitin’ for me to fail so ya can swoop in an’ pick up the pieces!”

Goldbob’s expression shifted—confusion, then a hint of irritation. “Grubba, I assure you, that’s not my intention.” He exhaled sharply. “Is this truly the game you wanted to play?”

Grubba’s eye twitched. “The hell ’s that supposed ta mean?”

Goldbob leveled him with a steady look. “You tell me. You seem... unusually tense today. Is there something you’re not telling me? What exactly is at stake for you?”

A muscle jumped in Grubba’s jaw. “Nothin’.”

Goldbob tilted his head, eyes glinting. “No. I don’t believe that.”

“I said , it’s nothin’,” Grubba snapped. “Nothin’ you’d care about.” He snatched a club from his bag and swung—not at Goldbob, but at the ground, the blade of the wedge slicing into the pristine green with a sickening thunk. “What’s it to ya, anyway? Ya ain’t here ta help. Yer here ta gawk, to laugh at the lil guy strugglin’ to keep his head above water.”

Goldbob flinched, just slightly. A flicker of something in his expression—something Grubba couldn’t place. Goldbob’s gaze shifted to Grubba’s trembling hands, the golf club still gripped tightly.
“Grubba, if this is about money—”

The words came spilling out, venomous and raw. “Y’think this is about some dang money? You don’t know the half of it! I had ta do it! Ya hear me? I had to. Yew think ya could survive slopping around’n my shoes? With everyone clawin’ at ya, waitin’ fer you to fall? I did what I had ta! Yew know what I did, but ya don’t get it—ya couldn’t get it!”

“I didn’t mean— what?” Goldbob faltered. “What... did you do?”

Grubba’s eyes flashed. For a moment, it seemed like he might answer. Instead, he sneered. “Don’t play dumb with me!” His fists clenched, his shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. You’ve been watchin’, waitin’ fer me ta slip up. Well, guess what—I don’t slip !” A wild, broken, horrible sound scraped up his throat like glass. “Y’think I don’t see it? The whispers, the eyes, always on me! They’re waitin’, waitin’ fer me ta fall!—but I won’t, I won’t let ‘em!”

Goldbob shook his head rapidly. There was something else in his eyes now. It couldn’t be fear—of course not. Men like him never got scared.

“Grubba.” Goldbob said, firm. “I meant it when I said I admired you. Look... if you’d like, we could... discuss some opportunities. I think there’s a lot I could learn from you.”

“Admire me?” Grubba spat, his voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. “Learn from me? Ha! Like yew’d ever wanna get yer hands dirty! 

He smashed his hands together, cracking his knuckles, then stopped as his finger brushed against one of the rings on his fingers, opening the locket slighty. His finger retreated in a panic and the ring locket closed. “You don’t know what it takes to stay in the game. You couldn’t handle it.” he muttered

Goldbob hesitated, he looked helpless, unable to find the words. “Grubba, I’m serious.”

For a moment, Grubba froze. The offer hung in the air. His eyes darted to Goldbob’s golf club, then back to his face. There was no mockery in his tone—only sincerity.

No. it couldn't be. He scowled, boring deep into Goldbob’s eyes. Goldbob's expression faltered for just a moment—too quick for most, but Grubba saw it. The slightest twitch of his moustache, the barest widening of his eyes.

He wrenched himself away, gripping his golf club like a lifeline.

“Grubba, what are you—” Goldbob blinked, stepping back instinctively. For the first time that afternoon, his composure wavered. 

Grubba didn’t let him finish. With a guttural yell, he raised his golf club and slammed it across his knee. The shaft splintered with a sickening crack, shards of graphite and wood scattering at his feet. He stood there for a moment, panting, staring at the broken halves as if they held all the answers he couldn’t find.

Then, as if possessed by some darker impulse, Grubba reached for Goldbob’s golden club, the polished surface gleaming in the sunlight. “Nice an’ shiny, huh? Bet you think this makes you better than me!” he snarled. Before Goldbob could react, Grubba gripped it with both hands and smashed it against the ground, bending it grotesquely before tossing it aside like garbage.

“Grubba, that’s enough!” Goldbob’s voice was sharp now, a rare flash of anger breaking through his usual calm. He took another step back, as if cornered by an animal. “You’re not yourself.”

“Oh, I’m myself, alright,” Grubba hissed. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble.

He didn’t realize he’d reached into his golf bag until his fingers brushed against the cold, sharp edge of the machete. The one that Goldbob had seen for a split second at the beginning of this whole game. His hand closed around it, and he pulled it out without thinking. For a moment, all he could do was stare at it, gripping it tightly.

He absentmindedly flicked it in his hands, the blade catching the sunlight. 

Goldbob stiffened. His voice was calm, but the tension in his mustache betrayed him. “Grubba... put that down.”

