Near the beach in Sicily laid a village. Old italian houses raised no more than three
stories high, made of brown brick walls, walls that had ears. Sunshine encompassed the
village that day, the sun was up and there were no clouds to be seen. Tourist walked the
alleys taking in the aroma of the traditional italian pizzas being made in the ovens.
Happy faces everywhere, italian people shouting out of the top of their longs for the tourists to
pass by their shops. The italians where great sellers, the tourist flocked their shops, never mind
the beach which was now soaked in red water, body parts floating about and he was
there waiting. The walls had told him all that he needed to know. He was eating a leg of a female,
chewing her toenails while the water splashed against his bloodied face. It was his village,
and he was tired of the tourist. He would make them pay. He now waited patiently for the next
Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.