"Ugh." Jeff scratched his gray beard.

"You say it, man." Martin prodded the corpse with a foot. Gently.

The dead man lay on the sandy beach between them, on his back, the gentle waves lapping at his feet. He wore a suit—a black jacket open at the front, a pair of sodden, black pants, a white shirt stretched over a fat belly, and a tie. The latter was blue with tiny, yellow butterflies. It had settled on his chest in a bent curve—a question mark, its dot formed by the head.

Martin prodded the man's shoulder again, less gently this time, making the body wobble, once. "Looks real dead to me." He took off his wide-rimmed hat to move a hand over his bald, mottled scalp.

"Looks kinda surprised, though." Jeff took a long drag from his reefer.

The corpse's mouth stood open, and his vacant stare was on the blue sky above them.

Martin turned to face the palm trees bordering the beach. "Maaarge!" He waved.

A small cottage stood at the trees' edge. Its walls were adorned with faded rainbow flags, and it stood beside a verdant garden. Marge looked up from her work amid the plants there.

"Come, you need to see this." He lifted a fist and extended a finger pointing at the surprised body.

Marge got up. She grabbed a walking stick leaning against the garden fence and hobbled her way down onto the beach. "What's it this time, guys?"

"Just come and see for yourself." Martin's gaze returned to the dead man.

Marge joined them. "Holy shit." She fingered her long braid of silver hair.

"Yeah. Shit." Jeff nodded. "Dunno about holy, though."

Marge snapped the reefer from Jeff's fingers and inhaled deeply. "What do we do with that?" She waved the usurped joint at the body.

Martin shrugged. "We should get the police. Shouldn't we?"

"Sure..." She glowered at him. "The police. They would love to have a look at it. And at our house. And at the weed in our garden. Wouldn't they?"

They all looked at their garden, where breast-high, slender-leaved plants were rustling in the morning breeze coming in from the ocean.

"Old Sarge Harry is okay. He keeps quiet." Martin grinned.

"Yeah, he does..." Marge said. "But the police have got some young folks now. Fresh and eager to harass innocent planters."

Jeff spat onto the sand.

Martin huffed. "You're right... I'm not sure if the police want to see our garden." He nodded at their property. "Anyway, it's a two-hour drive to the village. And two more back. I mean..." He motioned at the body. "We can't leave that guy here under the hot sun for that long... He'd start rotting on us."

"E's a bit whiffy already," Jeff said and wrinkled his wrinkly nose.

"And we don't want to worry the authorities with a dead body, do we?" Martin added.

"Right." A slow grin took hold of Marge's face. "Anyway, a guy like that, finely dressed, with a tie and all, he's literally begging for a decent burial, isn't he? In fact, he's already dressed perfectly for his funeral, right?"

~ ~ ~

They dug the grave beside their garden, in the shade of the cannabis thriving there. Martin was sitting on the yellow mini-excavator they used for the heavier gardening work. The oily smell of its rumbling diesel heart lay heavily in the air.

Marge looked into the pit. "That's mighty deep."

"I wanted to be sure that the body's well below the roots of the plants. We don't wanna smoke corpse, do we?" Martin killed the engine and stepped from the vehicle.

"Look." Jeff extended a hand towards the beach.

An alalā crow perched on the corpse's chest, flapping its black wings.

"We should hurry to tug him in before the birds get him," Martin said.

Marge took a wheezy breath. "He's bound to be heavy. And we ain't as strong as we used to be." She grabbed Martin's arm, feeling for his biceps.

Martin pulled away and frowned at her. "Still as strong as ever—"

"We could cut'im up." Jeff made a sawing motion with his hand. "Smaller parts would be easier to carry."

Martin huffed. "Haha, you can do that if you want."

Marge pulled at her braid. Then she looked at the excavator.

~ ~ ~

Their secluded bay was at its finest in the late afternoon, when the sun was standing low, grazing the palm trees and caressing the sand with its gentle, golden fingers.

Footprints and tire marks—going down to the water and back—were all that remained of the day's work. That, and a fresh mound of earth decorated with a scattering pink plumeria flowers.

The three senior citizens were sitting in easy silence on a bench they had set up, decades ago, at the top of the beach, midway between the cottage and the shoreline. Each of them was nursing a drink—tall glasses holding chilled orange juice, cranberry juice, peach spirit and liberal amounts of vodka.

Marge interrupted the easy silence, a smile tugging at her lips. "That was kind out touching... the procession, with him on that shovel and with Martin being the hearse driver. Jeff and me the mourning parish following the deceased to his last resting ground."

The men nodded.