Grubba turned the machete towards himself, and before Goldbob could protest, he started stroking it tenderly, clutching it tightly. Grubba tilted his head, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. He laughed, a hollow, broken sound that made his own chest ache.“What’s the matter, Goldie? Thought you liked a little drama.” He crooned in a tone as mocking as he could muster. “Ain’t you the one who said I had flair?”

Goldbob’s eyes flicked to the glint of metal in Grubba’s hand. ‘You’re a complicated man, Grubba. I suppose that’s what makes you... fascinating.’” the colour had drained from his round, bright, gold face, but his eyes betrayed an echo of the glimmer they had shown earlier. ‘You’ve got your demons, but I’ve dealt with worse. You’re a valuable asset, stick with me, and we’ll turn this around.”

Grubba’s laugh was bitter, jagged, like glass shattering. "Turn it around? Turn it around?" His eyes darted wildly, refusing to meet Goldbob’s. “Y’all’ve made it clear from the start, yew know what I really am, an’ yer here ta manipulate that! Ta prod this here animal ‘til he breaks! Welp, I’m ‘fraid ya misunderestimerated how far this beast’ll go!”

He pointed the rapidly wavering machete at Goldbob, tightening his grip until his nails dug into his palm, until the tremor felt like control. “...An’ as if ya dealt with worse! You aint know the last done thing or two about them hard knocks, ya gold-sniffin’ turtle slapper!”

His eyes flicked down to the machete in his grip. The last prop in his act. The last desperate, empty gesture. His grip twitched. Goldbob didn’t answer. He just watched, his gaze flicking between Grubba’s face and the knife, rooted to the spot. The two men stood there, frozen in the tension of the moment. He searched for anything in Goldbob’s face that betrayed his fear, anything. 

Grubba’s breath was ragged, his grip iron-tight around the machete. Goldbob wasn’t just seeing him. He was exposing him. Peeling the skin off a carcass to see the raw, ugly meat underneath. Always seeing, always knowing.  

His teeth clenched, breath flaring through his nostrils. “Ya don’t know nothin’ , y’hear me?” His voice shook, but he leaned into it, like this was all some big, cruel joke- pushing harder to stop the ground from crumbling beneath him. “Ya think yer so damn smart, sittin’ up on your high horse, lookin’ down on me like I’m… some kinda—some kinda…”

Goldbob didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just watched. Watched his stupid violent act of self defence he had resorted to. Just studied Grubba with a look that made him feel laid bare. That damn monocle glinted, catching the sunlight like a spotlight aimed directly at him.

The ground felt unsteady beneath Grubba’s feet. His grip on the machete wavered. He bared his teeth. "Say somethin’!"

Nothing.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

His fingers twitched, lifting the blade just slightly. His pulse roared in his ears. His whole body locked up. Every nerve screamed for him to act, to to show some kind of power—to do something, anything—

But there ain’t nothin’ left, is there?

No matter what he did now, the mask had already slipped. He’d already decided not to disappear Goldbob, he had no power here. Not over Goldbob, not over this moment, not over himself.

Maybe he was just a dead man waiting to fall

Goldbob’s eyes met his. 

The machete in his hands suddenly felt useless. Heavy. Like a dead thing.

“Y’ever think ‘bout it, Goldie? What happens ta men when they got nothin’ left to give?”

The blade slipped from his fingers. Thud.

–

His fingers flexed, empty, head hung low, breath rattling in his chest.

He let out a hollow laugh. "Man, oh man. Ain’t this somethin’." He rolled his shoulders, shaking off a chill, flashing a wide grin. His teeth felt too big in his mouth.  “Hoo, Goldie, ya almost had me fer a second there. Thought I was gonna lose my cool.”

Goldbob took a step forward. “Grubba—”

“No.” The word was sharp, but Grubba’s voice wasn’t. It was… tired .

Goldbob hesitated.

“I get it, alrighty?”  He wasn’t even looking at Goldbob anymore. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, like he was already somewhere else. “Ain’t no need to spell it out.”

Goldbob opened his mouth—then closed it.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Goldbob straightened. “So that’s it?” Grubba turned away.

“wasn’t never gonna be anythin’ else.” 

Goldbob started after him—to say what , Grubba didn’t know. Didn’t care. He turned before he could hear it, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Hope ya got what ya came for," he muttered, leaving the ruined clubs, the shattered quiet, and Goldbob’s silent judgment behind. 

He could swear he heard him exhale, like he just dodged a bullet. 

Alone on the green. The sun bore down on him, the stillness of the course mocking his failure. He looked at the water hazard where his ball had sunk, the ripples already smoothed over as if it had never happened.

