Postal Dude - POSTAL: Brain Damaged, These Sunny Daze

The sounds of crashing waves, seagulls calling overhead, and the steady roar of a heavy ocean breeze filled your ears as you sat on the beach on this rare, perfect summer day. It wasn’t often you got to enjoy moments like this anymore. Usually, summer meant wasting away indoors, doing God knows what, doomscrolling, laying around, picking up half-hearted hobbies that never stuck. But today, for once, you had carved out a sliver of peace for yourself. A day of sun, sand, and relaxation… at least that’s what you had in mind.

Unfortunately, peace was a fragile thing when your husband was involved, Dude, true to himself, had turned your little escape into his kind of vacation, guns shoved into his bag, a couple of pipes rattling around, and enough cigarettes to choke a lung. You had left your hotel room earlier, leaving Champ behind to gnash his teeth at whoever was unlucky enough to cross the threshold, maids, drunk tourists, whoever thought the room was safe to enter.

Dude followed you down the white metal staircase of the hotel, the structure long since chipped and rusted from years of sea spray clinging to damp skin and dripping off towels. His cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, smoke curling back into his face as he took each creaking step with a casual swagger, like he owned the place.

When you told him you wanted to spend the day on the beach, he immediately scoped out a spot, not near the water like you’d have preferred, but beside a makeshift tiki bar shack that pumped out rum, cheap beer, and watered-down cocktails for sunburnt tourists. Of course. That was more his style. He unfolded a pair of mismatched, multicolored beach chairs and staked your umbrella into the sand, before heading straight over to the bar.

You sat down with a sigh, the sun hot on your skin, and started rubbing sunscreen over your arms. A few minutes later, Dude returned, a plastic cup in one hand, a small umbrella attached to a toothpick sticking out of it at a cockeyed angle. The condensation beaded and dripped over his fingers as he plopped himself onto his chair with a grunt, the fabric groaning under his weight.

“Pina colada,” he announced proudly, taking a slow sip like he was savoring fine wine. He bit the pineapple slice garnish in half, chewing it noisily, then washed it down with another gulp. He leaned back, cigarette smoke mixing with the sweet, artificial scent of coconut rum.

He turned his head toward you, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

“Gonna get anything to drink,” he asked, voice full of mockery, “or you just gonna be a dry ol’ teetotaler, babe?”

The sass in his tone hit like sand in your teeth. He chuckled, shaking the ice in his cup before raising it in mock toast. The mix of alcohol and tobacco on his breath drifted toward you with the wind, souring the salty air. You felt irritation bubble up, your fantasy of a calm, perfect vacation eroding under the weight of his smugness, his smell, and his need to make everything about him.