Nazi Sharks! (8 page)

Soon, the couple’s incredible
twisting skills had attracted such attention even the table in the
far corner, from beneath their cloud of gloom, rebellion, and
second-hand smoke, took notice.

“Hey, Sherry,” Ginger the
Cherry Bomb noticed, “looks like one-a them Bubblegum Queens
groovin’ with the papoose.”

“A papoose is a Native American
kid,” Cinnamon the Cherry Bomb argued.

“Then what’s a Mexican
kid?”

“A prostitute, I think.”

“Shut it,” that bitch Sherry
exclaimed, taking a long drag from her self-rolled cigarette—just
to annoy the waitress. “You’re right. It’s ol’ Bubblebutt Edwina.
The competition’s not over till it’s over, right?”

Sherry’s bright, red hair,
freshly spiked, penetrated the cloud of tobacco by-product at the
very same time the President of France died choking on an oyster.
(A complete coincidence, of course.) Her even brighter red lips
oozed sensuality from her hard face like puss from a neglected
bedsore and the red skulls over each of her breasts flashed their
red, LED lights in a warning that went unheeded. Her ill-covered
buttocks jiggled with antiestablishment sentiment and pure mischief
beneath her black hotpants with each troublemaking step as she
slinked toward the front of the café. She always knew how to get
her way. Her full, pouty lips, a fist to the diaphragm, a classic
up-in-your-grill tantrum, or just destroying that collection of
M*A*S*H
commemorative plates were all tools in her
repertoire for securing her will. Sherry was a girl who’d never
read Nietzsche and she’d never needed to, because she’d not just
mastered the practicals of his philosophy, she’d bound and gagged
them in a dank basement and furiously abused them with an
oversized, black strap-on.

“Put this on,” she told the
frightened waitress, handing the rotund woman (who really did hold
her weight well) a burnt CD. Feeling let off easy, the waitress
popped in the CD at one of Elvis’s high notes, unleashing the
charming melodies of The Misfits’s “Astrozombies.”

“Hey, Burt,” Sherry called out
as she slinked toward Reynolds like some half-cat, half-snake
hybrid that’s kinda cute, but also kinda gross. “You didn’t call me
after last night. Mind if I cut in?” As if she cared!

Sherry immediately began
grinding seductively around the Mexican man, like a small,
coffee-colored stripper pole. Her long, white legs wrapped around
him like a pita and her firm ass pressed against his crotch like a
big bag of refried beans. Reynolds was too astonished to protest,
and if he had, surely the protest would have to be in dance
form.

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about,” he told her. “Last night I was watching re-runs of
Friends
on my DVR.”

“Friends with benefits,” Sherry
purred, as her athletic dance continued. No denying it, she put a
lot of hard work into making trouble. If she’d put that much work
into her music lessons, maybe she’d be as good as her sister Beth
right now.

Edwina felt like a camel that
had just been punched in the vagina by a drunk Arab: hurt and
angry. Her whole life she had felt second-class because she
wouldn’t be the white-trash slut her parents expected her to be.
“If I had tits like that, I’d never be stupid enough to use my
brain,” her mother had told her when she was twelve. Even her
sister, Olivia—who was a huge whore!—looked down on her. Olivia had
always believed she was abducted by aliens, because getting screwed
by countless human mutants wasn’t good enough, apparently. Her
parents believed it too. But Edwina wasn’t even included in this
fantasy. “You’re just not abductee material,” her sister had
explained. “You think they’d kidnap, dissect, probe inside-out and
harvest the eggs of just anyone? They’re breeding their
intergalactic warriors, Eddie, not setting up a bake sale.” Edwina
didn’t believe in the aliens, but she was deeply hurt that even the
non-existent entities would dismiss her. Now she waited for her
date to pick her over some punk slut with no more depth than a
fruit fly’s rectum. She thought of how Eddie Deezen bravely
chastised the vampire seductress in
Beverly Hills Vamp
with
the old crucifix-on-the-crotch trick rather than betray his woman
to fanged fellatio—that’s what a real man does.

After a period of standing on
the dance floor in complete humiliation and some spilled nachos,
Edwina confronted Reynolds with this particular low blow. “Y’know
what?” she asked rhetorically. “The real Burt Reynolds would never
be such a pussy.”