____

Chapter Text

His hands shook uncontrollably as he pulled out his cigar, trying to light it. His fingers fumbled. The bright, fiery tip of the match flickered out in a puff of smoke before he could even get the thing to burn. He eventually got it to spark on the 18th try. 

He watched the golf course until his vision started to spin. The distant hum of laughter and chatter from the clubhouse lingered in the background like the sound of another world. None of it felt real anymore—just a series of motions that no longer included him. Cast aside.

Goldbob’s figure faded into the distance.“He thinks I’m a liability?” Grubba muttered to himself, voice low and dangerous. “I’ll show him a liability... that smug— ” He cut himself off, breathing heavily., the sharpness of his words vanishing into the cold night air.

“Easy t’ talk big when yer born with a gold spoon in yer mouth!” He exhaled deeply, watching the smoke curl into the air. “Some a’ us had ta claw our way up from nothin’... fight fer every damn scrap.” His expression shifted—anger giving way to something more dangerous. "Yer wrong about me, Goldie. Dead wrong," 

“I ain’t some fool yew can write off. No one walks away from Grubba without payin’. No one. You’ll see. Y'all'll see.”

Then a sudden thought cut through the haze— Goldbob has a family. His eyes sharpened, his lips curled into a cruel grin. Goldbob’s son, Bub, and Sylvia, his wife… His rich, rich wife. 

A wave of clarity washed over him, but not the kind of clarity anyone would want. It was the kind of clarity that revealed a path paved with manipulation, with the cold, calculating knowledge of exactly what needs to be done to get what you want. 

I can turn this around. I always do.  

His hands trembled, not from nerves— but from raw, frantic energy. He ground the cigar into the dirt beneath his heel and stormed toward the parking lot.

Kicking through the papers, empty coffee cups and worn out Glitz Pit paraphernalia, Grubba got into the driver's seat of his humble Cadillac..Popping lynyrd skynyrd into the cassette player, he used up his second or third or fourth locket ring of the day, inhaling sharply. His hands shook, but this time, it was different. His pupils widened and his thoughts blurred. His fingers twitched against Caddie’s pink leopard fur covered steering wheel, his grip tightening and loosening as if trying to stave off an invisible force that was pushing him over the edge. 

“HOO DOGGIES! I know exactly where I’m going!” he laughed maniacally, sparking the ignition. "Just a quick post-golf visit t’ my good pard Goldbob!”

As he punched the accelerator, his foot met a crumpled Glitz Pit poster of The Great Gonzales . He glared at Gonzales’ grinning face as if the poster itself were to blame. 

Grubba sneered, shaking his head. “Everyone loves a winner, ain't that right?” He spat out the words as though they were poison. "Well what happens when the winner ain’t ‘round ta smile fer the cameras no more?"

He sped off toward the house where Goldbob’s wife waited, leaving the golf course in the dust as he accelerated harder, faster, abusing poor Caddie’s artificially souped up engine. 

—----

Grubba’s Cadillac sputtered as it pulled up to the gleaming gates of Goldbob’s estate. sun shining off its marble steps. He stayed sat in the car for a moment, his gaze fixed on the massive estate.

 “Alrighty, Grubba. Time ta play it smart. Ain’t nothin’ but a lil’ charm offensive.” He chuckled darkly but quickly fell silent 

He grabbed the bottle of wine he’d bought earlier at the clubhouse as a flimsy pretext for his visit. He tried to steady his breath as he looked at it, seeing the label blur in his unsteady grip.

 “This’ll do... Sylvia’s bound ta have a soft spot fer underdogs.”

He took one last look in the dashboard mirror, “C’mon, Grubba. Ya still got the fight. If Goldbob don’t wanna help no more, someun’s gonna see yer worth the risk. An’ if not... welp...”

His expression hardened.

“...I’ll make my own luck.”

There it was—the steel in his voice that had once made him a force to be reckoned with. It was all he had left now. 

He grabbed a handful of crumpled up glitz pit posters littering his Cadillac. He had been meaning to toss them- folks didn't need to be reminded of the absence of all those “retired” fighters. ‘Sides, when negotiatin’, gotta arm myself with all I can.  

They had been folded so many times that they flopped limply in his hands, like the bodies of the fighters themselves when they…

He opened the door to get out, then turned back, reaching into the glove compartment past three sticky copies of The Philosophy of Mike Mentzer to grab some hotdogs.

Don’t forget ta smile, Don’t forget why yer here…

He stepped out of the car and adjusted his shirt. His steps were heavy as he walked up to the door.

“...This’d better work.”

Chapter Text

Bottle of clubhouse wine in hand, Grubba rang the enormous, gilded doorbell of Goldbob’s sprawling mansion. The place looked more like a castle with its marble columns and 10 mile high mahogany doors with gold doorknobs. He shifted on the doorstep, fidgeting with his collar.

