I’m not entirely sure I want to experience “the sinking feeling” and possibly “loose it all” under the tutelage of a surfer who’s managed to earn himself the nickname “Crippled”. I can just picture this Charles Markton lunatic, insisting on having his paraplegic body strapped to a surfboard and paddled out into the ocean, so that he can be tossed savagely around by ferocious wave after ferocious wave, like a flimsy plastic bag at the mercy of a violent gale.
And what, pray tell, does “The Ace” make of all this? Does he applaud his paralysed partner’s uncowed, gung-ho attitude – or does he grimace bitterly at all the wide-eyed adoration it affords him? Johnny’s always had to play second fiddle to Charles: the surfing world might know them as the Crazy Bros, but it was always Charles who won the trophies, Charles who got the girls, Charles who got the glory. Wonderful Charles, perfect Charles. And even now – even as he eats and defecates through tubes, and communicates through winks and twitches – even now, Charles is still the star.
Bide your time, Johnny. Bide your time, my boy. You’ve already engineered one “accident” for Charles – just make sure that the next one finishes the job. Maybe one day you “forget” to strap Charles down to his surfboard properly. Maybe his body slips loose, at the crest of a thundering wave. Maybe he’s smashed below the water’s surface, helpless, terrified, a silent scream roaring behind his paralysed lips. And maybe you feign horror, guilt, and eventually, bereavement – as all the while, maniacal laughter staggers around your mind like a drunken, unhinged whore.