Shark Beast

by Russ Cooper

  Suddenly, Kirsten didn't want to watch--even for a dream, this was getting a little too surreal. And kinda sick, to be honest. But, funny enough--she couldn't turn away.

  So: she lay there, in the surf, and watched Eddie slowly--and bonelessly--get pulled down into the sand.

  All the way down to his neck.

  She looked into his eyes.

  He looked into her eyes.

  And then--

  Some creature, some creature's head--

  (man, I got me some drunk imagination)

  --burst out of the sand, like a shark--that's what it looked like, a shark's head--but with tentacles and pinchers and who knew what else--

  (maybe I should be a writer)

  And that shark-creature-tentacle-thing just rose up and swallowed Eddie's big stupid dumb stupidjerky bloated head--

  A chomp. A loud chomp. And then--eeeew, gross--a sickly guttural swallowing sound... And then--

  Mr. Tacky Camaro was gone.

  Kirsten blinked. Then--she blinked again.

  Well. That was fun.

  A slow cool breeze overtook her. She let it. Wow. That was... wow.

  Kirsten stretched, listened to the waves. Then started to drift off again, for how long she didn't know, because--suddenly--she felt something.

  The sand, beneath her, starting to...

  ...shift.

  (when's this dream gonna be over, let's skip to the hangover and be done)

  ...undulating beneath her.

  (feels kinda good)

  Whatever. She shrugged, and sank back into her wet, sandy beach hallucination... began to sink...

  (felt a pinch... kinda painful, actually...)

  (but, hey, beats a crowbar, no?)

  ...sinking ...

  ... sinking ...

  ... sinking --

  Her gaze slipped, and wandered. Found herself looking out, into the ocean, those waves. As her vision slowly began to blur.

  Look.

  How interesting, yes?

  A little island of rocks. Just out there, in the water.

  Just like that t-shirt the guy tried to buy for me, at the crab used bookstore... the book used crab store... the...

  Welcome to Rock and Roll Island.

  Something like that.

  Man.

  I should have let him buy it for me.

  After all...

  He seemed nice.

  ~ ~ SIX ~ ~

  Downstairs In

  The Hermit Crab Used Bookstore:

  The Prank

  The next bit of action unfolds like a scene from one of those teenage scary movies. Imagine sitting in a darkened theatre, the lights low, the atmosphere tense and mysterious, and then, the following:

  TIGHT on the unlocked front glass doors of the bookstore, as a hand slowly -- and quietly -- gives a nudge.

  A YOUNG MAN peers his way inside, sneakily. He is carrying a black bag. Taking a few cautious peeks around to make sure the coast is clear, he sneaks behind the register counter, and looks inside his bag.

  He pulls out a black robe, a fake rubber knife, and a couple of Halloween masks. And, a small packet of fake blood.

  YOUNG MAN: (chuckles) This is going to be sweet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Now, we CUT to the back of the bookstore--

  Into the shadows of the hallway, down the splintered steps.

  As Roxy slams open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door (with no particular restraint), stalks across the hall to the bathroom door (with even less), waiting--quite impatiently, what else?--for D. J. to unlock it.

  Roxy: Don't even try to defend him.

  D. J.: (sighing) I'm not defending anybody. No part of any of this was even close to my idea.

  Roxy: Just unlock the bathroom and don't say anything else, because I'm tired of you men taking up for all you other men.

  Shrugging, he unlocks the door.

  D. J.: Look, you brought it up. I'm just saying --

  She SLAMS the door on him.

  D. J.: Fine. Whatever. Who cares. Not me. I hate this job. Buncha cement-head nitwits, soap opera 'Days of Our Lives' bookstore numbskulls...

  He looks over out into the body of the store, as if hearing something. Takes a step into the shadows, takes it in.

  Various shelves and shadows out in the store.

  D. J.: Pretty darn dark out there.

  He heads back to the bathroom door.

  D. J.: (muttering) C'mon, don't take all night.

  Suddenly: a sound, out in the darkness of the store.

  D. J. (grunts a la Scooby-doo) Ruh-roh.

  He considers banging on the bathroom door, but decides against it. He reluctantly takes a look -- peeking around the corner again. Pretty much what he saw earlier. Shelves and shadows.

  He obviously wants to see what's out there -- his curiosity is overwhelming his fear -- but he can't commit. Another SOUND.

  D. J.: This can't be a good idea. Yet, I must investigate ...

  He steps out into the darkness. A moment passes.