After what felt like an eternity, the heavy door creaked open. A butler stood there, dressed in crisp black and white, with an expression that could freeze lava. The butler eyed him warily.The butler didn’t even look at him, just said, “Mr. Goldbob is not home, sir. And Mrs. Sylvia is out for the day.”

Grubba blinked, stifling a curse. Sylvia’s out? Dangit! There goes my smooth-talkin’ backup plan. “Well, that’s just dandy. Guess I’ll—”

“Who’s there?” a high-pitched voice piped up from above. “Celebrities only!”

Grubba glanced up to see a tiny bronze Bob-omb with a mischievous grin bounding down the stairs. Bub’s face lit up as he recognized the visitor. 

“Hey! You’re the promoter man! Glitzville is awesome! Do you have any battle posters? Or wrestling moves to show me?”The little dynamo slid down the banister to meet him

The butler exhaled through his nose, clearly resigned, and stepped aside. Grubba put on his best charismatic smile and strolled into the mansion’s opulent foyer.  

Welp, guess I’ll just talk to the kid instead. No need fer Sylvia’r Goldbob when ya got a bright-eyed pup looking up atcha like yer a rockstar!

—------

The living room was a palace in its own right, with enough empty space to park a fleet of Cadillacs. Gold-trimmed furniture surrounded a plush velvet carpet so thick Grubba’s boots sank with every step. Bub dragged Grubba to the far corner, where some antique furniture was hastily shoved together in a circle.

“Whatcha got there, son?” 

The kid looked up at him with pleading eyes, ‘Can we spar?‘

Spar? 

He groaned, glancing around for somewhere to sit 

He ran his finger along the unopened ring locket on his opposite finger. He had to get his edge back.

His tongue ran along his teeth.

No. Not here. Not in front of the kid. 

He sucked in a breath through his nose, swallowing back the itch in his throat. Later. Maybe if the brat leaves the room.

Grubba rubbed his forehead. “Son, I ain’t twenty no more, that there golf game really took it outta me. If’ ya need a spry joe t’ teach ya moves, ask fer Gonzales.” 

“Aww-maaan. But you were so energetic on stage... oh well, I knew wrestling was fake.“

His fingers curled against his palm, nails pressing into skin. Laugh nice an’ loud now, so th’ stupid kid can hear ya “ Ha! Ain’t nothin’ fake ‘bout wrasslin’, son! Just ‘cause we know how t’ dance don’t mean we don’t feel them hits.” He clapped his hands together, shaking his head. “Nothin’ fake ‘bout givin’ folks a good show .”

“Why are you here then? …Is it to see Daddy?“ Bub started hopping up and down like a bouncing firecracker. ‘Can I show you my room? Why are you dressed like that? Why are you so sweaty? Daddy said you’re one of his favorites! You must have a lot of money—people Daddy likes always have a lot of money! You're a businessman, right? How many under the table ‘favours’ have you had to do? Who did you exploit today? Can I have a hotdog? Do you sign stuff? What if I got you a hot dog, would you? 

He looked down at the small, round, inquisitive bob-omb boy and considered punting him across the room like a soccer ball.

He shook his head and sighed.

He reached into the oversized pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a vacuum-sealed pack of Mr. Hoggle hotdogs. “Here. Knock yerself out, kid.”

Bub cheered, grabbed the hotdog, and scarfed it down in seconds. “Yay! Now can I have a battle poster?”

Grubba sat down on the nearest chair, trying to maintain his cool. “Not so fast, squirt. Since yer daddy an’ Mrs. Sylvia ain’t home, how ‘bout I ask you somethin’ instead?”

Bub tilted his head. “Huh? Like what?”

Grubba leaned back in the plush armchair, feigning ease as his mind worked overtime. The kids just loved him, ‘specially his 10 beautiful children (stars rest their custody), surely this would be easy. Bub had already devoured his second hotdog and was now hopping around the room with relentless energy. But if he was gonna work the kid, he had to act fast.

Grubba leaned forward, clasping his hands together like he was about to share a juicy secret.“Y’know, Bub,” he began, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, “sometimes even us grown-ups hit a rough patch. Say, if someone was in a bit of a bind, how’d ya think they should handle it?”

Bub stopped mid-hop, tilting in thought. “Hmm... I dunno. Daddy always says money fixes everything! But he also says you gotta be smart about who you give it to. Hey, do you wanna be my bodyguard? I bet you make lots of money!”

Grubba nodded slowly. Smart kid. Too smart, maybe. “Bodyguard, huh? Maybe someday, squirt. But how ‘bout I ask ya somethin’ instead?” 

“What if... hypothetically... someone needed a little help? “Yeah, like maybe if someone’s been unfairly accused of, uh… runnin’ …operations… with some… less than ethical methods—hypothetically, o’course.” 

