by Brian Bakos
13. Caribbean Paradise
Bert exits the gin-clear ocean water, scaling the ladder back into the boat. His diving instructor assists him aboard.
“Good work down there, Bert!” the instructor says. “You’re a certified scuba diver now.”
Bert unzips his fashionable, cut-off wetsuit and feels the warm tropical sun on his chest.
“Thanks,” he says. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Ah, you’re a natural,” the dive instructor says. “Drinks at the hotel bar tonight, eight o’clock? I’ll bring the paperwork.”
“Sure thing,” Bert says, “see you then.”
“Good show!”
The dive instructor grips Bert’s hand. They share a moment of macho camaraderie. Then the dive boat starts roaring back toward the coast from the outer reef. Cool breeze caresses Bert’s ecstatic face.
“I finally did it,” he murmurs.
The scuba diving went extraordinarily well. Bert passed every open water test with flying colors – if colors could fly under water. He handled himself with absolute confidence among the corals and the multihued reef fishes. Along the way, he observed a couple of sharks, some stingrays, and even a long, green moray eel slithering under the dive boat. It was so much better than on television!
At last, he is a certified scuba diver, attaining a dream he’d had since he was a young boy. Scratch one more item off the bucket list. Hang gliding would be fun to try next – soaring over the world in absolute freedom, looking down at all the poor slobs toiling below. But maybe he should drop a few more pounds first. He pats his still ample belly and grins with pleasure.
He is strolling across the beach toward his hotel when a familiar, delightful voice beckons to him.
“Over here, Bertie!”
He does an abrupt right face and approaches the gorgeous blond spread out on a recliner in an almost nonexistent two-piece suit. Her radiant smile draws him like a moth to the flame. He sits down beside her.
“How’d it go today?” the girl asks.
“Wonderful!” Bert says. “I’ve earned my diving certification. The instructor is bringing me the paperwork later.”
“When?” the girl asks.
“Around eight.”
The girl affects an adorable little pout.
“Oh, Bertie, I thought we’d be doing something else at that time.”
Bert pats her thigh.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, “we’ll just have to get started a bit earlier.”
She giggles wickedly.
“Oh, Bertie, you’re so cute!”
She tickles his jelly belly, prompting a delighted squirm from Bert.
“You’ll see,” he says, “this is all going away. I’m going to have washboard abs before long.”
The girl feigns another childish pout.
“There’d be less of you to love then,” she says.
The local hottie on his other side starts giggling now. Bert turns toward her. She is absolutely stunning with her creamy dark complexion and long, braided hair. Her smile reveals perfect teeth. She is quite a contrast to the Nordic beauty on his other flank. Well, when it comes to the bedroom gymnastics, Bert is equal opportunity all the way!
He stretches out in his recliner as the ocean laps on the golden sands before him. Beautiful women caper about in scanty bathing suits kicking a beach ball. Behind him, a luxury hotel gleams in the sun. He has a tall drink in his hand now – like the one Mrs. Armstrong gave him once.
The blond takes the glass from him.
“Let me warm this up for you, Bertie,” she says.
She takes a long sip, sucking the liquid up through the straw in a fellatio simulation almost unbearable to watch. Then she moves toward him for an erotic kiss, squirting the liquid into his mouth.
“Ohhh, yeah,” Bert moans. “Gimme some more!”
“Why don’t you give me some more, honey.” the blond says.
On Bert’s other side, the local girl is laughing seductively and stroking his inner thigh.
“Is our little friend ready to come out and play?” she asks.
“Damn right,” Bert says.
He grins lecherously and wraps an arm over each girl’s shoulders.
“Come to papa!”
Suddenly, the roar of a chainsaw interrupts the hedonistic idyll. A torrent of blood splashes over them. Bert gags, the girls recoil with horror.
“Euu, my hair!” the blond cries.
The girls jump from their recliners and flee.
“What the hell!” Bert shouts.
Sprawled right in front of him lies the mangled corpse of Frank Armstrong. The head is hacked off, and blood spurts from the neck like a geyser. A rumbling chainsaw lies in the sand near the carnage.
“Ohhh,” Bert moans.
Panic seizes him; he has to get away. But he can’t. He tumbles out of his chair and wallows around in the blood like a beached whale – screaming ... screaming.
$$$
Bert crashed back from his fantasy to find himself in the Armstrong flower garden again, gripping the hoe handle tight enough to break it. His other hand trembled violently, rattling the cocktail ice cubes. He shook his head hard to drive out the terrifying finale.
“Holy crap!”
He downed the cocktail with one gulp.