This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdge with the following simple rules:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word – BEAT

Click here to hear the author read his words:

Tony

Sexy beach, says Portuguese Tony, aka Tony Casquette, (the historical reasons for this greeting are too dull, lengthy and unbelievable to be explained in six sentences), as we exchange bisous (cheek kisses) before he launches into one of his infamous semi-coherent ramblings involving a passport, Russia and, I think, the assassination of that nice Mr Putin.

Sexy beech, I reply, (blah blah greeting blah blah dull blah blah as above), marvelling once again at his (lack of) control over any and all languages available to him, speaking as he does in a mélange of French and Portuguese with the occasional badly mangled English (I think) mot juste (such as his opening words) which amazingly remind me of a language ‘invented’ by my erstwhile Creative Partner, ultra-talented artist Phil Burns, and myself, which, being a mix of French, Catalan, English and Scots (mainly), we called Eurinal.

Tony’s tales are made even more entertainingly impenetrable (or perhaps impenetrably entertaining) by his dual habit of consuming fairly significant quantities of the fine fermented grape-based beverages for which this region (not uniquely) of France is renowned, and commencing his monologue at the point where his internal thought process is currently staggering to the beat of a melancholy fado, rather than at what most folk would logically consider to be the beginning, although, in his defence, he does, in the fullness of time, tend to stumble through that start position several times en passant.

Usually in this situation with Tony, of whom I am surprisingly fond, I grin, nod, and make my escape, but now, for reasons inexplicable, I pause and say Passport? Russia? Putin? What are you havering about? followed immediately by slapping myself on the forehead in disbelieving exasperation.

Well, to cut a long story even longer, from what I gather from meu bom amigo’s rants and ravings, he has decided that he is bored with France, the war in Ukraine and, perhaps, life itself, and that he intends to nip along to Moscow and heroically rid the world of this turbulent beast, regardless of danger, death and lower quality wine.

I wish him luck, buy him a drink he scarcely needs and, it being le quatorze juillet, amble off to find a small space on the beach to watch the feu d’artifice over the bay, all the while pondering the thought of Russian retaliation against Portugal, and the logistics of that, and thinking that, on the bright side, a zillion tanks and other weapons of war trundling by would provide not only an excellent photo op but also material for at least a few six sentence stories in the event that I run out of other, more sensible, ideas.

Note:
No despots and very few Portuguese were injured in the creation of this drivel.

Note 2:
These notes are not part of the Six Sentence Story, being by way of addenda, sort of thing, so don’t get all pernickety, and go accusing me of extra bits, okay?