“And you,” she said to Sherry,
“how about you put your strokes where your Communist ball-licker is
and meet my team tomorrow, noon. The competition’s on.”

Edwina stormed to the café’s
exit, patrons clearing the way. The man with the breadsticks
offered her his copy of the
Koran
, but she wasn’t
interested. She was done being a good girl, keeping the good
values, wearing pastels. This was a world of predators, a world
where sharks prevail and good, caring dolphins are betrayed, eaten,
or humiliated on a café dance floor.

Always one to have the last
word and slice of pizza, Sherry shouted back to Edwina. “Sure,” she
taunted, “if your boyfriend here doesn’t keep me up too late. With
lots of sex, I mean. Dirty, Mexican sex!”

Sherry cackled with evil glee,
becoming the incarnation of pure skankitude. For Reynolds, she
personified all that was wrong with womankind and he was filled
with deep self-loathing. At first he thought it was just gas, but
no. It was self-loathing. He was no man. No Reynolds. Even Debbie
was more of a man than him.

“You stupid, donkeysucking
hellskank!” he growled with unbound hatred, his eyes as wild and
vengeful as an unmilked cow. “Why’d you do that?”

Sherry laughed in his face like
a gorilla laughing at a banana peel—a floppy, valueless,
yellow-brown banana peel. “Enjoy your night, El Nino!” she told
him, strutting back to her table.

Reynolds was glued to the dance
floor. Not by the wad of cheese he’d stepped in, but by rage and
resentment. “So this is what panties feel,” he whispered to
himself. “I am panties.”

Chapter 16

Janet and Mandy had decided to
get colonics before meeting their fellow Pussy Willows for a swim.
At midnight they arrived at the beach, cleansed and ready for
whatever Sheena had in mind.

“They said they’d be at the
beach!” Janet exclaimed in desperation. “I’m pretty sure this is
the beach.”

Her bovine eyes rolled
anxiously around her pretty, artificially blonde head seeking any
sign of the friends she had expected. Where most give up their most
cherished beliefs last, Janet considered such trivialities as the
existence of beaches much readier for sacrifice than her
expectations.

“It’s gotta be,” Mandy deduced.
“There’s the water and we’re standing in sand.”

“Ughn,” Janet whined, “then
where are they?”

“I dreamed this once,” Mandy
answered. “Except, in the dream, your body was an olive and you
were getting attacked by these owls in white robes. What does that
mean?”

“There were supposed to be
guys,” Janet continued moaning in intellectual agony.

“Look!” Mandy shouted. Janet
looked at her finger. It was stiff, rigid even, the clear-coated
nail pointed—not unlike an arrow—at a downward angle. Janet’s big
eyes followed the angle of the finger over a lump of seaweed, past
the body of a crab, to a gelatinous heap that shimmered in the
moonlight.

Mandy had retracted her
incredible finger and was already collecting the blob. She knew
exactly what it was, even before she’d picked it up. She’d
recognize that blob anywhere.

“This is Sheena’s left tit!”
Mandy gasped.

“What are you saying?” Janet
asked in horror.

“This is Sheena’s left tit!”
Mandy repeated.

“Ohhhh,” Janet understood
now.

Janet stepped over the clump of
seaweed, in which one of their busty friends’ arms had been
entangled, to get a good look. Definitely Sheena’s left one. But
how had it gotten out? Sheena was very attached to them.

“Maybe that guy knows what
happened,” Mandy said, her remarkable, rigid finger again rising
like the great trident of Poseidon to aim Janet’s gaze at that
mysterious silhouette against the full moon. How long had that been
there?

Janet’s oversized eyes gazed
with apprehension at the boney arrow and at the moonlit figure. The
solitary shape reminded her of her childhood around the campfire,
her uncle making shadow puppet pornography against the RV. She
still considered rabbits sluts to this day.

“Hey!” Mandy shouted to the
stranger, not comprehending any potential danger. “Have you seen
any other Pussy Willows here?”

“You couldn’t miss ‘em!” Janet
added. “They’d be topless.”

“Yes,” the figure replied
softly, his whisper carrying in the wind like faeries over a sneaky
rainbow. “They’re over here.”

The surviving bimbos were
instantly pleased to realize that, yes, this
is
the beach. They followed after the distant figure.
His pace, slow as molasses poured over a rutabaga, ensured they’d
soon catch up with him. Still, that bright moon just kept him so
mysterious and…silhouette-y.

