Deep in the mysterious, mosquito-infested wetlands of Peachtree City, where pineapples and regrets grow likes grapes on a grapevine (what other kind of vine would it be?), a secret agent slithered through the muck with purpose. His name? Flat Creek Floyd. Species? Alligator. Job title? Elite operative of SWAMP, the Special Wildlife Agency for Maximum Protection, trademark 2025.
Floyd wasn’t your average sunbathing reptile. No, this gator overflowed with gator swagger (call it gagger), nerves of steel, and a fedora with Sunkist colored aviators.
His mission? Infiltrate the heavily guarded golf course hideout of the infamous squid-faced villain known as The Birdie Bandit. TBB, as called in the crazy skreets of PTC, a criminal mastermind whose evil plan involved stealing rare golf balls and flipping them on the shady underground golf memorabilia market (yes, that exists, apparently). Golfers were devastated. Some hadn’t sunk a putt in weeks. Others had begun sunking their depression in whiskey. And others knew how to probably use the word “sunking” in a sentence. Even others knew that sunking wasn’t a word. It was chaos that was sunking into the very fiber of the once prestigious PTC.
Floyd glided through the swamp like a sexy torpedo, stopping only to adjust his shades and snack on an unlucky frog who swam over from Newnan. As he reached the green, he camouflaged against the terrain thanks to his Gator Suit Model 6900.
“Agent Floyd Money Anyweather reporting in,” he whispered into his hidden waterproof earpiece—jammed somewhere between his third and fourth neck scale.
Above, in a tree disguised to look like a kite graveyard, the head agent—a grumpy old owl named Agent Tootsie Licker—chirped back, “Copy that. Birdie Bandit’s on the move. Time to go full later gator.”
Just then, the Bandit strutted onto the course, dragging a golf bag that looked suspiciously like it had been looted from a PGA pro shop, with an Orbeez pistol latched to his hip. Floyd didn’t hesitate or wait for orders. With the grace of a wet fridge, he launched out of the bushes, snapped the bag with his jaws, and backflipped into the pond like a penguin performing in the Antarctica 2016 Summer Olympics!
“MY LIMITED-EDITION DIMPLE-TECH BALLS!” TBB howled, whipping his pistol out and pelting Floyd with a barrage of slightly annoying Orbeez.
The bullets made no difference, as Orbeez are harmless and anyone that complains about them is a weak, measle mouse that has never experienced their big brother putting sticks in an air rifle and shooting the sticks at you while you’re TRYING TO PLAY ON BIKES WITH YOUR FRIENDS IN SENOIA!
… I’d assume. It never happened to me. 😦
A quick swipe from Floyd’s tail sent TBB soaring into the clouds, and an even quicker swipe of Floyd’s finger got him a date with hot Gatorgirl on Tinder.
Agent Tootsie Licker gave Floyd a proud hoot. “Nice work, Floyd. Once again, you’ve saved the swamp…and 18 holes of democracy.”
Floyd tipped his fedora, beaming with confidence and a little bit of nervous energy (what fedora would he wear for his Tinder date, after all, girls love fedoras)?
“But…” Agent Tootsie Licker added.
“You’ve seen too much, Floyd.”
Floyd’s eyes widened (I think alligators can do that?) and his scales shivered as his mentor, his boss, his friend, Agent Tootsie Licker pulled an air rifle from under his left wing. And in the barrel was a very pointy stick.
Not much unlike the stick my big brother shot me with when I was TRYING TO BIKE AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD WITH MY FRIENDS!
*Fwick*
The stick stuck in Floyd’s cranium with the force of a stick being shot from an air rifle. He began sunking into the darkness, his hearty sway and gator grin no more.
His body lay motionless overnight.
His memory becoming legend.
But.
Just then.
A flicker of hope.
As his phone began to vibrate and Tinder notifications flashed across his phone.
“I can’t wait for tonight.”
“I hope your larynx is ready to vibrate.” (Look it up)
“I’m so hungry for Newnan frogs.”
Floyd’s tail began to wag.
Newnan Time with Harold 