Nazi Sharks! Page 5

  “What if he’s the Shakatitt Shark?” Andrea asked, at last voicing her fears. It felt like a coffee enema in her soul, except not as wet or energizing.

  Of all her friends, Edwina was the hardest to read, more like Finnegans Wake than Goosebumps: Say Cheese and Die. The undeclared leader of the gang, Edwina had all the poise, beauty, confidence, and never seemed to fart. She had an unpleasant childhood that she’d only talk about when sleeping within two miles of a Taco Bell. Nothing in her seemed abrasive, but she did seem to be a magnet for negative forces, as though the world itself said, ‘Oh come on!’ She learned to swim so well because every boat she’d board would be sure to sink, every slice of bread in her toaster to kinda burn, not enough so you can quite throw it out, but enough that you can’t enjoy it much either.

  The Bubblegum Queens all looked to Andrea. “I mean, Burt Reynolds can’t be easy to live up to. The pressure could drive anyone…”

  “A little crazy,” Nikki agreed, nodding her head. “Just like Burt Reynolds’ performance in…uhh…”

  “Life,” Steph finished with a shrug.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “I’ll throw you a bone,” Edwina told them. “Sharky’s Machine.”

  “You just solved the murders!” Mila exclaimed. “It’s him!”

  “I’m leaving,” Edwina replied with bemusement. “Don’t wait up.”

  Edwina left like a breeze amidst cherry blossoms, Andrea thought, carefree, unpolluted, and attracted to Hispanic men. That kind of freedom was hard-earned, Andrea realized, and respected Edwina for it the way she respected a particularly strong cheddar. Edwina had been a boyish girl in school with a passion for dinosaur anatomy and mating practices. Andrea recalled fondly how teacher after teacher tried to beat this out of her, but Edwina would only use these as ‘studies in dinosaur deviance.’ Despite this intellectual bent, her face resembled neither a pizza nor a clam chowder, and her body had taken the curvaceous shape of a robot cheerleader. When she made her valedictorian speech wearing only a chemise (to make a point, and she made many), those who had called her ‘Dinoporn,’ for years regretted it and even took a keen interest in it themselves. Andrea, on the other hand, regretted having worn anything at all. Friendly competition aside, Andrea probably loved no-one more than Eddie, except for Scott Valentine. She—they all, really—had been attracted to Edwina like gorgeous, busty iron filings to a magnet. She was Edwina.

  After a few moments of silence, Mila started up again, as Andrea knew she would—it was so Mila to let the mood mellow and then rev it up again like a monkey on waterskis.

  “He was in Deliverance,” she said.

  “Does he kill anyone in that?” Nikki asked.

  “Just hillbillies. Does that even count?”

  “Hillbillies are people, too,” Andrea blurted, instantly regretting it, because, deep down, she didn’t believe it anyway. She always told herself, ‘You don’t defend an idea you don’t believe in, stupid!’ “They’re born, just like me and you, except without sanitation and always during an episode of Steve Wilkos. They have hopes and dreams, like that one where they’re being fried up by roadkill and it’s going to eat them.”

  Mila rolled her eyes and went silent. Andrea knew Mila would tweet about this later.

  “Still,” Andrea said, “I’m worried about Eddie.”

  “Me too,” Steph agreed, “there’s a funny vibe tonight. A dangerous vibe.”

  “Dangerous and stupid,” Andrea agreed.

  Chapter 14

  Salt Water Titties

  There was Sheena. Her massive melons proudly jutted forward in the moonlight like exhibits in a planetarium. The ocean wind raked her silvery blonde hair and the surf splashed around her tight, bronzed body, mingling with the drool puddling before her three admirers. She led the Pussy Willows with an iron tit. Now she’d led them, as any great leader must sometimes do, to some topless swimming in dangerous, shark-infested waters with three, horny douchebags whose only assets were ‘Hey, nice abs!’

  “Aren’t you guys afraid of the shark?” Sheena asked the douchebags defiantly. She didn’t know their names. None of the girls did. Maybe the guys didn’t, either. What did names really mean in a world of pure sensation, a world comprised of oceans, tits, and cheap vodka?

  “Yeah, so?” one guy said. “Tits win. Like, every time.”