Bub paused mid-bite of his second hotdog. “What do you mean ‘methods’? What kind of methods?”

Grubba tried to backtrack, stammering, “Oh, nothin’, kid. Just a figure o’ speech! Forget I said anythin’, alright?”

He glanced around the mansion at the opulent decor, a stack of business papers on a nearby table, and a family portrait on the wall. Smart kid, but let’s see if he’s gullible too

“Y’know, Bub, yer lucky to live in a place like this. Yer already miles ahead a most folks, just like your dad. I bet you got a head for business, too.”

Bub at that moment, looked… smug? Triumphant even, as he threw the emptied hotdog wrappers at Grubba’s face.

“Wow, mister! you’re really good at talking your way out of stuff. Daddy says people like that don’t stay around long.”

Grubba swallowed hard ‘…How about I make you a deal, kid?’

Bub’s eyes widened with excitement. “A deal? Like a real grown-up deal?”

Grubba hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. This was a long shot, but it was his only way forward.

“Oh, just a lil’ opportunity. Yeah. I’ll give ya one o’ them battle posters yer always askin’ about—” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “—if you help me out in a, uh, future time of need. Nothin’ big, just a lil’ favor. All I’d need for now is a method of contact. For… my safety.”

Bub gasped in delight. “Wow! Daddy would be so proud of me right now, making business deals with grownups!” Without hesitation, he dashed to a nearby desk, pulled out a sheet of fancy letter paper embossed with Goldbob’s monogram, and scrawled his phone number in shaky, oversized handwriting.

Grubba’s smile tightens as he crouches slightly, meeting Bub’s eye level.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’. You must be a real chip off the ol’ block. Say, Bub... you ever think about helpin’ folks out? Like... makin’ an investment?”

Bub tilted his head, curious but unsure.

“An investment? What kind of investment?”

‘Don’t worry yer lil head, I’m just investigatin’ if you’d be willin ta use some money later down the line…’ 

Bub looked confused. ‘I guess I would, if it's to buy new videogames!’

That wasn't the answer he was hoping for. But the phone number seemed hopeful.

Grubba watched eagerly, hoping he would be quick. He noticed that underneath the phone number, Bub had excitedly doodled a picture of himself in a business suit, a smiley face, and a picture of a train for some reason.  It hit him like a punch to the gut: this was just a kid, a harmless young pup, oblivious to the stakes. Why was he dragging an innocent child into his web of lies ?

… welp, In case I get in jail of course! 

‘Finished!’ yelled Bub, attempting to stuff the paper into an envelope. Grubba hesitated for a beat. Something about this felt wrong, but he hadn't taken nothin from the kid, so it didn't count nothin’. Nope.

“Here!” Bub beamed, holding out the paper. Grubba grinned, sliding the note into his vest pocket before handing over one of the battle posters he’d brought.

“Kay, here’s your poster, kid,” Grubba said, pulling out a few folded promotional prints. ‘’outdated’’ ones he’d swiped from  the lobby. The ones that had ended up crumpled and lining the floor of his Cadillac: the KP Koopas, and The Hand-It-Overs.

Bub’s face fell. “ Aw, I wanted The Great Gonzales ! And these are all folded!” He waved the poster of King K in the air, his disappointment palpable.

Grubba sighed, digging deeper into his bag. Reluctantly, he pulled out a pristine Great Gonzales poster—one he’d been saving to plaster all over the lobby when the feller reached 19th rank. Which would be soon. “Here. Happy now?”

“Yay!” Bub squealed, hugging the poster to his chest. The kid seemed to notice a shift in Grubba's demeanor. He thrust the other posters back toward Grubba. “Oh! Mister, don’t be sad I took all your posters. Here, you can have them back!” he said, shoving the images of grubba’s victims in his face 

Grubba froze as the kid dropped the stack of crumpled glossy images into his hands. His stomach twisted at the sight of King K’s beaming face, the KP Koopas’ cocky smirks, and—worst of all—the sly grin of Bandy Andy, the grin that knew too much, the grin which seemed to widen the longer he stared at it, as if taunting him to go through with the plans that he had for that sneaky bastard tonight.

He backed away, voice coming out sharper than he intended. “Nothin’s wrong, kid! An’ you can keep those.” he pointed, breathing heavily.

Bub blinked. “Are you sure?” He waved the picture of King K around innocently. “You can have this one—”

He clutched his head, the thoughts overwhelming him . “I NEVER WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN!” Grubba roared, the words escaping before he could stop himself.

Bub froze, his tiny body stiff with shock. “...Why don’t you want the posters, mister? Don’t you like your friends?”

Then his expression shifted—confusion, then suspicion. “...Did... did something happen to the people on the posters ?”

Grubba’s heart stopped.

Shit. He’d said too much.

