If he had not bought a bag of chips from Stanley’s Fish Bar, things would have turned out very differently that evening. But he was hungry and they did the best triple fried chips this side of Brighton. To be fair, it was his choice to walk across the promenade and onto the beach to find a spot under the pier to eat them. He could have easily sat on a nice dry bench with a sea view. Then he wouldn’t have found him. Dead, bloated and tangled in what looked like a pink seaweed tutu.
If he asked her one more time to dress up in the ridiculous poncey outfit he’d bought her, from god knows where, she swore she would kill him. All those stupid bows and beads flouncing about, she was a jeans and jumper girl through and through. Always had been. Anyway, it was totally inappropriate for a beach barbecue but… as usual she ended up wearing it just to keep the peace.
The blow to his head had come out of no where. One minute he was drinking from a bottle of beer, the next he was falling onto wet sand. When he came to it was almost dark and even without any light, he knew he was wearing a dress. With each wave that washed over him he felt it billowing around him, and even though his head hurt real bad, the floaty feeling was rather nice. Then he remembered someone once told him the last sense to go before dying was your hearing. They must have got it wrong. All he could smell was Stanley’s fish & chips.
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