  The other two guys agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly enough to provide a round of fist-bumps.

  “I don’t think we should be here,” Lisa said, trying to hide how she was shivering, but her jiggling jugs could hide nothing (except that coupon for $1 off Oikos Yogurt she’d forgotten there last week).

  “That’s so existential,” the second douchebag said, his head nodding with ponderous agreement. “I often feel the same way. Like, why? Why me? Why life? Why anything at all? I dunno. We could just be, like, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Lisa’s brain hurt and she didn’t understand. And she hadn’t even eaten any ice cream. “I mean—I don’t wanna be eaten by sharks,” she said. “I think that’d really suck.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Vicky agreed.

  “That’s deep, too,” douchebag two agreed, because he’d agree with anything as long as those hypnotizers were out, “I guess.”

  Sheena turned her attention from the allure of the sea. It was an allure than went back centuries in her family of great seafarers who had braved the mysteries of the sea to discover lands and creatures unutterable in these pages (or stayed home and lied about it). She regarded the fools behind her and grew irritated.

  “Shut your kale-holes!” she shouted. “I need my tits moistened in cool, sea brine each night or my swimming’s off for weeks. You know this.”

  “But Sheena,” Lisa whined, “the competition’s been aborted. Just like your babies.”

  “Hah!” Sheena shouted in defiance, her breasts raised like an ogre’s mace, ready to squash a village of peaceful, yet annoying elves. “I’m mega-fertile and so is this beach—for competition, that is! Just give it a few days.”

  “Am I gonna have to pay for an abortion?” the third douchebag asked. But his inquiry fell on deaf ears, for Sheena immediately ran into the sea to feel the saline fluid rejuvenate her mammaries. All guys followed like zombies. Tit-loving zombies.

  “Hey!” Lisa shouted, growing panicky. “This isn’t existential at all! Come back, guys!”

  “You heard the girl!” Vicky shouted back. “We have to moisten these tits in cool, sea brine.”

  “Not existential at all,” Lisa muttered to herself, collapsing onto the beach and sulking, her breasts hanging with pendulous dismay. As she watched the others frolic with abandon, she covered up her tits with a bikini top, clothing herself out of pure resentment.

  Lisa was too absorbed in her tantrum and repressed daddy issues to even notice the gleaming blade-like protrusions in the water, cutting across the moonlight path. If she had, would she have warned her stupid companions? Would that make her a bad person by inaction? These moral questions would be studied for years if anyone at all cared to pose them.

  The sharks, for sure, couldn’t care less. They saw a meal before them. But maybe there was some real depth to these sharks. Maybe they didn’t just see a meal, but victims, whose consumption was a ritual act of absorbing another’s lifeforce, a sexual act of totally overpowering another body, a political act in the name of the Fuhrer. Nah. These sharks were monsters and they were going to enjoy destroying beautiful things. The tits would fly.

  With their in-built nightvision, the enhanced cerebella of the sharks analyzed the positions of the frolicking bimbos and their horny guests. They calibrated which deserved to die the most, which had the most meat, and, of course, which would die the most hilariously. That wily Hitler thought of everything.

  “Guys, like, get out of the water!” Lisa called out, not because she saw a shark, but because something just felt wrong—it started as a twitch in her right hooter, squirmed its way to her nipple, and squi
rted forth as an idea of ‘total bad vibes.’ But in the headlight of tits and dicks, she was completely ignored.

  “How do you like my floatation devices?” Sheena asked douchebag number one.

  “I can’t wait to sink my teeth into them!” he exclaimed with the complete honesty only a true moron can manage.

  “Wrong metaphor, asshole!” she shouted, bashing his face with her right tit. The impact sent his head flying back with the force of a well-aimed volleyball.

  “What?” the douchebag wondered.

  “If you sink your teeth into a floatation device, it’ll burst and we all sink! That’s stupid!”

  With total disregard for her logic, a shark burst from the water at just that moment with a scientifically implausible roar and sank its fearsome rows of teeth into her favorite tit. Sheena screamed in shock and horror, maybe even pain. With almost no effort at all, the hateful beast had torn the mouthful off in a burst of gore and silicone, leaving a gaping black hole in her chest—a true metaphor for her heart.