"And you did a fine speech there." Martin gave Marge an affectionate smile. "About the guy's favorite tie, the blue one with the yellow moths. I'm sure he would have loved it."

"Yep," Jeff said.

Easy silence resumed.

The waves murmured words of love against the shore.

The wind carried the noise of an engine, interrupting easy silence once more.

"Hear that?" Martin asked.

An off-road vehicle invaded the beach. They watched as it drove towards them, churning up a cloud of yellow dust in its wake. Its chassis was white and adorned with blue stripes that shouted police to anyone caring to take notice. It stopped between the bench and the water, and two black-uniformed officers oozed from it.

One of them tipped his hat. "Hey Marge... Martin, Jeff. How's life?" His double chin wobbled with the words.

Marge lifted her glass at him. "Good evening, Sarge Harry. Hanging loose, that's how life is. How can we help you?"

"There's been an accident, off-shore," The second officer said. He was a young, lean man with short-cropped, dark hair, hands behind his back, bobbing on the soles of his feet. The bobbing wasn't an easy task while standing in the sand.

"Yer new here, lad?" Jeff asked.

"Yes sir, I'm Detective Stockhorn." The man's words were crisp.

"What accident?" Marge asked.

"Some yacht lost a man, north of here." Serge Harry waved vaguely towards the water. "With the currents, he may have washed up at one of these shores."

"They... lost... a man?" Martin's fingers painted quotes around 'lost'.

"Yeah... lost him." The sergeant shrugged. "That's what the report said."

"Anyway, officers, we haven't found any man here, lost or otherwise." Marge produced her best grandma smile. "Sorry, lads."

"Okay. Thanks, Marge." Sarge Harry scratched his head. "I guess we'll have to search further west then." He made to turn, then he stopped. "But... if you see anything, you'll tell us."

"Sure, Sarge." Martin nodded.

The two officers bid their farewells and started towards their vehicle.

The younger one stopped in his tracks. "Ey, what's that?" He pointed a hand at the footsteps and the mini-excavator tracks in the sand.

"Er..." Martin said.

"Em..." Marge added.

Sarge Harry looked at the old trio on their bench and raised an eyebrow at them.

Marge tugged her braid. Martin rubbed his head.

"Sex on the beach," Jeff said.

The Sergeant studied him, then he nodded. "I see what you're drinking, Jeff, but..." His voice was loud enough to startle the deaf. "What are these tracks in the sand?"

"No need to shout, man." Jeff gave the authorities a bushy frown. "'Eard ye well enough the first time. As I said... T'was us, we 'ad sex on the beach."

"What?" The Sergeant hesitated, his mouth open. "You're... not talking about the drink here, are you?"

"Naw. Not the drink." Jeff's grin lacked an incisor.

"Okay..." The Sergeant scratched his hair once more. His eyes darted to Marge, then to his subordinate.

"In that case..." The younger officer pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "What are the wheel tracks?"

"The wheel tracks?" Jeff said.

"Yes. The wheel tracks." The Detective Stockhorn nodded.

"That was our mini-excavator." Marge waved at their house, where the yellow machine stood guard like a faithful XXX-sized dog.

"Yes...?" The sergeant now raised both his eyebrows in expectant scrutiny.

"You see... Jeff here." Marge prodded the man beside her with her elbow. "He has... spinal issues. His discs tend to pop this way and that. And, while... er during... anyway, they popped. We had to get him back to the house."

"Yeah..." Jeff nodded. "Laid me over that shovel. A disgrace." He glowered at his friends.

"And then, back in the house, we placed him on our massage bed. And did therapy." Martin moved his hands in serious dough-kneading gestures.

"Yeah..." Jeff nodded once more. "And they did things to me. Things ye don't wanna know, such as—"

"I get it." Sergeant Harry raised his hands. "That's enough, thanks." He nodded at his companion. "Come, let's get going. It'll be dark soon."

~ ~ ~

The trio on the bench watched the dust clouds drift towards the forest in the wake of the police vehicle's retreat.

"Sex on the beach..." Marge sighed. "It's been a while since last time."

"Why, we're just having some..." Martin pointed at his glass.

"The other kind, silly." Marge smiled.

Martin grinned.

Jeff chuckled and rose, offering an arm to Marge.

Martin stood as well, proffering another arm.

Marge beamed at both of them. "Can't resist your charms, guys." She reached out for the offered limbs, pulling herself up. "You know, I still do remember our last time."

Arm in arm, they walked towards the shoreline.

"Yeah, last time must 'ave been ages ago." Jeff's face was dreamy.

"True." Martin nodded. "The last time... When was that...? Last Monday...? Or the week before...?"

(My contribution to the #bodyonthebeach competition. 1700 Words)