Originally published in the Team Science Zine. GET THE ZINE HERE!
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The sliding glass doors parted, blowing the stale air of wood wax, burnt fluorescent bulbs, and haggis into the faces of Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera, Gyro Gearloose, and Fethry Duck. Lil Bulb couldn’t smell this strong mish-mash because they didn’t have nostrils. Yet.
Gyro crinkled his beak and exhaled sharply through his nose. “Somehow,” he said, “this smells exactly like a bowling alley Mr. McDuck purchased from Flintheart Glomgold.”
“I think that’s a more telling sign,” said Fenton, pointing straight ahead. Indeed, across the back wall of the 20 bowling lanes, sometimes blocked by attendants passing dressed in full highland wear, was a mural of rolling green Scottish hills backed by a blazing sunset.
“It’s got charm,” said Fethry as they approached the main counter. “It’s homey.”
Gyro rolled his eyes. “If you like Glomgold’s Scotland, which no one does.”
“I’m sure these people would love to lose the kilts as soon as possible,” Fenton concurred.
“Ain’t that the truth,” said the shaggy-haired attendant, adjusting his kilt. “We blame the high turnover on the itchiness alone. Anyway, what can we do ya for?”
“Hour rental and three pairs of shoes,” Gyro deadpanned.
The attendant smirked in surprise before fishing the shoes from below. “What’s his deal?” he asked.
“He just doesn’t like bowling,” said Fenton.
“My work outing preference was maliciously overruled,” Gyro grumbled.
“Well, I see it as democracy prevailing,” said Fethry.
“A nephew of McDuck would say that,” Gyro sneered.
Fenton stepped in between the two. “O-o-okay, we all deserve this break from work. We are going to relax and have fun, and nothing will go wrong, alright?”
“Sure thing!” said Fethry.
Gyro crossed his arms. “Fine.”
+++
Across the lanes, a white ball with baby blue streaks slammed into the deck and hooked to the left into the gutter. It took the roll of shame all the way to the end and every single pin remained, solid, mocking its thrower.
“Come on!” crowed Mark Beaks, punching the air. “Throwing a ball into some lousy pins should not be this hard!”
Falcon Graves’ eye twitched as the grating squawk of his employer broke his concentration on his target. “It might be for someone who’s never done any exercise.”
Mark stomped over to his bodyguard. “Hey, a billionaire’s thing is exercising without doing dumb real exercise. Mark Beaks will not follow the normies and golf!”
Falcon sighed and closed his assassin mobile game to give his boss his full attention. “You destroyed a mini golf windmill because you went five over par.”
Mark pointed a finger in Falcon’s face. “Shut your mouth! You’re just like my dad!”
“That’s what you said last time,” Falcon mumbled, not paying attention anymore.
Mark huffed, marching to the ball rack, dark clouds storming above his head. “I’ll show those loser boomers. I can do sports. I can be a well-rounded billionaire.” He shoved a kid down by his face and carried the heaviest ball he could find back to his lane.
Or rather, as Fethry observed while holding a ball to his ear, “Fascinating. It’s like a jellyfish dragging a brain coral across the ocean floor.”
Fenton looked up from the tablet and saw the struggling gray macaw heave the great sphere on his ball machine and collapse to his knees, panting. “I’d almost feel bad for Mark if it weren’t for the thieving of my concepts, the numerous assaults on me and my friends’ lives, and what’s worse, the microaggressions.” Fenton shuddered at the memory.
Gyro tugged the laces of his bowling shoes tight and stood up. “He’s a petulant baby. If we don’t pay attention to him, hopefully he’ll give up and leave.”
“You’re right,” said Fenton, shaking his head and giving the touchscreen some final taps to officially start their game. “Your turn first, Fethry!”
Fethry looked back and sauntered over. “The book I read beforehand says to find a ball that speaks to you.” He held out a red ball, scuffed with years of use. “And this one says, ‘I’m a star!’”
