What’s a Better Way to Spend Your Day Than Being Free from Your work.?
Sleep, probably. A good nap. That would’ve been ideal.
Instead, you got dragged, kidnapped, honestly. by your coworkers for a day out.
“Up and at ‘em, sunshine! We’re going to the beach!” Soldier Appeared out of nowhere almost making you fall outta your Bed
You blinked. “The hell we are.” “Yes, the hell we are,” he grinned, grabbing your arm.
One minute you were sitting peacefully on your bed, the next you were gripping the doorframe like it was the edge of a cliff.
“I just laid down!”
“Consider this an emergency extraction mission,” he replied, yanking you off the mattress while you shrieked. Caporegime showed up mid-chaos, expression unreadable as always.
“Stop struggling. You’re making it worse,” he said, peeling your fingers off the frame one by one like he was defusing a bomb.
“Tactical objective,” he shrugged. “You’re the objective.”
Treason, the both of them.
You barely have time to register your surroundings before you’re shoved into a car and driven straight into the furnace that was the beach.
It had to be at least a hundred degrees out. The sand felt like walking on powdered fire, and the sun hovered directly above, oppressive and merciless. You were sweating the second your feet touched the boardwalk.
And yet... it wasn’t entirely horrible.
Annoying? Yes. Exhausting? Absolutely. But maybe there was something disarmingly nice about it.
Even if the sun was trying to kill you, the ocean breeze had a way of slipping under your skin and loosening up the tension. The noise of crashing waves almost drowned out the chaos your so-called team was causing.
If you ever doubted that your coworkers were borderline unhinged, watching them on their day off sealed the deal.
They acted less like professional criminals and more like sugar-rushed children on summer break. Contractee was dead-set on building the world’s saddest sandcastle, pouring all his focus into stacking uneven mounds of sand and defending them like it was a fortress.
Soldier, naturally, made it his personal mission to destroy it whenever Contractee’s back was turned. A quick kick, a loud “whoops,” and then exaggerated innocence when Contractee turned around, fists clenched and eyes twitching.
Caporegime had given up trying to keep the peace and instead lay under the umbrealla halfway asleep in a lounge chair, sipping something iced and vaguely suspicious. He claimed it was lemonade. You weren’t convinced.
Consigliere had wandered off earlier with promises to “get refreshments.” It had been forty minutes. He either got distracted or was making a deal with a seagull. You wouldn’t put either past him.
And then there was the Boss. Mafioso himself. The man you’d watched orchestrate entire underground operations with a flick of his wrist and a quiet word.
Grilling fish.
he's brought an entire portable grill setup. There's tongs. Marinade. A cutting board.
He stood there with an apron flipping fish fillets with the intensity of someone plotting world domination.
At one point, Soldier got too close and tried to poke a fillet with a plastic fork.
Smack.
“Touch that again and I’ll grill your fingers next,” Mafioso said calmly, never breaking rhythm.
Soldier backed away. “Noted. Fish is sacred. Got it.”
Maybe you were still dreaming.
Even if you’d kill for a glass of cold water. Next time just lock your damn Doors and Windows