The sea was blue today, bright and the weather was not too hot, not too cold. A brisk breeze was coming off the ocean but it wasn't too bad. Really if the place didn't have such a dreary name, the Dead Coast, it probably would have way more visitors. The beaches weren't quite sand, nor were they rock; they were in limbo and that probably didn't help the tourism.
The beach was fairly bare of plant life, really the whole place, at least here went: sea, sand, wooden fence and either road, parking lot or messy, short shrubs of the wild and unkempt variety. The only thing that was a really different was a... vibrant... shack?
It wasn't really a shack, but a small place to get food with indoor seating and everything, a bit cramped but it had personality. The shack (called "The Shack") was blue with spray painted art and graffiti all over it in all colours. Most was artistic, some was so-and-so was here and a few "inappropriate" things had been painted over in the same blue as the shack, ready to have something better painted over. Behind the shack and two the left were two outhouses one for "Pigs" and one for "Ladies"; both were blue and graffiti covered.
The Shack served hot dogs, burgers, onion rings, milkshakes, ice cream, fries and other unhealthy stuff. It was where families on the beach could go to eat and where locals would go for a quick bite and to catch up on gossip on their small community.
Sitting at one of the few booths was a hollow beetanke who was currently very bored. The natural spike just above his hand carved and whittled irritably at the side of the wooden, already severely beaten table as he waited for Grid to return from the bathroom.
“Vhy ask fore help?” he muttered to himself irritably as he tapped his feet against the packed sand floor of the shack, “Vhy take shoo long in bathrum?”