“Are you sure it didn’t just sound like the ocean?” Gyro quipped.
“It’s your first time, right?” said Fenton, sitting on the tartan-wrapped bench. “Focus on throwing it straight. Good luck!”
“If it goes anywhere besides the lanes besides, I’ll be surprised,” Gyro whispered. Fenton elbowed him as Fethry stepped up and checked his aim. He chucked his ball with all the grace of a sea lion and it traveled straight and true on its way to bowling over every pin.
“I know that! That’s a strike!” Fethry cheered, hopping from foot to foot. “Boyoboy!”
Gyro cleared his throat and Fenton clapped. “Way to go, Fethry!”
Fethry beamed and walked back as Gyro took his ball to the lane. He eased into a wide stance and heaved it down the center with both hands. It rolled at a snail’s pace and curved to the left, clipping one pin.
Gyro sniffed. “Sports are not scientific,” he said, returning to his seat.
Fenton stepped up and threw his ball with enthusiasm. It looked good and true and resulted in a 7-10 split. Fenton placed his hands on his hips. Strike up above him, one pin just below… “And here I am, stuck in the middle with you,” he said.
Crunching and crashing bellowed immediately followed by a deafening roar. Fenton whipped his head around to see a giant Mark Beaks rip his shirt off and send plastic chairs flying with one swipe of his bulging, muscular arm. Bystanders howled in fear and ran for any cover still standing. Before he could even comprehend what was going on, a falcon in a suit bolted toward them and shouted, “Get down!”
He was tackled along with Gyro and Fethry before he could think, hitting the deck hard as a bowling ball clattered down next to them and rolled away.
“I apologize for this,” said Falcon, “he did this the last time as well. And then sued the mini golf after his rampage. And lost.”
Gyro picked up his hat. “I’m sure if we keep our heads down and don’t let him see us, we can get out safely. Then McDuck can write this off or something.”
“But then where will Duckburg bowl?” Fethry asked.
“They’ll play a board game, like normal people!” Gyro hissed.
“No, Fethry’s right!” said Fenton, wriggling out of Falcon’s hold.
“You didn’t bring the suit, though!” said Gyro. “Stop him, whoever you are!”
Falcon let Fenton go and shrugged at Gyro. “Mark doesn’t pay me enough for that.”
Fenton emerged from behind the bench and pointed at the behemoth Beaks. “HEY, YOU!”
Mark dropped the balls in his arms and turned to Fenton, his beak curling into a devious grin. “Well, hey there, Gizmoloser!” he mocked, his timbre unaffected by his body’s growth. “Long time no beat!”
I’ll take “Gizmoloser” any day over “amigo,” Fenton thought before declaring, “You’d better stop this temper tantrum of yours, or you’ll be sorry!”
“Pffft! Big words against a big manly man like Megabeaks!” He snatched up the heaviest ball and threw it like a baseball at the pins. It was the perfect intimidating move. The pins collapsed in a great crash, and suddenly, Megabeaks’ puny brain had a brain blast. “You know what? I’m pretty good at this now.”
He looked back at Fenton, whose eyes were wide at the display of utter and absolute skill. “You wanna take this on? Let’s do it! First to a turkey gets to brag about this on social media, and I won’t take it down.”
“Alright then,” said Fenton, not sure what exactly he was getting into.
“Falcon!” Megabeaks called out. “Where’d you go?!”
Falcon popped up, holding Fethry and Gyro in each hand by their scruffs.
Fethry looked to Falcon and then to Megabeaks. “Do either of you perchance read Mass in Minutes by Arnold Schwarzenebird?”
“Know what?” said Megabeaks, “I’ll even let your nerd friends be on your team. I can beat anyone like this, no British bodyguards needed!”
Falcon dropped them, visibly offended. “Right. I’ll be over here then,” he said tersely as he walked toward the front counter.
“You know he’s gonna call the police, right?” asked Gyro.
Fenton was embarrassed for him as he gathered his friends in a huddle. “I was scared the first time, but he's truly pathetic.”