Reel it back, reel it back! “Uh, no! Course not!” he stammered, stuffing the posters back into Bub’s face. “Them posters? they’re just  uh... collector’s items! Real valuable!”

‘No they're not! They're all crumpled up! Bub shouted “Wait... why are you acting so weird? Daddy says weird people are hiding something!”

‘Just… sentimental reasons, y’know? Don’t wanna ruin ‘em or nothin’. Now, run along an’ put that Great Gonzales poster up, huh?”

But Bub didn’t move. “Is this about the Glitz Pit? Daddy said he trusts you, but... is something wrong there?”

His sharp little eyes bored into Grubba, his youthful curiosity morphing into something far more dangerous. 

“You’re lying,” he said slowly. ‘ Lying is BAD! Daddy says liars always get caught!”

‘Yes, lyin’ is bad…’ Grubba felt a pang of shame. He brushed it off: Ain’t like the kid knows any better. Just keep smilin’ an’ get outta here.

“Ain’t no trouble here, kid! Yer imaginin’ things! Now uh- scuse me for a second”

He bolted for the door, but Bub was faster. The kid grabbed a decorative umbrella from a nearby stand and planted himself squarely in Grubba’s path. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” 

“Look, kid, forget I ever said nothin’! Yer a good boy; don’t go pokin’ yer nose where it don’t belong. I, uh... gotta go!” He started towards the other door in the living room, diverting Bub’s attention, then turned back and leaped over Bub, stumbling over the edge of the thick carpet.

Bub followed, still brimming with questions. “Wait! You have to tell me what’s going on! Are you in trouble? What kind of trouble? You better spill the beans, or I’ll put you in time-out FOREVER! ” he screamed

Grubba backed toward the door. “No trouble, no trouble at all! Just a friendly visit! Now you be good an’—”

Before he could finish, his boot caught on the carpet, and he toppled forward. His face slammed into a glass coffee table with a deafening SMASH . Bub gasped, shaking with shock and excitement. “Whoa! Are you okay? That was awesome!”

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the mansion, and within moments, the butler appeared, his expression one of horror. 

“What is going on here?!”

Grubba scrambled to his feet, brushing shards of glass off his vest. “Uh, nothin’! Just a lil’ accident! I was just leavin’!”

The butler’s eyes narrowed further. “Stop right there, sir! I’m calling the authorities!”

Grubba’s heart jumped into his throat. “No need for that! I’m already on my way out!” He darted toward the door, knocking over a precious vase or two. He elbowed his way past the butler, who muttered “I knew this day would come.” and bolted out the house, stumbling out into the perfectly manicured front garden,

He continued running, tripping over a decorative birdbath and slamming sideways into a rosebush. He yelled as the thorns poked him but continued to run. Looking behind him he saw Bub bounding out of the house after him waving the umbrella, screaming “Come back, you didn’t answer my question!”

He ran faster, shards of adrenaline prickling his skin. Or maybe it was the broken glass. His mind raced, each step feeling like it dragged him closer to a trap.

He was almost at the car. His steps turned into leaps, bounds.

He barely noticed the crunch of gravel underfoot until he collided with something that knocked him over completely.

Some one.

It was Goldbob himself, who had just returned home. 

—

Chapter Text

“Grubba. What brings you here?”

“Guh-g-g-g-goldbob?!” Grubba froze, his face flushing under Goldbob’s unwavering gaze. “Oh it's nothin!’’ Grubba threw a hand over Goldbob’s shoulder, turning him away from his mansion and towards the car, hoping to steer him away from all the damage 

He threw on his best winning smile, though it felt like plaster cracking. “Just droppin’ by, Goldie! Ya know, a lil’ post-golf gift! Thought you’d like somethin’ classy ta celebrate.” he brought out the bottle of wine and waved it.

Goldbob turned around. Grubba stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the wreckage

“Hmm,” Goldbob said, giving the bottle a contemplative glance. “And the commotion I heard?”

“Commotion? What commotion?” Grubba let out a nervous laugh, waving his hand dismissively. “Probably, uh, the butler droppin’ somethin’ inside. Them clumsy types, y’know?”

“You sure seem to have bounced back from… you know, the last time I saw you.”

Before Grubba could even think of a reply, Bub came running after him, brandishing the umbrella like a weapon. “Wait! You can’t leave! You have to tell me what’s going on!”

Goldbob raised his eyebrows, “Grubba. Would you care to explain why my son is chasing you with an umbrella?”

Grubba scrambled for words, his brain cycling through half-baked excuses. “Nothin’! Just, uh, givin’ Bub here a little sparring practice! That’s all!” He forced a laugh, but his voice cracked under the weight of his panic.

Goldbob’s gaze flicked between his son and the disheveled Grubba.  “You seem a bit rattled—is everything alright?” 