“So, are you one of the guys?”
Mandy asked.

The silhouette stopped
abruptly. He doubled over and moaned like a moose in heat. Janet
and Mandy waited for him to term’ his ‘sode, but he totally didn’t.
Instead, he spun with ferocity, a chloroform-soaked cloth in one
black-gloved hand. The fierce, leather claw clamped down over
Janet’s face.

Her legs kicked wildly as she
struggled to free herself. She had never trusted a mysterious,
moonlit figure before tonight, and it would prove to be the last.
She realized she would die not knowing how hot she looked as
November in that Hustler calendar. She didn’t think the office-wear
suited her that well, but the photographer assured her the Xerox
machine brought out the curvature of her bosom like nothing else.
As consciousness faded, she tried to articulate to herself,
“Remember, remember,” to recall why she didn’t care for that shoot,
but it all seemed wonderful now, the Xerox, her breasts, yeah. “The
tits of November,” she muttered, as she at last succumbed to
oblivion.

Puzzled, but undeterred, the
silhouette cast the bimbo aside to pursue the fleeing Mandy. The
way the soft, delicate light of the moon caressed her bouncing
buttocks filled him with fury. He wanted to squeeze them, twist
them, sink his teeth into them. “No ass should look that fucking
good,” he growled, leaping over sand dunes and driftwood to pursue
the jiggling escapee.

As all fleeing bimbos must do,
Mandy tripped over some grains of sand. Each time she rose,
adjusted her bikini top back over her escaping boobage, and resumed
running. Her flying milk jugs slapped brutally against her chest
and up toward her face, so that she nearly cursed her massive
melons! Nearly. She in fact did not and even regretted letting the
thought cross her mind. (“Sorry, melons. I love you guys.”) There’s
a trouper.

But it did her no good. The
silhouette approached her, his large, gleaming blade drawn high
against the moon’s voyeuristic gaze. (The sun, alternatively, reads
the
Times
and pays us no heed.) He brought
the blade down, stretching a foot-long line of scarlet across
Mandy’s perfectly-sculpted back. Mandy shrieked in agony and fell
against Costner’s stage, her skin parting and admitting painful
particles of sand into the soft tissue.

“Please,” Mandy sobbed. “I just
wanted to frolic topless, party, and have lots of sex with hot
guys. I don’t deserve to die!”

The silhouette seemed to pause,
but he was only eyeing the hideous, wooden stage with utter
contempt for its poor craftsmanship. The knife again flew up
against the moon and down into Mandy’s beautiful abs. The tip
pierced into her pancreas and easily sliced it open. With two
hands, the sinister figure drew the blade across her full abdomen,
opening her up like a TV dinner. Her salad-filled guts spilled from
the gaping, gushing wound eagerly, but apprehensively. They fell
onto her lap and there they stayed, a steaming pile. Mandy watched
helplessly and soundlessly, unable to comprehend why her simple
desires in life should lead to this, why her pleas would go
unheard, or just what was in that particular segment of
intestine—was that a leek?

When Mandy’s light at last went
out, the vicious slasher stooped to brush some intestine off
Mandy’s magnificent thigh. With a primal growl, he sank his teeth
into the already-bloody thigh, leaving his mark. The mark of the
Shakatitt Ripper, long-time rival of the Shakatitt Shark!

Just kidding. It was the
Shakatitt Shark.

Chapter 17

The mouths of sharks are slow
and cumbersome. They could never shred documents in a hurry.
Moreover, I find their teeth aesthetically displeasing, bearing
uncomfortable resemblance to my Uncle Anders’. I had to change
this.

“Think of the bear-trap,” I
told my assistants, who were already working on the electromagnetic
exoskeleton I’d requested at noon. “How powerfully and quickly it
snaps.”

“But Researchmeister,” they
answered, “there are no bears in the sea!”

How unoriginal their minds.

“When your mouth is a bear
trap,” I replied, “everything starts looking like a bear. Which is
why we need a bear trap that the shark can open and close with a
pneumatic pump in its mandibles.”

“Yes, Researchmeister,” they
answered, fearful of being fed to my pet shark, Slice, so named for
his fin-blades and preference for some lime in his margarita.