Jersey shore, grand caymans

The last time I was on holiday in Grand Cayman, I befriended, and bedded of course, a local girl. I never did take the time to learn her name, calling her “Babe”, was sufficient. I met ‘Babe’ at a beach party sponsored by one of the local radio stations.

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She was working the party, serving keg beer and having a few for herself. Babe supported herself working as a nail technician by day and as a server in the catering business any and every other time.

The problem with the sailors old meme of “a girl in every port” is that sometimes the girls relocate.

Sandy, my girl in Tortuga, Haiti, had moved to George Town, Grand Cayman, after completing the online training to become a hair salon beautician. As luck would have it, she rented a house right next door to ‘Babe’. Also, unbeknownst to me, Babe had surreptitiously snapped a few pictures of us together, including ones of me enjoying her hamster suit. She displays them proudly, in her bedroom.

As you can guess, the two girls had become the best of friends in my absence. This I learn while calling on Babe. Sitting in her den, sipping sweet tea, we chat amicably. Babe assures me that she has no problem with my seeing other girls. She even hints that she wouldn’t mind sharing, giving me a sly wink. I begin to think tonight might get quite interesting.

Babe excuses herself to “get something from the bedroom to show me”. I hear the distinct sound resonating from her room of a pump action shotgun, probably a Mossberg 500, being chambered with a round. Dropping my tea, I dive over the back of the couch, sprint out the door, and hightail it down the block. I guess I’ll be seeking other entertainment from the bevy of local beauties this evening. Pleasure awaits, as soon as I empty the contents of the safe deposit box at Cayman National Bank.

Fortunately someone saved me the labour of transporting 200 kilograms of gold to, well, anywhere. The box is empty! “Your wife Sandy accessed the contents after you died in…”, the bank manager’s voice trails off as he realises the absurdity of his statement. Well, at least, that explains the matching Charcoal Grey Maserati’s parked in ‘Babe’s” and Sandy’s driveways.

Unfortunately for Gertie, I will not be contributing to her rehabilitation.

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About HybridHitman

Contract killer for hire.
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