One Final Cocktail

One Final Cocktail --

Without a shirt, Roger’s belly sagged almost to the hems of his shorts. Trudging through the sand, he swiped sweat off his forehead. This was the life: rustling palms, pounding surf, grass-skirted girls shaking their lei-covered breasts.

Here, Roger was free of real-life and real-wife. With what he’d embezzled he intended to spend the rest of his days basking under the sun. Evenings he’d sit on the beach and listen to the soothing strum of ukuleles. Best of all, Roger envisioned himself with girls half his age.

Gasping for breath, Roger veered away from the ocean to a tiki bar. His enormous ass spilled off a thatch-shaded stool. His drink came in a pineapple-shaped glass. The barmaid, a beautiful bronzed woman smelling of coconuts, also brought Roger a damp rag to wipe himself off.

Roger removed the tiny parasol from his glass and spun it between his fingers. Life was good. Last night he sat in a wedge of moonlight and feasted on roast suckling. He’d eaten so much two buttons snapped off his palm-patterned shirt.

Something seized Roger. His mouth opened. He fell off his stool onto the sand. Minutes later Roger was dead -- happy as a pig.