Nazi Sharks! (5 page)

The huddles began to break,
first the Hello Kitties into a mass of giggling Asian girls that
Costner decided he would violate with tentacles of tongue and
penis. The Pussy Willows followed, grouping into a sort of
bleached-blond jellyfish with implants, reminding Costner of a
steaming pile of creamed corn with multiple vaginas.

The Cherry Bombs broke next to
strut across the unusually sexy battlefield to their arch-rivals,
the Bubblegum Queens. Sand castles were trampled beneath their
angry, punk feet. What you gonna do about it?

Sherry adjusted her tits
insolently and declared to her foes, “I hope you skanks are ready
to suck my seaweed, ‘cause we got stuff you never even dreamed
of.”

The Cherry Bombs grinned grins
that had consumed no small portion of feces, crossed their arms,
and nodded their agreement in this provocation.

Edwina smirked, too superior to
be goaded by empty taunts and also remembering an amusing scene
from Seinfeld.

“Well,” she answered, “when
body hair and cellulite count as a swim routine, we’ll gladly
concede.”

Somewhere in the spiritual
realm, into which no living mind may penetrate, Oscar Wilde
approved. A most witty retort.

Sherry called out over her
shoulder to the Cherry Bombs, without taking her eyes off the
slick, cookie-cutter beauty of Edwina, “Oh, the Bubblegum Queens
are getting bitchy. I don’t think Ward would approve.” The Cherry
Bombs laughed, but only one of them actually got the reference.

“We’ve seen your moves, baby,”
Sherry went on, looking Edwina up and down like a slimy granola
bar, “and you might as well have sucked them with a bright, yellow
straw from Esther William’s rotting asshole! The only Williams we
care about is Wendy O. Isn’t that right, girls?”

“Yeah!” the girls
gang-shouted.

“Maybe that’s why you swim like
an epileptic seal with a meth habit,” Steph shouted, coming
forward, her camel-toe clenching angrily beneath her pink
one-piece.

“Come on, girls,” Edwina
demurred, “they swim good enough. Sure. But ‘good enough’ never cut
it for us. We don’t need gimmicks and punk rock; we have
skill.”

“We’ll see about that in the
finals,” Sherry answered. “It’s not like these Chinks stand a
chance.”

The Hello Kitties had giggled
through treacherous bluffs of seaweed toward the stage, approaching
at Costner’s beckoning with one hairy ape arm.

“Alright girls!” Costner
shouted, ripping himself from his reveries (which the
OED
defines as ‘really, really dirty day dreams,’).
“Welcome to the semi-finals of the Kevin Costner Free-Form
Synchronized Swimming Competition! I’m your generous host, Kevin
Costner. And for these last few rounds, helping me judge
your…performances will be my son—who kept his mother’s name, and
maybe more, Burt Reynolds.”

With a disgusted and
contemptuous, but totally masculine eye, Costner regarded his son’s
lack of ogling the tits and ass. The young, Hispanic man rose from
an old lawn chair his dad had once found tangled in a fishing net
and had unreasonably believed to have belonged to Sean Connery on
the set of
Octopussy
. Reynolds was shrimpy in build, and
short in stature, but handsome, with shy, dark dimples like an
angel’s buttocks and sympathetic eyes, eyes that seemed to have
seen many puppies die and actually cared.

“Burt Reynolds, eh?” Steph
muttered.

“More like Debbie,” Andrea
answered, making the Queens giggle and jiggle.

“Hey, he’s kinda cute,” Edwina
argued. “Like a cartoon fox.”

Edwina had first discovered
sexual attraction watching Disney’s
Robin Hood
and that sexy
fox mutant had always been her first love. Her teenage years had
been virginal because of it. What man’s flat face could match that
prehensile muzzle, with the sly grin and the earnest eyes? She’d
learned a little more about canine anatomy later in life and had
given up on the idea—at least until Russian scientists can manage a
decent hybrid. Here, in the person of Burt Reynolds, was the
closest she’d ever come to that first flush of sexual passion.

“Hey, you really got the hots
for Shrimpy Gonzalez there, don’tcha?” Mila asked.

Edwina could scarcely take her
eyes off him. She was luxuriating in his Disney-esque appeal. And
who could blame her?

