Batten: 26.3645° S, 152.9677° E.
The Mayor, Jimbo Paddock, had annexed the surf beach and area surrounding his wellness cafe at sunset.
He was a boiled-pink, barrel-chested, lats-flared, fluoro dick-stickered, self-funded retiree Spartan with an iron-streaked braid.
Murdered the fuck out of a bunch of families and resort staff, right up in our faces, as the light dimmed.
Jimbo was into exotic food and carried a spear he’d made from his decommissioned Cool Cabana. He’d slung the shade sail’s bloodied polyester sleeve over his shoulder, filling it with gory trophies of his innumerable kills.
A real mean Boomer survivalist motherfucker.
An apexagenarian predator.
The resort sauna’s toilet had been full of blood.
That’s when we’d decided to make a break for it, obviously.
It was our first actual family holiday in, well, ever. We’d burnt all our financial bridges for this solitary 72 hours of scheduled familial bliss: me, him, bub.
Saved like fuckers for a weekend on the white sand.
Aspired.
Gone hard.
Sweated, scrimped, saved.
Sacrificed.
Argued.
Saved again.
Remortgaged.
Gotten a loan.
Argued.
Gotten a loan from the parents.
We needed the break.
It really was that dire.
Of course we were at each other’s throats.
So it was sort of a relief when the end of the world kicked in…
Read the full story in Yarns From the Fuck-You-Ni-Verse.