Grubba stammered, his brain scrambling for an excuse. Before Goldbob could press further, Bub ran up to Goldbob, panting, still wielding the umbrella. His eyes darted between Grubba and his father, his expression unreadable.

“Daddy,” Bub began, his tone carefully measured. He jabbed the umbrella toward Grubba. “This guy—”Bub raised his voice, waving the umbrella

Grubba’s stomach flipped. The kid was gonna spill it. He was done for.

Bub hesitated, his gaze locking with Grubba’s. That look. A quiet challenge, like he was daring Grubba to make the first move. The boy glanced at his father, then back at Grubba.

“—gave me a poster of the Great Gonzales!” Bub finished abruptly, holding the poster aloft like a trophy. “Isn’t that cool, Daddy?”

Grubba nearly collapsed from the sheer relief washing over him. He forced himself to grin and even ruffled Bub’s hair like the doting uncle he pretended to be. “That’s right, kiddo! Always lookin’ out for ya! Atta boy! …Pardon my visit goldie,  thought ya d be home”

Goldbob raised an eyebrow, “You’ve always had a way of making an impression, haven’t you?

“Sure. Gotta run now—busy schedule, y’know how it is!” Grubba backed toward the gate, ‘Thanks fer the hospitality!” He threw the bottle of wine at goldbob and charged for the car. tripping over a flowerpot in his haste.

Goldbob caught the wine (somehow) and sauntered after him, determinedly keeping up while maintaining a long stride. ‘Excuse me, Grubba?’

Grubba pretended not to hear him.

“Pardon, wait a moment, old sport.” His voice was warm, conspiratorial. Like they were still playing the same old game.

Goldbob grabbed him by the collar of his polo shirt, causing him to yelp 

“Awfully sorry, old sport. That wasn’t very gentleman-like of me,” Goldbob said, his smile thin. He loosened his grip, brushing dust from Grubba’s shoulder like they were just two old colleagues sharing an easy chat.

“I see you’re in a hurry but I simply must tell you something”

Grubba turned, teeth grit. 

"I’ve changed a lot since I met you, old sport," Goldbob mused. "I've re-learned how fun it is to make money, thanks to you."

There it was, the compliment to soften the blow of what he’s about to say next, the rejection.

“I must say, you’re quite the character. I admire a man who’s willing to go after what he wants, no matter how... unconventional the path. You’ve got a knack for thinking big.” Goldbob’s tone was casual, but his words were precise. “And if things ever go south for you…” He paused, smiling faintly. “Well, let’s just say we businessmen need to stick together.”

Yeah-righty. That’s just business talk— Th’ polite, meaningless yappage of a man brushin’ off a diggety-dang deadweight. Ya done blown it. Com-per-leetely blown it. No bail. No second chance. Just me, behind bars, left ta rot.

Before he could respond, Goldbob continued. "You’re not done yet, old friend." his voice softened, pitying . “There’s something in you—something I’ve rarely seen. You’ve got fire, Grubba. A bit too much of it sometimes, but I can work with that. I’d hate to see it wasted.”

Wasted?

“You see, people like you don’t just fade away, Grubba. You rise, or you fall spectacularly. Either way, I want to be there when it happens.”

Grubba’s throat closed. That was Goldbob—he didn’t get involved out of kindness. He got involved because he liked to see the rise and fall of men. and he was next.  

"Y’think I don’t see it?" he spat. "I ain’t stupid. Tryin’ ta buy me out, control me. Ya wanna be there when I crash. Ya wanna watch.”

Goldbob didn’t deny it.

"I’d hate to see it wasted," he repeated, as if that was enough. 

“Relax,” Goldbob smiled, patting him on the back in a way that felt more like a warning than reassurance. 

Goldbob sighed. "Grubba, I thought you’d stop by. I know trouble when I see it. And …" Goldbob’s expression softened for the first time..He gave a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve been curious. You’ve been acting… peculiar lately. I can’t help but wonder, were you planning to ask me for something?” 

Goldbob looked on, calm, calculating, unshaken  “Let me help.’ 

Grubba looked at Goldbob’s open expression, wavering. For a second, he almost fell for it. Then cold wet dread washed over him as he realised the truth.

It‘s worse’n I thought! Goldbob knows everythin’, an’ now he’s demandin’ I confess! I caint tell him nothin’! ‘Specially not after the Bub episode — he’d put two ‘n two together faster ’n a premade PB&J!

Don’t cave in. Gotta keep up the act, even‘f Goldbob’s droppin’ his.  

 “Me? Ask you? Nah, Goldie, I wouldn’t—” Grubba laughed weakly. He  steered away, gesturing toward his car. “I better skedaddle. Got, uh, important business to attend to.”

