Time: July 10th, 2167
Location: Palturma Beach, Bysorrn
A sweltering sun doesn't keep the beach from being filled to capacity. Residents and tourists with their blankets, canopies and nets pepper the shoreline. Beach bums and other reprobates ogle some of the more attractive denizens wearing the latest in scandalous swimwear. Vendors work the multitude selling their foodstuffs and wares. And people of all ages and species splash about in the cool, refreshing waters. Indeed it is one of the glorious dog days of summer.
Suddenly a vigilant lifeguard sounds the alarm to clear the water posthaste. Additional lifeguards mobilize to guide swimmers to safety. Tensions flare and worry sets in. Is it an incoming tidal wave? Or a megajaw on the prowl? An approaching shore guard craft verifies the threat:
It's a water skiff gone out of control. Its driver is hanging on for dear life.
Several attempts are made to kill its power cell using localized EMP bursts with no effect. Carbon emissions are then detected coming from the skiff. Turns out it has no power cell. It's using an old style, fossil fuel guzzling engine - illegal for use out on water and with no electronics to jam. One guardsman takes up a sniper rifle, hoping to knock out the skiff's propeller or take out its engine. But its movement is too erratic and dangerously close to civilians to get a clear shot. Efforts were instead concentrated on evacuating everyone from the water. Then the skiff leveled out with the driver still holding on tight. If it maintained course it would run aground and the shore guard could move in. It was a straight shot… except for one oblivious swimmer in the way…
Batarian Moab Shevac had recently taken up the human sport of surfing. For weeks he would head out into the water and practice catching some waves with varying degrees of success. He wasn't in training for any competition. Thrills and exhilaration were his only rewards. And he did it all to the driving beats of his own personal soundtrack: an MP9 player loaded to the brim with all manner of action music.
But on this day the ocean was calm. Nothing more to do than to paddle and float gently across the water with a specially customized, ambient relaxation mix. So relaxing that Moab couldn't help but take a nap face down with his MP9 at full hypnotic blare. Drifting ever closer to disaster.
Moab couldn't hear the bullhorn from the shore guard craft or the nearby swimmers. Not even the roaring engine from the oncoming skiff or its driver frantically calling out for him to clear the way stirred him from his peaceful, mid-morning slumber. Moab Shevac's unconscious state would be rendered permanent in one literal split-second.
The skiff piled through Moab's surfboard, reducing it to matchsticks, and cleaved his head down the middle. The combination of the skiff's forward and vertical inertia caused its prow to embed itself into the top of the batarian's spinal cord, shifting his body upward so that his limbs wrapped around the prow as well. A most disturbing figurehead for any seagoing vessel let alone the good skiff S.S Wayward.
Finally the out of control skiff made it to shore with Moab's body still attached while the shore guard found itself warding off the morbidly curious as they tended to the driver. He surrendered without further incident and was only fined for use of his gasoline engine. Nothing more could be done for the unfortunate surfer as authorities began the grim task of collecting the remains and notifying the next of kin. Poor Moab didn't demand much from life; just sunny skies, kickin' tunes and a perfect wave to ride upon. But the only perfect wave Moab would ever catch was a big wave goodbye to the mortal coil.
Surfin' time's up… Big Kahuna…
Way #8118: Head Like a Hull