  “Oh my god!” the douchebag screamed. “Oh my god!”

  Sheena shrieked with unutterable agony. Her hands felt disbelievingly at the vast space her tit had occupied, but it grasped only emptiness and jets of escaping blood.

  “That bastard shark took one of my tits!” the douchebag shouted. “Oh my god!”

  “She paid good money for that thing!” Vicky gasped, the full horror of the situation at last dawning on her.

  Like an Egyptian coconut monkey, the shark burst from the sea once more to reclaim the last, ripe fruit. The bottom row of shark-teeth gripped like a rake and penetrated the distended flesh beneath Sheena’s remaining breast, easily sinking through the thin, veiny skin. Sheena’s breath left her and she was unable to shriek the pain away, or even recite a line of Chaucer. The shark’s obscene stank penetrated her nostrils again and again. Seeing fragments of her first tit caught in the shark’s teeth, Sheena slapped at its prehensile face, smearing her titblood over the mindless snout. But all for nothing. With a swift, upward movement, the full weight of the shark ripped Sheena’s second tit clean-off, leaving her a concave-chested bitch. The tit rolled down the shark’s gullet like a bowling ball, never to be returned. With pain, shame, and probably blood-loss, she sank like a cinderblock.

  “Stop talking and swim for shore!” Lisa’s douchebag shouted, himself taking the lead, motivated as much by Lisa’s heaving (and totally not shark-eaten) chest as by the desire to not be digested.

  The first douchebag drew himself from the horror of having had so much boobage and having lost it so fast. He quickly began stroking through the gore-filled water toward shore, but not fast enough. The shark, who had been dubbed ‘Sharkenstein,’ by the wittier Nazi scientists, used his pneumatically-powered steel jaws to begin dicing the douchebag into nice, easily-digestible bits.

  As the shark worked its way up from his feet, to his knees and to his waist, inch-by-inch, the douchebag called out his deathcry, one that would live on forever amongst true tit-men, “I lived for huge hooters—I died for huge hooters!”

  “It’s so true,” the third douchebag shouted out, stifling a sob. He’d known that bastard for a fuckload of years, and that was a man who had thrown away career, love, and now life itself for some big ol’ boobies. “So true!”

  As this slice of heart-rending drama was taking place, one of the sharks took the liberty of rising directly under Vicky. Initially she wondered why she was moving so fast, when she realized the massive stick of toothy meat was beneath her. She slid back against the shark’s dorsal fin. Her anus, vulva, and at last her clit involuntarily rubbed against the fin.

  “Oh gosh,” she gasped, her grip on the shark tightening in unexpected bliss. Without warning, the shark tossed her into the air like a piece of popcorn—popcorn with huge jugs, that is—and caught her in its insatiable maw (that’s its mouth).

  “Hey!” the third douchebag shouted with indignation. “They didn’t even do that in Two-Headed Shark Attack!” He was angry the shark dared savage the bimbo he’d planned to savage, but mostly he feel cheated by a movie that didn’t push the bounds of shark cruelty to its utmost extreme

  As the jaws compressed on the bewildered Vicky, she doubled over like a folding bed in the shark’s mouth. The rows of teeth joined, snapping off her legs and hands. The now stump-limbed Vicky wiggled helplessly in the shark’s mouth toward salvation. Her head emerged from the toothy grate like a baby kitten in a storm drain. The shark took this opportunity and snapped a final time—for Vicky, that is.

  The douchebag’s indignation didn’t last much longer than Vicky. One shark clasped onto his hairy feet—without even realizing he’d had a lifelong foot fetish—while the other gripped the man’s head between its dagger teeth with not quite enough pressure to pop it like a melon, but enough to make it hurt like after a really drunken night in which he’d been stabbed several times in the head.

  With small, oddly dainty bites, the sharks nibbled their way along the douchebag’s pain-racked body, their noses meeting in the middle. Their cold, shark hearts were swept away in oceans not of brine and seaweed, but of joy, possibility, and love. The universe was not a cruel abyss in which one eagerly awaited a drunken sailor or a wounded seal pup, but an eternity of passion. Even the douchebag’s incessant writhing and screams of ungodly agony as his blood bubbled up out of his splintered ribcage and his own kidneys were squished out of his mouth could do nothing to dampen the flourishing of their scaly hearts and souls. The sharks met in a kiss. Then they greedily devoured their morsels with the fury of Satan’s asshole and returned to formation, leaving only some intestines behind them—in the shape of a heart.

