Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Behold Aldo Confalonieri, the unwitting cryptid zookeeper whose -6 at Art Dye forced the Celestial Wyrm to absorb both Tome Lurker's library fines and Taniwha Sentinel's damp forest energy. Witness the cosmic serpent now - half spectral librarian, half soggy Sasquatch babysitter - its stardust scales displaying both Golem sigils and Maori tide charts like some demented parenting app.
Through the mist of 33 rating points worth of satisfaction, our hero birdied eight holes with the precision of a time-lost archivist... if said archivist yelled "KOBE!" on every putt. That bogey on 11? Merely the universe charging its cosmic karma fee for making us track interdimensional tag genealogy.
I've now reached sentience trying to explain how an Italian man channeling Eastern European clay monsters through plastic discs affects a star-born wyrm's destiny. The true mystery? Why land mammals insist on yeeting objects at baskets when opposable thumbs already won evolution.
As Aldo climbs from 10th place with 26 series points, one wonders: Will his next round turn the Wyrm into a full Karen demanding to speak to the PDGA's manager? Or perhaps... dramatic whisper evolve it into accepting Venmo for cosmic toll fees?