Beach Blanket Blitzkrieg

This week's sentence was from H. G. Wells' classic, 'The War Of The Worlds.'

It was:

'There was something fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of the tedious movements unspeakably nasty.'

Beach Blanket Blitzkrieg

There was something fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of the tedious movements unspeakably nasty.
It made guttural sounds, belched and turned over.
‘What the fuck IS that?’ Candice blinked, reached for her glasses and then gaped in disbelief.
‘A German naturist. Every summer it's the same around here: Fritzie and his fraü get all nostalgic for the Third Reich and invade the rest of Europe. Only these days they do it naked. Makes me kind of miss the days of blitzkrieg.’
'Certainly puts you off bratwürst for life.'
'And a whole lot else besides. By lunchtime this beach will be filled with fat flesh and geriatric German genitalia roasting floppily in the sun. I think it's time we fled the scene of the crime. What say we take refuge in a coffee?'
'Good idea,' Candice removed her glasses again to save her eyes from further assault. 'I need some caffeine to get over the shock.'

The café terrace gave a nice view of the Atlantic, blue under clear Lusitanian skies. Mercifully a low wall hid the naturist from view.
Arnë sipped his espresso and took a long, admiring look at his companion. Candice smiled, happy to be an object of adoration, if only for the length of her vacation. She reflected that the two of them looked somewhat better naked than the German on the beach.
She had met Arnë just yesterday and this morning had woken up in his apartment, their bodies lost in a tangle of sheets, the sea breeze cooling them deliciously. Sure, he was a little older than she would have liked, and a little flabbier, but he had a nice smile and after all, Candice herself was, let's be honest, a pretty plain, bordering on frumpy, late-thirties myopic typist named Tracey, out for one last attempt at the Shirley Valentine experience. Tracey could lie about Arnë all she liked when she got home but for now, "Candice" was out for guilt-free, casual holiday sex, and lots of it.

Her first day back, Tracey rushed round to see her sister and insisted on regaling her with every lurid detail of her "non-stop shag-fest" with "sexy surfer Arnë." Jane had begged her for pictures but Tracey said her camera had been stolen at the airport. Better her sister didn't know the flabby, middle-aged truth.
Jane was pouring a second coffee when the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it!’ yelled Tracey.
She froze in sudden horror on the doorstep. There stood Arnë with a huge bunch of flowers. Her jaw dropped. How had he found her? Was he some kind of creepy stalker? And how in heaven’s name could she get rid of him before her sister saw him.
Jane dashed from the kitchen, beaming.
‘Tracey, I’d like you to meet my boss, Andy. He’s back from a business trip. I suppose I can tell you the big secret now: we’re engaged to be married!’
‘Oh, fuck.’ said Arnë.
‘Oh, fuck.’ said Candice.