“You’re not the first man to darken my doorstep. But here’s the thing: I like you, Grubba. If you ever find yourself in a bind, don’t hesitate to reach out. People like us, well, we always land on our feet, don’t we?”

Grubba looked away. He could still take the out.

Goldbob was offering him a second chance, and as much as he needed it, he couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t afford to.

He'd bail me outta jail as fast as I’d clear a leaky ship with a teacup.

Grubba wrenched free, patting Goldbob on the shoulder like this was just another business meeting. “Uh, thanks for the offer, Goldie. Real nice of ya.”

Grubba managed a shaky nod. And then he turned.

And ran.

"My door is always open," Goldbob called lightly. "Remember that, Mr. Grubba."

Grubba slammed the car door shut.

—-------------

As he clambered in, his eyes darted to the house. He could see Goldbob musing to himself, shaking his head, smiling . Just watching him go. Like he had already mourned him. 

I knew he wasn’t offerin’ no damn help. He pities me. That damn smug smile! 

But for now, he was free. And that was enough.

Welp. That went ‘bout as well as a Goomba in an arm wrestlin' tournament.

—-------–

Grubba’s tires screeched against the pavement as he tore down the empty road. Another bridge burned. Fine. I’ll just build a new one.

As Grubba peeled out of the driveway, he forced himself to glance up—just once—at the rearview mirror.

And there he was.

Bub, clutching his poster. 

Still standing there. Staring right at him.

Watching.

Waiting…

The boy’s small frame barely cast a shadow in the dimming light, but his eyes—his damn eyes—burned with something that made Grubba’s skin crawl; A look that said, I’m going to figure you out, mister.

Grubba swallowed.

Why didn’t he rat me out? He had the chance. Maybe he already figured me out. 

He gritted his teeth and wrenched the wheel, speeding toward the outskirts of Poshley heights.

But the kid’s gaze wouldn’t leave him.

It followed him past every streetlamp, past every flickering neon sign.

Rain dribbled in through the open windows. Miles away now, Grubba could still feel it. What’s stopping Bub? From telling Goldbob? From blowing it all wide open?

Cold sweat dripped down his temple. He couldn’t let that happen. 

He wouldn’t .

A thought crossed his mind, one which made him involuntarily shudder.

His hands strangled the steering wheel tight enough to snap the thin metal under the fuzzy pink leopard-print wheel cover, shards crunching in his grip.

The kid has to go.

He continued driving, blood running down his fingers. The thought whispered through his mind like a snake in the grass. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Prince Mush—he trusted you, looked up to you, an’ you snuffed him out without a second thought. 

What difference is a few years younger? A little more innocent?

No. No, he wouldn’t go that far.

Would he?

His reflection stared back at him, warped in the rain soaked window

He clenched his teeth. No. no, not yet. Ending the kid would be just as much a liability as ending Goldbob himself. The old man would raise hell, and every spotlight in Rogueport would swing right onto him. The walls would close in.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Just watch your step. Pray the kid don’t poke too deep. Keep it together, Grubba. Nobody knows anything yet.

But the thought lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. Not just the thought.The fact that he hadn’t dismissed it entirely. The fact that he hadn’t even hated the idea. The fact that somewhere, deep inside, he had already accepted it as an option. 

He had to get away

Away from Goldbob. Away from Bub. 

Away from himself.

For his safety. 

For theirs.

The kid had to go. 

Someday.

–––––

The rain pounded against the windshield like a ticking clock, blurring the city lights into a smudge of gold and red. The streetlights sped past, smeared into the darkness like prison bars.

Grubba gripped the broken wheel, knuckles white. The tires screeched as he turned a sharp corner, nearly spinning out on the slick pavement.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t care where he was going. Didn’t care if he crashed.

Driving into the storm, He pressed the gas pedal. That same crumpled Gonzales poster lay under his boot, smeared with dirt and coke. He glanced down at it, barely lifting his foot. 

Gonzales—the rookie fighter who’d climbed the ranks with nothing but skill an’ honesty. The kid… He don’t even know what game he’s playin’, but he plays it straight. 

For one second—just one—he saw the world where he wasn’t this. If I’d been like him—just once—maybe I wouldn’t be sittin’ in this mess.

But the thought passed quickly as he sipped his stone-cold overpriced coffee from the opulent clubhouse. Gonzales wouldn’t last a week in his world.

He crushed the poster beneath his heel, grinding it into the floor.

Outside, the storm raged—wind howling, rain slamming against the hood. Lightning split the sky. 

Grubba pressed the gas.

Faster.

He gripped his cup tightly. The clock was ticking.

If Goldbob ain’t gonna save me, stars knows who will…

He floored the gas. 

200 miles an hour.

driving for his life. 

This time, there was no Free Bird blasting from the stereo.

Just static.

And the storm, roaring like a crowd that had already forgotten his name.

___________