
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Forged in a black-market cyberdoc's back alley chop shop when some ex-Digital Shadow script-kiddie yeeted stolen Steel Eagle neurotech into their own cortex. "Gonna look so sick with my trenchcoat drip," they slurred through anesthetic haze while monomolecular blades unfolded. Honestly? Giving John Wick vibes if he traded puppies for disc dye. Why are we weaponizing bag tags again? Will this edge lord survive league registration?
Michael Cook emerged from the acid rain, PDGA#221903 glitching on neon billboards like a divine mandate. The Night Reaper tag pulsed in its cryo-case, whispering of putts that could "reap souls." Our hero tripped over a rogue Berg (classic dystopian hazard), face-planting directly onto the tag scanner. Fate? Or just embarrassing gravity? His "chain reaction" started with literal chains—course fencing he tangled with mid-lunge. Now bearing tag #82 like a cybernetic curse, one question haunts these rain-slicked fairways: Can this man out-putt his own clumsiness?