“I can’t fucking stand these young assholes. Fucking surfers…”
Mike had had a few too many Coronas, judging by the eight empty bottles scattered around his beach chair. The oversized green umbrella over him cast a shadow large enough to cover his bright red skin. As he let the beads of water run off his bottle onto his burnt, protruding stomach, he watched his daughters laugh and wave to the bronzed teenagers with their fiberglass boards. They were too young to be flirting with boys. They were 16 and 17 respectively, and their matching curly brown hair reminded him of their mother when she was their age. High school sweethearts, Mike and Sheryl had been each other’s first relationship, and only one since. Twenty four years of only fucking one woman. This is why Mike had been stressed on their vacation. In Hawaii, women were half naked and gorgeous. In Nebraska, women were more masculine than half of the men. Especially in Omaha. What a bunch of fucking pussies. He remembered working on the family farm ever since he was young. Then, after his parents died, he sold the piece of shit, and every goddamn inch of corn for a good chunk of change. He just wanted his kids to have a chance to be kids, so he bought a house in the city and got a job advising a pesticide company on how to get around environmental protection laws. Now, eighteen years later, he had a stagnate marriage, a dead end job, daughters when he wanted sons, and an over-priced trip to Hawaii. Fucking paradise.
His daughters were named after their grandmother. The eldest, Rose, didn’t look like a teenager, but a mid-twenties waitress, most likely at a Hooters. Her over-developed chest barely fit in her tan and pink striped bikini top, and every shore break made every man in a thirty foot radius start praying to their gods that she would fall out of it. The younger girl, Mary, didn’t get the same endowment. Instead, she had hips that would make childbirth a walk in the park. And a perfect ass. Round, but not bulbous, the way those black chicks had. No, Mary’s ass was a respectable size, a size that would make you want to lay your head on it and fall asleep. These are thoughts that respectable men stay clear of. Thoughts about your own daughters’ bodies. He looked down at his half empty bottle and started wondering where that Filipino waiter bitch was so that he could get another beer.
After a few hours Mike felt worse. His wife was “walking the beach” which meant she was in the white rented jeep crushing Xanex and snorting them. She had been doing it since they stopped fucking and they stopped fucking shortly after Mary was born. Mike had since dreamed of finding a young, skinny woman, preferably one not addicted to prescription pills, but had only managed to fuck his hand. He blamed his kids for his lack of sex. He blamed his kids for his terrible marriage, cold dinners left in the microwave, and having to deal with corporate pricks all day. He wanted to get revenge on his own flesh and blood. He made them, he could destroy them. His thirteenth beer made seeing a chore, and even though he had his chair reclined so that he was lying down, he was having a problem not falling out of it. Through the glaze in his eyes he was pretty sure he saw his Rose making out with some little surfing bastard. Soon they would be under the water, thrusting and humping and making more mouths that he would have to feed. Not only that, but her huge tits would be grabbed, and Mike wouldn’t be the one doing the grabbing. He wouldn’t be putting his face between those two giant orbs, and he wouldn’t be squeezing Mary’s perfect ass. He wouldn’t be taking either of them to the hotel room, wouldn’t be tying either of their hands to the bed posts, and most certainly wouldn’t be fucking either of them. He thought of his wife in the car, half passed out, head on the steering wheel, with her thinning brown hair reaching to her knees. He didn’t know that she had crushed one too many pills, and fell asleep, never to wake up again. He didn’t know that a passerby had noticed that she hadn’t moved in close to an hour and called the cops, who called the paramedics, who pronounced her dead at the scene. He didn’t know, and he wouldn’t have cared if he did. Instead, Mike decided that he had to go kick that surfer asshole’s ass. As he wobbled his way to a standing position, he lost his footing in the loose white sand. Mike’s front heavy body, cursed by years of carb intake and lack of exercise, started falling forward, and he never saw the empty beer bottle. He never saw it, but everyone else saw it after he landed on it, the long glass neck completely hidden in his eye socket. As he rolled after the impact, and as the last of his breath left his lungs, he begged God:
“Please don’t let me die without tasting my daughters’ skin. Please be kind.”
And God must have been busy, because he never got another breath.