Donnie and Stan were getting morbid about their loss of now long ago.   "We coulda'  made a shitload off the burgeoning self-storage industries, if Walmart hadn't done what it did to us," Donnie balked.  Like every night, piles of synthetic costume wigs washed onto the sand so enriched with motor oil.  Sea gulls pecked at landed sickly sea life.

"Fucking aye," croaked an inebriated Stan, the Von Findrich sisters doing their evening stretches, beachfront, geriatric, formerly flying trapese wonders.   "Them people lose billions of keys to their storage units."

"And we pick up at the back end."

"But we got put out of the duplicate key business."

Hoping to take the two broken men's minds off the cruel past, the sisters, all at once, changed the subject.

"Lookee there," Lillie Von F began.   "Von aff dosse ermit grabs hasss ezcaped from a vig."

Translating, that means, 'One of those hermit crabs has escaped from a wig.'   Happy days, one had, and a re-invigorating hermit crab that was, whether  male, female, of transgendered.  It began to help the two mooning poor travelers see the sunny side of life.  Stan quit looking, balefully, antisocially,  at the dead crab with the syringe in it's arm, took a breath of musty sea air,then lit it out.    The live crab had a faint glow of victory.   Maria Von F went in the bungalow and came out with her First Act Adam Levine six string guitar that she bought at a clearance sale at Kmart, for nineteen dollars and change.  Everybody sang.  Another one of the hermit crabs expired.  A barge was being rowed towards the filthy, greasy, flotsam littered beachfront.