In the middle of a damn dark night, in this forgotten shopping mall where the light refuses to go to sleep, the dance on Devil's Island ends. A golf game, a simulator, some virtual bullshit that pretends to be our lives.

A group of desperate people, looking like they're in some kind of masquerade ball—their faces plastered with pizza—finish off another tournament, lazily drinking the last of the rum tucked into the belt of their golf bags. They leave with their enormous bags, heavy as sin, but maybe that's just an illusion.

And this is where this fucking story begins, told to the rhythm of neon lights. The security guards, who look like they've come from another world—"What the fuck are you carrying there? Something from a jeweler?!... something that shines like a star in this shitty winter sky?"—laugh.

Michał, the handsome one, the one with the foul mouth, full of tournament tales, throws it through his severe beard. "This is our loot, you bastards. But not what you think. This is the brilliance of our fucking game, the splendor of the virtual field, our talent, and the legacy that girls dream of. Our balls are the diamonds we won in this game, which shines brighter than your boring, drug-fueled lives."

The security guards, with faces straight out of a Surrealist painting, crawling zombies, hear the words, many of which are entering their filthy ears for the first time. Surprise dances in their eyes. Michał continues, as if weaving a tale from another world, "Our bats, our balls, they're more than just equipment. They're symbols of our fucking victory, our passion, our momentary escape from the gray, drugged-out reality, and this despite the fact that no one has done a double today. No one! Do you understand?! Not even me..."

They will return. Now they walk the sleeping streets, their footsteps echoing that strange, extraordinary night when golf became more than just a game. It became a story they will repeat every last Thursday of the month, when the lights of the diamond balls begin to dance in their eyes again.

"Excuse me," a voice can be heard behind them, when no one is listening anymore. They step out into the snowy darkness of a frosty night, where only broken neon signs pulsate a little life into the city's aorta. They have one final test ahead of them. The key to the cottage…

This article was written by ChatGPT4. Inspired by true events. Edited December 2023.