In the upcoming novel "BEACH BUM BRETT" (Brett Cornell Mystery #8), the world's supreme unscrupulous bastard hits the Atlantic coastline (will the coastline ever be the same after that?), but before actually stepping out upon the beach itself, Brett must first attend to the vital & necessary business of looking good, if he is indeed soon to become the (unofficially) crowned King of the Beach.
And so, I give you these 2 paragraphs from Chapter 1 of "BEACH BUM BRETT" just to give you an idea of the care with which even 100% pure American studs like Brett Cornell need to exercise before they can feel free to "expose themselves" in public (in a manner of speaking, of course):
. . .besides all that rampant and uninhibited sex that had been on tap over the past seventy-two hours, Dina and Friend had also been handy when it came to seeing to it that my muscles were well-fed, my thirst for great beer was sufficiently satisfied, my nicotine-fixes were well-moderated with a plentiful supply of Marlboros (in the box, not the damned soft pack!), and my so-called beach attire was generously seen to, the latter turning out to be far more important that most inland-dwellers might realize. In fact, you see, just at that moment, while I lay stretched out on my tastefully designed beach towel on the sunny sands of the main beach in Rayborne, RI, I happened to have on the nifty pair of cut-off denims Dina had suggested I wear while parading around bare-chested, even to the point of reminding me that the old bod’ looked particularly gorgeous when the top button of said denims was kept undone so as to enable me to put a certain amount of skin below the navel on display (Can I get another “ahem” on that one?) – not to mention the fact that my two female admirers insisted that I wear a pair of sporty-looking sun-glasses they so generously purchased for me, mentioning that bright sunlight might damage my pupils (how thoughtful of them, wouldn’t you agree?) and they certainly didn’t want a single particle of my being to get damaged, now, would they?
And leave us not forget the most important and vital accoutrement of them all: namely, the ultra-special straw hat that they insisted was the sinner qua non of any self-respecting beach denizen. (And I couldn’t even begin to explain how those two babes came up with such ridiculous-sounding French expressions!) Well, as it turned out, they both agreed that a beach comber Hawaiian-style straw hat would make me look even more scrumptious than usual, and how could I argue with two such generous and loving young women who wanted to regale me with all kinds of nifty apparel, hmm? Well, in all honesty, when I took a gander at the beach hat they recommended that I wear, my first impression was something along the lines of: A guy would have to be pretty stupid to wear a hat like this in public. A moment later, however, as I stood in front of the shop’s full-length mirror and eased into a front-double-biceps pose while wearing the hat in question, I found that my opinion on the matter was subject to revision as I told myself: A guy would have to have a tremendous set of balls on him to wear a hat like this in public – and if there’s any guy on this whole freakin’ planetoid who’s got a tremendous set on him, that would have to be either ME or – or – and seeing as I couldn’t think of nobody else besides little ol’ me, I therefore came to the conclusion that the hat WAS me – or I was determined to make it so – even though the wearing of it, by necessity, was bound to achieve the negative effect of partially concealing my glorious blond curls. But hey, when in Rome, do as the Eskimos do, right?
Thus properly attired, the Brett-meister is ready to ravage the coastline -- unless someone gets a chance to "ravage" him first ! ! !
Read "BEACH BUM BRETT" & find out how long (or how short) Brett's reign as King of the Beach actually turns out to be!
(This IS a murder mystery, after all -- Well, sort of. . .)