“Since the Slippery Esthers
have not showed up,” Costner announced, “that means there are only
four teams left. First up, the Hello Kitties, all the way from
Tokyo!”

The giggling cluster didn’t
bother correcting that they’re actually from Connecticut. Giggling
is, after all, a full-time job for attractive, Asian girls. Still,
they did rush shyly toward the ocean and began their swim routine
in earnest. For some spectators, this routine was an elaborate
pantomime of Japan’s struggles to free itself from its Feudal
history and emerge into modernity as a leader of technological
innovation, not unlike how a Japanese caterpillar emerges from a
Japanese cocoon into a Japanese stir-fry. To others, the routine
was a playful mockery of Japanese tentacle porn, in which
generously-endowed schoolgirls are forever forced to be ninjas
and/or demonic sperm receptacles. But to most, it was some mediocre
swimming and splashing in vaguely circular shapes as the girls
struggled desperately not to drown or kick each other in the
face.

When this slice of beach-born
performance art had reached the flourish of dangerous and inept
water-kicking that was its conclusion, the girls returned to the
shore giggling. One of the girls had, naturally, lost her bikini
top. For this alone, Costner applauded with the fury of a thousand
Viagras.

“Nice touch!” he called out,
assuming it was the true climax of the routine. “Domo arigato!”

Noticing her exposed sashimis,
the Kitty covered herself with giggling arms. The Kitties giggled
their way back to their place on the beach to warm, dry, and
contemplate what they’d read in Sartre’s
Being and
Nothingness
last night.

Costner nodded approvingly,
until he noticed the disinterested state of his son, totally
not-perving things up. He wasn’t ogling, staring, eyeing—not even
peeping! When he was his son’s age, Costner would have mentally
stacked those Asian bimbos like loaves of cornbread, propped a
stepladder against their thighs, and pounded their funholes,
one-by-one, up-and-down, a dozen times each, and not one of them
would have left his gaze unimpregnated. (Mentally.) Really, he
would have just stared at their tits and asses until one or more of
them slapped him. But his son! What was that ladyboy thinking
about? His
Scooby Doo
lunchbox? His
Transformers
DVD
set?

With his mind back on the
competition, Costner’s spirits returned and he called out, “Okay,
the Pussy Willows, you’re up next!”

Now the Pussy Willows were
certainly not astrophysicists. But they weren’t entirely stupid.
Taking a hint from the last routine, these bleached-blonde bimbos
threw off their bikini tops like large, bra-shaped spiders, leaving
their massive milkwagons loose in all their well-paid-for glory. A
seagull, seeing this, crashed into a cliffside. A raccoon went home
to screw his wife. An old janitor went home to screw his raccoon. A
passing biplane became a straightplane, much to its parents’
approval. Costner’s jaw dropped.

The Cherry Bombs crossed their
arms over their red-and-black strategically-torn one-pieces,
defiantly unimpressed by the spheroid objects and their vacuous
possessors.

“Seriously?” Mila said.

“So what’s our next gimmick,
Edwina?” Nikki asked.

“I was thinking we can take up
as roving gypsy psychics,” Andrea posed. Steph nodded
approvingly.

“I wonder if he’s good with bow
and arrow?” Edwina wondered.

The Willows went bouncing like
a middle school round of dodgeball, laughing with bright, white
teeth. Gingerly they plunged into the cold, ocean water, their
nipples hardening like forgotten wads of gum, their bodies
splashing with the grace of a drowning lemur.

They were assured of their
masterful strategy. And it might have worked, too. Sun Tzu missed
this particular technique, although Chapter 7 of
The Art of
War
does hint at it. But really, it’s the wisdom of Janiqua
Robins from episode 484 of
Maury
.

What the strategical bimbos
hadn’t considered in their Art of Whore was the hideously mangled
shreds of flesh and shattered bone that had been floating just
behind a particularly mischievous mass of seaweed. As the bimbos
splashed brainlessly toward their bland, but entirely topless
climax, the seaweed shifted to the left, revealing the disgusting
mass of shark-chew that had once been a human being.

The bimbos shrieked for an
absurdly long time without actually fleeing from the mass. Edwina
could see their hands flailing in terror, but their enormous
breasts hid the object of revulsion completely.

“They can sure hold a note,”
Steph stated.