“Is Falcon really gonna call the police?” Fethry asked.
“I promised him a 20% raise. We could use a bodyguard,” said Gyro. “McDuck authorized me to.”
Fenton shrugged. “Money talks.”
Gyro nodded. “So we just have to stall long enough for the police to nab him.”
“But we can beat him!” said Fethry.
“Absolutely not!” Gyro snapped. “Do not get a big head because you bowled a strike on your first throw!”
“But I know a special throw from my book! The triple tandem strike! Lookit…”
Megabeaks tapped his fingers against his arm as the science nerds seemed to be taking forever in their little huddle. “Are you telling your dumb life stories to each other? FACE ME!”
“Break!” said Fethry, and the trio lined up, ready for battle.
Megabeaks grabbed a ball and grinned devilishly. “You go first.”
“Okay, everyone,” said Fethry, “just like we planned. Ready?”
“This defies all logic but I’m ready,” Gyro said, placing his green ball on the foul line.
Fenton set his down next to Gyro’s. “Let’s go, Fethry!” The two stepped to the side, placing their trust in their most eccentric colleague.
Fethry steeled his gaze at the two balls and raised his own. “Limber…loose…feet apart.”
“GET ON WITH IT!” Megabeaks bellowed.
Fethry wasn’t fazed. “10:00…2:00, quarter to three, tour jeté, twist, pas de deux, I'm a little teapot!”
Megabeaks was stunned at the display of pure buffoonery that was Fethry waving his ball around in some freak dance, but now it was at the apex.
“Now the windup…and let 'er fly!” The ball left Fethry’s hand and whizzed toward the balls. It connected perfectly, sending each one to the lanes on either side. They hit their marks, felling each set of pins like they were made of marshmallows, while Fethry’s ball arched over the middle lane, reaching earth again in a sea of tumbling pins. Not one withstood the onslaught.
Fenton and Gyro cheered and high-fived. Fethry wiped his hand on his blazer and crossed his arms. “Perfect.”
Megabeaks stood like a gobsmacked statue before picking his jaw up off the floor. “PRACTICER!” he fumed, “You rehearsed that knowing I’d be here!”
“Mark Beaks,” said Gyro, shaking his head. "I knew you were stupid, but even you’ve impressed me.”
“It’s the triple tandem strike,” said Fethry, “invented by 15-time champion bowler George Geef, and it’s regulation- Oops!”
Fethry was hastily hoisted into the air by his front and came face-to-face with a steaming Megabeaks.
“I’LL REGULATION YOUR FACE, YOU LOW-DOWN, LUCKY, CRINGE, BOOMER, NO-RIZZ-“
POP!
Fethry yelped as Mark’s arm began to curdle like bad oatmeal, then a chorus of popcorn-like bangs chorused around them and Fethry saw the ground getting closer. As the popping died down and the smoke cleared, Fethry felt his feet touch the floor and beheld a normal, scrawny, weakling Mark Beaks, wearing tatters for clothes. Fethry took that moment to wipe excess spittle from his bill.
Mark looked like he might cry. “I-it lasted longer last time.”
Sirens grew in volume and suddenly, the doors burst open. “POLICE! Come out with your hands up!”
Thus Mark Beaks was carted off to jail for the second time that year. When Scrooge arrived a few moments later, he assured the team that he would wring every last dollar out of the Waddle CEO possible, and use it to remodel the bowling alley into something Duckburg could be proud of.
+++
Back at the lab, the three scientists were gathered around the coffee station, sipping their mugs in contentment. Gyro broke the silence with, “I must say, if that’s what bowling can be, I may actually take it up.”
“And I can be your teacher!” said Fethry. “The book I read will have you a pro in no time!”
“Whatever you say,” said Gyro.
“Good job, Fethry,” said Fenton.
The three raised their glasses to a fun outing and to the beauty of hitting billionaires where it hurt: damages and legal fees.
