Tom woke up at noon with a sock on his hand, a message from his fiancée saying "I love you, you idiot," and a vague memory of promising to buy a timeshare. He staggered to the balcony. The strip was quiet, being hosed down by a tired-looking Spanish man. The neon was dead. The sun was merciless.
Evening fell, and Punta Ballena transformed. Neon bled into the twilight. The air smelled of sun cream, fried chicken, and possibility. This was the main event: 18 holes of pub golf. Each bar was a "hole," with a specific drink as the "par." A shot of tequila was a par 3. A pint of lager was a par 5. A suspicious-looking pink cocktail with a plastic monkey in it was a par 4, but only if you kept the monkey. magaluf stag activities
Tom looked at the photo on his phone: the inflatable T-Rex, the plastic monkeys, the velvet sofa drool. He laughed, winced from the headache, and then laughed again. Tom woke up at noon with a sock
Tom groaned, but he was smiling.
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