Ok you fucker, you asked for it.

Due to public pressure there now follows a short story.

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Title undecided.
A short story by Ross Douglas.

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The sound of the surf awoke him, as it always did, by lapping at the shore just outside the beach hut. He called it a beach hut even though it was nothing more than an old run down shack that had once been home to twenty chickens and a large family of wharf rats.

Some of the wharf rats occasionally popped back to visit him, keeping him awake and alert as he sat armed with a baseball bat and a bottle of rum. It was a fine bat he always thought, and a finer rum. The chickens however, had been removed by the local authority as the hut wasn't fit for them to live in.

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The local authority had always been something of an enigma to him...

They took the chickens out of the hut and had them put into better conditions but they refused to do the same thing for him. It seemed to him that his complaints fell on deaf ears. Even though he knew it was damn near impossible not to hear his complaints. After all he'd stood outside the local authority offices and shouted his complaints through a bullhorn for a week and a half before the authority had an injunction brought out against him. He was told that if he stepped within 150 yards of the local authority offices he would be arrested and thrown into jail.

"Even the fucking criminals in this god-damned rat infested shithole are living in better conditions than I am!" He screamed as the local sheriff dragged him away from the courthouse.

The local sheriff had known him since they were kids and they still went out to the beach and had a few beers while they fished for aholehole. "Jesus, Stockton, when are you gonna get your shit together and get a job?" The Sheriff asked, as he dragged the kicking and screaming Stockton over to the squad car and manhandled him into the backseat.

"Just you wait man, one of these days I'll burn that fucking courthouse to the ground and piss on the smoldering ashes of its ruins." Stockton said, as he rubbed his forehead where it had clattered against the roof of the squad-car as the Sheriff threw him into it.

"If you keep making threats like that in public they're gonna have you certified insane and locked in the nuthouse." The Sheriff said, as he started the car and began the drive back to the beach hut. "At least then I'll be nice and comfortable on the padded floor. Do you think I could get them to pipe in some good music and lay some of those good strong drugs on me?" Stockton said, as he began laughing.

They drove along the beach road towards where Stockton called home and he asked when they were going to be able to throw some lines, catch some fish and drink beer and rum until they fall over. "Time has moved on Stockton, we aren't kids anymore, I've got responsibilities." The Sheriff said, as he turned off the tarmac and onto the dusty road that led to where Stockton lived. "Fuck responsibilities Jim, life is too short to worry about shit like that. There's a whole god-damned ocean full of fish out there man, we owe it to ourselves to catch the buggers." Stockton said.

They pulled up outside the beach hut and Jim got out to open the door of the squad car so that Stockton could get out. Stockton rubbed his forehead as he walked towards the hut. "If you keep throwing me into the back of that squad car like that I'm going to be brain damaged." He said. "Stock, you're already brain damaged." The Sheriff quipped.

Stockton walked into the beach hut, opened his cooler and fished out a couple of Coors. He threw one to Jim and popped the can open, taking a long drink out of it. He belched loudly as Jim stared at the can in his hand. "Stockton you know I'm not supposed to be drinking on duty."

"Duty? What duty?" Stockton asked.
"My duty to the people of this island." Jim replied.
"Let me ask you something man, am I a citizen of this island?" Stockton asked.
"What kind of question is that to ask man, you know you're a citizen of this island. Even if the local council would prefer you weren't."
"Then your duty is to me. Now drink your beer and shut up...

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Today there was no way he was going to go to the courthouse. He had things to do. There had been a big storm out in the middle of the ocean and the waves were coming into shore in sets of four and were six to ten feet high. And rising. He threw his legs out the side of the foldaway cot that he laughingly termed as a bed and stood up. His head was thumping and as he moved from the cot to the door he stubbed his toe on the reason for his headache.

Stockton picked up the empty rum bottle and threw it across the room. It thumped against the wooden wall opposite him and dropped to the sand floor. "Shame" He thought. He loved the sound of something smashing. It had been that way since he was a kid. The sound of something smashing or breaking seemed to be music to his ears... His favorite melody for mortality... His chorus to cessation... His rhapsody to ruination.

He stumbled across to the cooler and opened it. It was empty. This was Ok though, he always kept a stash of beer buried in the sand just outside for emergencies such as this one. He stepped outside into the warm sun and walked to the corner of the hut. He stood facing the large palm tree that grew just above the shoreline and counted off fifteen large steps in it's direction. Then he turned towards the water and counted off ten more steps. Then he dropped to his knees and began scraping sand away with his hands.

As he was digging franticly in his search for the beer-stash he didn't notice the blonde girl who was walking along the beach towards him. He was taken completely by surprise when she spoke to him. "Aren't you a bit old to be making sand castles?"

"Holy fuck!" He yelled, in surprise. "What the hellfire are you doing sneaking up on someone like that? Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" He continued. She was standing with the sun behind her and he had to shield his eyes. She laughed at his outburst and stepped to the side so that her shadow fell across his face.

His breath caught in his chest as he saw her. She was tall and slender and her hair swooped gracefully in the morning breeze. Her eyes were a deep blue and she had a smile that could melt an iceberg at over half a mile. Instantly he was in love. He knew at that moment he wanted to marry her and spend the rest of his life making love with her.

"I... I... I" He stuttered. He regained the power of speech the moment she smiled at him. "I'm sorry I yelled, I didn't see you. You gave me a shock." He said rapidly as he stood up. As he stood his foot slipped into the hole he had dug in the sand and he lost his balance and tumbled into a heap. "Oh shit!" He said, as he fell and she began laughing again.

She offered him her hand and helped him to stand up. As her hand touched his he felt his heartbeat quicken. "So, do you often dig holes in the sand for no apparent reason?" She asked.

"I've lost something." Stockton replied, as he tried to figure out how to keep this beauty from ever leaving him. "Did you drop it here?" She enquired.
"Actually, I buried it here. Or at least I think I did." He said.
"Is it a big chest of treasure?" She asked, in a sarcastic tone of voice.
He realised he must be a sight to behold. After all he did look like he had fell out a palm tree. "It's a treasure beyond cost at this present time." He said, not forgetting his head was banging like the bass drum during a drum and bass concert.

"Perhaps I miscounted." He said. He walked back to the corner of the hut and counted out ten paces towards the palm tree and fifteen towards the shore. She watched with a fascinated curiosity as he dropped to his knees and began scraping away sand. His hand hit the top of a can and he dug the six pack out of the sand.

He pulled a can off of the ring of plastic that held the pack together and offered it to the blonde. "Beer?" He asked.
"It's covered in sand." She said.
"I can cure that." He said. He quickly walked into the hut and dipped it into the water that had gathered in the cooler from the melted ice.

"They're quite cold. The sand keeps them chilled." He said as he opened the can and handed it to her.
"Isn't it a bit early to be drinking beer?" She said as she watched him drain the can he had opened for himself.
"What time is it?" Stockton enquired.
"It's eight thirty in the morning." She said.
He opened another can and took a drink. "It's midnight somewhere." He said. "Cheers."

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