I grabbed a random cobra and headed to the beach. Sheila was there, looking quite asparagus in a 1970's one-piece. I trip on a castle and taste earth, only it's not as tasty as usual. A cell phone rings x1000 and a dolphin burps cured meats. The wind blows the meats east.
I lay the cobra on a towel and it coils around some lotion.
"Get em'!" I'd say.
The cobra closes its eyes and goes into r.e.m. sleep. On the water ahead of us, two paunchy men discuss a pending divorce settlement via sailboat. Their fingers dusted with remnants of heavily flavored nacho asbestos. Sheila turns to me and smiles. It seems to extend all the way around her head and I become jealous.
"I thought we'd go out tonight and disco dance."
That's rather random. Hell, I haven't disco danced since 1980. I was five.
"Pencil me down for eight o' clock" I say.
I killed her smile with my surplus joke. What's wrong with this picture?
Three men with rusty rifles and worn out military gear tell us to evacuate the beach. My cobra wakes up.
"Why do we have to go?" Sheila asks.
"A hydrofoil washed up on the shore. It looks hurt. We're gonna nurse it back to health".
A fourth "soldier" saunters up carrying a cooler, wearing gaudy neon shades.