The Rubbing Beach

Isaac Benziger looked down through tears from heaven; his fists bound in two cocoons of flaking alabaster. Seventy years of wringing the rule book had succeeded in shredding nothing but the skin from his otherwise gentle hands, and with no one near, he wished for significant amends to be made in his name.

Though it had taken forty-nine years of this of this obdurate guilt and lying to get where he now was, he could at least knock the pine-scented, suburban breath from his surviving kin with a noisy and unbecoming death.