  For anyone keeping count, that left only the second douchebag in the sea of despicable Nazi sharks, who had pledged with fin-to-heart—or as near heart the fin would reach—to destroy human dignity and freedom with every bite, not unlike Taco Bell.

  The sharks surrounded him, their teeth still and ready with casual murderousness. Suddenly the douchebag, who knew himself as Steven Powers Folkman, recalled his childhood, ritually abused by his parents’ satanic cult and the cult’s alien overlords, Geshong and Pelga. Years of repressed fury exploded in a sudden dive beneath the sharks and a subsurface speed-swim to the tits awaiting him on shore. And who cares if his love of huge breasts was entirely determined and planned by those sinister alien beings, or perhaps was all a reaction against the maternal love he never really experienced? Steven Powers Folkman did. So he made a mental note to consult a therapist and kept swimming.

  The ill-hooked bikini top fell from Lisa’s overripe honeydews like a dead bat. She rose to embrace Steven. Sobbing hysterically, unable to voice her joy that he’d survived, she knew she didn’t need to—Steven hugged her back, her melons squishing against his waxed chest. He took a deep breath, as he learned in those ballet classes, and prepared to tell her who he was.

  Before the least particle of oxygen could whistle through his vocal cords, those clever Nazi sharks came flopping in formation onto the shore, their huge bodies shaking the beach and crushing a sand castle made by an austic boy named ‘Tyler.’ If one were listening closely instead of running for one’s life, one might have heard Sharkenstein laugh.

  “Hey, that’s cheating!” Lisa shouted futilely.

  “That’s not even scientifically possible!” Steven the douchebag exclaimed.

  Steven and Lisa remained in their embrace, screaming into one another’s ears, as the sharks took turns chomping on them. First their ribcages pierced one another’s bodies until they vomited blood onto one another’s faces. Steven had imagined the night going down similarly, but without the horrible agony and broken bones. As their torsos were ground into indistinguishable wads of hamburger meat, Steven lost consciousness and life, his severed head at last rolling between Lisa’s mysteriously intact bumpers like a broken pinball machine. It’s how he would’ve wanted to go.

  Chapter 15

  The Big Date

/>   Burt Reynolds laughed hysterically, his small, thin hand pounding the table with mirth, making his shrimp leap from its marinara as his heart leapt from the red sauce of love in his chest, the pesto of trepidation clinging to the sides of the cup. He’d only just met her, but she felt different from any other woman he’d ever seen, heard, and perhaps tasted—he could do yoga with this woman and not feel like Hitler, a very limber Hitler who cares about his whole well-being, thank you very much.

  “Really,” Edwina insisted. “It’s completely true. My middle name is ‘Deezen.’ My dad was a huge fan. I was forced to watch those movies so many times as a little girl, when things were good. Sometimes I find myself emoting in pure Deezen. I can even feel it in my bladder when he’s urinating.”

  “No way!” Reynolds exclaimed, still guffawing. Again, mirth was involved. Other patrons eyed the couple with amusement, wariness, or in one man’s case, profound and irrational terror, holding two breadsticks in the shape of a cross.

  “No, I made that part up,” the lovely vision with the teasingly retro bob confessed. “But now it’s your turn. Clearly your dad’s name really is ‘Kevin Costner.’ But I’m not buyin’ you’re a ‘Burt Reynolds.’”

  Reynolds chuckled again, this time not with mirth, but irony, resentment, and the question, ‘Why’d I choose marinara?’ Her question was one he’d normally sidestep by referencing the oeuvre of David Lynch or at least his high score on a Frogger machine, but Edwina ‘the Bubblegum Queen’ Deezen Burnyeat was something else. Just look at her: that blue dress clung to her voluptuous form like a contract to a universe of carnal pleasures. Yet each of the five-dozen white polkadots, perhaps an inch in diameter each, was like a cloud of good values that tempered her sensuality to something less like a switchblade and more like a bathrobe just out the dryer.