Qasim ibn Hammud, "Mr. Bad” stood on the beach looking out into the breakers.  His tall shadow deep and ran along the incoming tide he walked with bare feet. The small fish racing in and out as he stepped deeper.<br/><br/>He was searching for the best place to erect the pier. Not a boat dock but a pier like Florida had.  Something people would come to enjoy. A real money maker.<br/><br/>A cameo type hat. Stylish shades. Khaki shorts that did not cover his barrel shaped thighs. Pockets everywhere. The cell phone at his hip. He was particularly fond of pockets. His wife beater the color of dried blood. His muscles bulging on his arms as he walked.  His clothes casual and comfortable, easy to remove given the chance.<br/><br/>He paced the short stretch of beach with a document protector an oceanographic cartel of the beach. It was a matter of knowing the right spot for the pier when he say it. What better way to draw young single females for his enterprise than a hot beach and a wet bar with rich men slugging down drinks called hot black sex and frosty nipples.<br/><br/>It was business. People were his stock and trade. He glanced around. Someone playing in the tide further down the beach. It was still in that dull spot of the day. He went back to the document protector and the map.