The little skinhead came trudging up the beach in his steel-toed boots, smoking his last cigarette all the way down to the end. He had just made it to the boardwalk when a huge explosion knocked him of his feet. He woke up hours later, lying on the weather-beaten boards, a piece of shrapnel sticking out of the back of his head. He rolled over painfully and looked back toward the beach where a huge crater still smoked. He pulled some splinters out of his face and hands but when he took the metal shrapnel out of the back of his head it started gushing.

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The girls had their hair tied so it stuck straight up and ate turtle soup out of turtle shells at the bar. They wore short skirts and their long legs were criss-crossed with tight black ribbons. Dwarves walked back and forth behind the bar on a raised platform using giant ladles to keep the turtle shells filled. There were little people swimming in the soup- little men in white shirts and ties- but the girls slurped away, occasionally crunching up the little men just like they crunched up the stewed cabbage and broccoli. A small mouse walked down the bar on his hind legs, a certain authoritative air to his stride. “Would you like to hear the specials of the day?” he squeaked. The girls tittered.

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Five fighter planes shot through the sky, creating a terrific racket. Sgt. MacWell piloted the first one, headphones blasting 80’s hair metal into his ears, way too loud. His dog Barney was strapped down next to him, helmet on, head bobbing around, trying unsuccessfully to smell food or other dogs. On his left side his infant son Zeus was seat-belted in to a baby seat, sucking on a camouflage pacifier. He sat back to back with his wife Marcie- she sat in the opposing seat and manned the guns. Whenever she saw anything she didn’t understand she would shoot at it and that’s why he brought her along.

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