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The Beach Guy
He's walking along the garbage-littered shore. It's about ten in the morning, but he's pretty much alone on the beach. He's wearing vertically-striped shorts in blue and white and a T-shirt with an advertisement for beer that's so faded you can't read it. The T-shirt bulges out where his beer-belly sits atop the waistband of the shorts. He's got grey hair. He's in his late fifties. Suddenly, he clutches his chest and falls to his knees - cardiac arrest! He slumps [1] forward and his fingers claw furrows in the strip of wet sand just where the little waves[2] are coming in. He isn't breathing too well. At least a dozen Ocean Rescue Boats are on the scene in a matter of seconds. They swarm around the point in the water nearest to the guy having the heart attack, but they're strictly Ocean Rescue - they can't do anything about emergencies on land. Some of the more enthusiastic rescue workers get up on the front bits of their boats and shout to the guy, words of encouragement, come on! just crawl into the water and we can help you! Adrenalin shots, shock pads, hell, we got three human hearts in the icebox just waiting to be transplanted! come on! One rescue worker gets out of his boat and starts wading toward the shore, but he sees the looks the others are giving him and so he stops, the waves lapping at his knees. The guy on the beach dies. The rescue workers sigh and move back into their regular patrol patterns. About four hours later an ambulance drives past on the road near the beach, but it doesn't stop. [1] this is my favourite word of the morning. [2] or, in chinese, 'siaoubo' |
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