The shrieking, at last,
subsided or at least rose to a pitch only dogs could hear. This
coincided with the body’s skull, crushed like an old tube of
toothpaste, brushing across the bottom of Millie’s breasts. With
Millie leading the voluptuous pack, the Willows abandoned their
stupor and came bounding out to the shore, water droplets flying
furiously off their swaying, knocking bongos.

The body came washing up behind
them, a white and red mass deposited like a tampon that refuses to
flush. The other teams blanched and retreated from the sullied
shore, especially when it seemed to look at them. Ew, gross!

Certainly such an incident
wouldn’t disqualify any swim team of topless bimbos, since said
bimbos certainly hadn’t chewed up the body. At least, that was not
a working theory at the time. But the bimbos themselves had decided
the competition wasn’t worth it. In the future, they’d only remove
their tops for upfront cash or liquor. In this way, they became
ladies of principle. Also, the competition was, needless to say,
off.

As for that devious seaweed, it
retreated behind a rock just off the cliffside, its fiendish work
complete. For today.

Chapter 11

“That there’s a sternum!” the
medical examiner declared, pointing at the twisted segment of bone
fragments, marrow, and ground meat with his clipboard.

“Then what’s this?” Warren
asked, stroking the stubble on his thin, ratty face. For some
reason his stubble always felt strangely soft, like a feather
duster, making it somewhat pleasurable to stroke. Given the
gruesome sight before him, a body that resembled a clown’s scrotum
more than anything human, he needed it.

The medical examiner nodded and
began poking the nebulous, red-gray blob with his clipboard. (He
couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually used the thing for
writing on.)

“That particularly unpleasant
mass is a pureed series of fragments that had once been a pancreas,
a femur, and some semi-digested nachos,” the examiner explained
proudly, ignoring the pipe smoke Sheriff Babbage was breathing into
his face.

“So?” Warren asked.

“Well, having taken a good look
at this here honk of chewed-up whatsit, I can safely reckon it’s
not the work of any serial killer.”

The Sheriff shook his ancient
head with geriatric indignation. Clearly another rant was
a-brewin’.

“Reckoning’s for gods and
upper-class sluts with their key parties and pool boys,” the
sheriff derided. “You and me just do the factoring. Fact man,
myself. Is that there a shark’s doing or isn’t it?”

The examiner cleared his
throat, drew the clipboard comfortingly close to his body, and used
all his willpower to ignore the insult. An insult he didn’t quite
comprehend. But nonetheless.

“I’m gonna say ‘yes,’” the
examiner answered. “These wounds have what I’d call a ‘toothy
quality,’ and a ‘bite-centric pattern’—I’m factoring.”

The sheriff lowered his pipe
with indignation, his face slack as a dead nun’s rectum.
“Reckoning’s a lot of things,” he declared. “Hunching’s a lot of
things. Factoring’s just one thing—and you sure as hell ain’t doing
it. Examine the dang body, already, and give us some facts!”

Warren slapped the slab so hard
a blob of lung fell off a sliced eye left between two startlingly
intact toes. “Here’s an interesting fact for you, Sheriff,” he
shouted, “Nazi sharks. Goddamn Nazi sharks!”

The medical examiner could
think of nothing to point to with his clipboard, so he remained
aghast. The sheriff eyed the agent inquisitively, his frosty
eyebrows, considering the federal weasel like a man playing poker
with a car bomb.

“Killed a few Nazis in my day,”
the sheriff admitted. “Killed a few sharks, too. Nazi blood and
shark blood ain’t much different, just as cold and just as smelly.
I give you that. But in all my years—and there are a few of them—I
ain’t never heard tell of a Nazi shark.”

“It’s been the subject of
public debate, if you could call it that,” Warren explained. “A few
cranks got into it, but there’s some actual evidence to back it up,
presented in an entertaining and informative History Channel
documentary. We look into these things. Fascinating stuff. Right,
Walker?”

Walker had been deep in his
staring contest with the newly-revealed sliced eye, but relented.
Toe-eye wins again!

“I guess,” he said. “But what
does it matter? Isn’t all of life like a shark? Just eating and
eating and eating until there’s nothing left at all but crap?”

The eye reclaimed his attention
once more. It somehow seemed more real than anything else he’d
encountered that day. Unless you count the egg salad sandwich he’d
had earlier. It was much tastier than it had any right to be.