skinheads and feminazis, c

Junk liked to think he was cool in his swimming trunks and his flip flops. The beach stretched out before him, a cartoon of hot dog peddlers, sand castles, and cheerful parasols. He'd gotten himself all dolled up for the babes. His hair was spiked up to defy gravity, and he'd sized his lobes up to new gauges the diameter of a dime. His skin was as pale as a plucked chicken, his chest still thin and boyish. His eyes were wide and eager as he panned the gulls, the people, and the mesmerizing waves. The city behind him could be nuked for all he cared - the beach was the place to be!

With a big black towel slung over his shoulder, he set off to find his buddies. It would be some trouble, though, with all the people. As he got closer and closer to the water, the sunbathers pressed tighter and tighter, and he had to tiptoe on the fine line of sand between beach towels. When an old lady to his left suddenly opened her huge sun umbrella, Junk was taken by surprise. He lost his balance, arms pinwheeling, he fell. Sunglasses and a lotion bottles sprang up like a splash of water. He'd landed on the bodacious rear end of girl, so it didn't hurt much. When he caught her face, he did not regret his accident.

"Sup babe," he said, hardly willing to move from this reclining position.

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