The air bakes the young people on the beach. There is no sun, only a thick graying cloud cover that adds to the humidity instead of cooling the air. Some teenagers take to the waves for refreshment, while others lounge beneath the docks hoping that the shade will protect them from suffocation. The strip is dry of tanners.
The wind whips for only a moment at a piece of white paper laying on the beach at the feet of the Evil Redneck himself. He watches it intently as smoke curls around the back of his head. Ichabod takes a quick moment to flip a bird in the direction of the dock, and a man can be seen in the distance. He seems to be pointing at his watch. Ichabod tosses his cigarette into the infinite water of the Atlantic before dusting himself off and standing. He stretches and then crouches once again, then pushes a handful of sand onto the sheet of paper. He cups the paper like a tube and lets the sand flow slowly into the knapsack that he was sitting on. He continues to do this over and over until the sack is completely full. Then he slings the knapsack over his shoulder and stands up to walk toward the dock. On the way there, he picks up another sack full of sand, and slings it over his opposite shoulder. He doesn't notice it anymore, but near the second knapsack is a red length of yarn stretching from the current tideline to the saw like grass behind the hotels. He only steps over it now subconsciously.
Ichabod begins to trek back to the dock where Steve is standing staring at his watch. Normally, it would only be a twenty minute walk, but with these, the 49th and 50th bags he's done this go round, it takes him more like forty five minutes to reach the dock. Once he's there, he walks down to the water and wades out to the end of the dock. The bags of sand, now wet, sag heavily all the way down to his bum. As he is fighting the waves, Ichabod thinks about how Steve had set out fifty bags earlier and explained to him what he had to do. He had originally tried to carry four or five at a time, and fared well until the fifth or sixth trip. It wasn't easy to carry five sopping wet bags of sand up a completely vertical ladder with flat 1x4 rungs set at three feet apart. Now he stands at the foot of the ladder about to take what he hopes is the final ascent. When he gets to the top, Steve is standing there fuming. He grabs Ichy's sack and drops it on a scale. It measures up so that he knows its full. After he has measured the other, he hands them back to Ichy. Ichy takes the sacks and hangs them from the two remaining hooks, then looks around at the fifty sandbags he has hung from the dock. Raw blisters burn his hands.
But Steve looks pissed.
Two and a half hours Ichy. Two and a half hours??? What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren't you taking this seriously today. You know I'm timing you, yet you stop to smoke a cigarette? Dammit, we are going to do this over and over until you get this to at most an hour and a half.
The tired Ichabod loses his temper.
Dammit Steve, I'm sick of this shit. Run this, do this, carry this, lift this, hit this, stick your arms, phallus, feet, and face in here. What's the point? Why should I take this seriously? Because I have this all important match to come to this weekend? Joey Grunge. He didn't even have the guts to step up last night, so what does it matter? It doesn't matter, Steve. Grunge is a joke. You saw how I ruined Orleans and Mr. Sensation, so what makes you think they guy who didn't show up is going to be much of a challenge to me?
Ichabod, I think the heat has fried your damn brains. You should know by now that just because someone doesn't show up for a match, it doesn't mean that they aren't good enough to put you flat on your ass. This is what you need to realize: Grunge didn't show up, true. But what does that mean? It means that you know nothing about him. You don't have a feel for his style, you don't know his moves, you haven't even had a chance to see him wrestle. How can you expect to build a successful defense against this guy if you haven't even ever seen his face? You can't. So you have to be prepared for the unexpected. You are going to have to train more, work harder, and study up on techniques more this week than you would have to do on a regular week. I want you to be ready, dammit, and if you don't take this guy seriously, you run the risk of having your ass handed to you when you least expect it. Now are you going to get off your damned high horse and train so you can meet Grunge with every bit of force he might bring and then some, or are you going to sit idly by while he trains himself into embarassing you and Broken Halo?
Damn Steve... you're right. I'm sorry, just a little tired after that Hardcore Match last night. I underestimated Orleans and Sensation, they actually put up a hell of a fight... Lets do this.
Ichabod helps Steve empty the bags off into the water, then carry them back out past the yarn. Steve had forbidden Ichabod to gather sand that was any closer to the dock than that red yarn, so that the distance of his walk back would give him a good sweat. Steve places the bags in random areas and then walks back to the dock. He gives Ichabod the signal and Ichabod locates the notebook paper and begins the task again.
One hour and five minutes later, as the sky is just losing the last of its light, and only the most dedicated beachgoers remain, Ichabod drapes the fiftieth strap around the hook again. Steve clicks his stopwatch, pleased with Ichy's performance. Ichabod wipes the sweat from his brow before speaking.
Misfit, I asked you last week if you were going to live up to your name and prove you don't belong here. You proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were properly named, because you are so out of place that you didn't even show up. But look, this week you have another chance to prove to me, Broken Halo, and WXW that you do belong here. Don't disappoint us again, because I'm gearing up for handing out an ass-whooping this week, and if you screw me out of that, I will come looking for you. I won't be shortchanged.
Steve begins to leave the dock, but Ichabod stops him.
You gonna help me empty these out?
No, its ok Ichy. Just leave them.
Who's gonna time me when I run this again?
Steve looks out and sees that the tide is on its way in. He realizes if Ichy keeps going another time, he is going to be wading in water the whole way, and he's not going to be able to use the notebook paper anymore. He looks at Ichabod and sees the determination to continue, and smiles, obviously impressed. He sets his stopwatch on the railing and begins to help Ichy empty the bags again.
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