Cody, Brody, Jodie, and Rajeesh Patel-Modi were trying to have surfing lesson when BLAM! Shotgun blast. They fell off their boards, into the hot Hawaii sand.
Their instructor, Armadillo, did not. He cooly turned to see Sheriff Six-Shooter standing on the boardwalk, shotgun on his shoulder, smoke oozing from the barrel. Arma just glared.
“What the hell, dude,” said Brody. Brody had grown up in Wichita Kansas, and was a pothead from the age of thirteen. On his 29th birthday a friend had gifted him some sweet thai stick and a used copy of Point Break. Hearing him talk about that night, you’d think he was a little girl who’d been called to the nunnery at age 8 and never looked back. He gave up pot, got his Associates, got a job, and saved very penny for this trip to Maui.
“Issomeoneshootingatus?” said Jodie, who always talked like that. Jodie had a rare skin condition, such that direct sunlight turned her blood to caffeine. Not literally, but nearly. Jodie had grown up in Mesa, Arizona, an only child on account of more or less ruining her parents for more children, since she was a constant, frazzled mess. Constantly jittery, and if Antonio Dimasio is right, constantly nervous due to her brain thinking her body must know something. She’d moved to Seattle on a whim, and had been utterly calm, at peace, serene even, for the first time in her life. She’d opened a yoga studio for the homeless, and had personally rehabilitated over a dozen army vets who had previously suffered from very bad PTSD. But then she’d fallen in love with Cody, and he’d drug her ass here.
“Farm out!” said Cody, Brody’s brother. From another mother, even though they’d been raised together. Cody was the exact opposite of Brody: straight shooter, all-As, never touched drugs, Kappa Cum Laude or whatever, MBA, New York City, corporate job, wife, two little blonde girls. On more or less the day that Brody had seen Point Break for the first time, Cody had gotten fired, found out his wife had cheated on him and that the girls were not his, was arrested for drug possession, had his car stolen, and somehow pissed off a Mob Boss. On bail, the boss sent someone after him, which resulted in a very bad beating, so with what little shred of self-worth he’d had, Cody agreed to trade state’s evidence against the boss in exchange for the drug charges being dropped– oh, and it was all a set-up anyway, he’d never had drugs on him at all, he was just the victim of a bad cop looking to make collar to distract IA from some shady relationships he’d been developing in The Village. Cody had been put into Witness Protection, Seattle, specifically, where his business acumen an experience had set him up as one of the most liked and least profitable pot dealers in the state. Then he’d met Jodie, who he could not stand, but when he mentioned his half-brother was going to Maui on a vision quest or something she’d offered to pay for them to go to.
“Oh shit not again,” said Rajeesh Patel-Modi, the child of the first Indian couple to ever decide to hyphenated their offspring’s name. He was just here to learn a thing or two so he could hopefully someday impress a babe. Rajeesh was very much into babes. He had spreadsheets.
“Help you, Six?” Arma shouted. He was the very epitome of the platonic ideal of the stereotypical surfing instructor. He’s entire body was a deep golden brown, his hair was long and blonde and stringy, his face was a map of sun wrinkles, the board-shorts hang from his hips hid muscular thighs above strong calves, which themselves were dwarfed by his enormous chest, wide shoulders, and Popeye arms.
“Barbarossa’s back. Seen ‘im?” said Sheriff Six-Shooter. That was his real name. He wasn’t Native American, but through a complicated strings of marriages, divorces, adoptions, and a rat’s nest of half-finished paper-work, Sheriff Six-Shooter had grown up knowing that someday he’d wear a cowboy hat with a star on it, a handle-bar mustache, a leather vest with another star pinned to it, chaps, chinos, and boots. He hated revolvers, however, so he carried Remington Arms “Winchester” 1887. It should be noted that at the time of this story, Maui had no Sherriff, but folks put up with Six-Shooter, as all ever shot were blanks, straight up into the air, when no one was looking.
Arma just shrugged, which, owing to the size of his shoulders, was not an insubstantial movement. Sheriff Six-Shooter glared at him through the haze of the hot Hawaii sun, then turned and sauntered off.
Arma turned back to his class of surf-wannabes, and shrugged again. Then he looked at Rajeesh. “Now, what did you say?”