  Roxy peeks out of the bathroom -- no D. J.

  Roxy: D. J. ... don't be funny. Where are you?

  Nothing.

  Roxy: I'm going to scream. Truly.

  Nothing.

  Roxy: Very loudly, and very long. Just lettin' you know. Big heads-up, and whatnot.

  Nothing. She acquires an I-told-you-so expression, takes a beep breath, then an even deeper one, and lets out ... a very small:

  Roxy: Eeeep.

  Nothing.

  Roxy: Jerk.

  She disappears back into the bathroom. A moment later, she peeks out again, armed with a big spray can.

  The bathroom door slooowly opens, and after peering both ways, out comes Roxy, armed and ready.

  Roxy: (ominous singing) "Everything is fine, everything is o-kayyy..."

  After a few steps, Roxy peeks her head, hesitantly, around the corner.

  The store is festive with shadows and creaky noises.

  Pointing her spray can defensively, Roxy steps out into the shadows. Looks around, suspiciously, to the left, the right -- then abruptly sneaks behind some shelves--

  --as she gathers her courage, and sprints across an aisle to another hiding place behind some different shelves.

  She peeks around the corner of those shelves.

  More shadows, but nothing specifically scary.

  More courage gathered, our Roxy takes another deep breath, and--zoom!--makes a wild sprint toward the front of the store -- managing a few Peter Sellers style now-you-see-me now-you-don't hiding maneuvers behind various displays on her way.

  Zoom again!--Roxy dives behind the front desk, and peeks over the counter to make sure everything's copacetic. After a moment, she heads over next to the register, opens a drawer and pulls out some spare duplicate keys.

  She pockets the keys, then peers over the top of the front desk.

  Shadows but still nothing specifically frightening.

  It's hard to tell if she's disappointed, or just plain annoyed. Knowing her, it's probably both--but either way, she starts to retreat to the back of the store -- but then, notices something on the floor: an empty black bag.

  Cautiously, as if it might contain some sort of slumbering Roxy-eating beast, she... checks... it.. out, and finds some white gloves, a bottle of fake blood, a spare Halloween mask...

  She immediately glowers up at the ceiling.

  Roxy: Oooh! Bastard!

  She says a few angry things not-quite under her breath. Heads over to the front doors, gives a tiny nudge. Pushes open slightly, unlocked.

  Roxy: Oooh! I knew it! Bastard again!

  Annoyed and vengeful, she locks the doors and -- abruptly, tilts her head. Hears something out in the body of the story.

  Roxy: (grinning) Oh. You want to be funny, Mr. Prank Man? Well, let's get funny...

  Gangly-limbed, she darts into the shadows.

  Roxy now stalks the aisles, listening carefully for any clues of -- ahhh, she hears something
. Sidles up slyly against the shelves, making her way toward a section from which a long shadow is moving suspiciously.

  Making her way, and, armed with air freshener in hand, LEAPS AROUND CORNER!

  Roxy: AHHHHHHYYY!

  She immediately SUPER-SPRITZES a seemingly endless barrage of air freshener into the CAMERA.

  Which turns out to actually be D. J.

  Who is now on his back, spritzed beyond belief.

  Roxy: (realizing) Are you ... okay?

  D. J.: (groaning) I've been ... disinfected.

  With great annoyance and endless woe-is-me, Roxy helps him up.

  Roxy: Fine. Who cares. Whatever. Let's get out of here.

  They get up, slowly start to head to the back of the store.

  D. J.: (rubbing eyes) That's the last time I go to the bathroom with you...

  They make their way to the back office door--EMPLOYEES ONLY--jostle keys to see who gets to open it--while making sure, of course, to take turns looking over their shoulders--and finally make their stumbling way back into the office, and up the splintery stairs.

  Meanwhile, back at the front of the bookstore...

  Through the front glass windows we see our costumed prankster is outside the store for some reason (carrying a soda), and now when he tries to get back in -- finds the doors are locked.

  We can't hear him, but can't help but see his total frustration as he tries to jiggle the doors open, and when that doesn't work, he shakes his masked face, and -- after a contemplative sip from his soda -- goes off, presumably to find another way into the store.

  And--for the moment, at least--this portion of the horror classic "Dickie Fouls Up The Prank And Gets Locked Outside The Store" SLOWLY FADES...

  ~ ~ SEVEN ~ ~

  Back Out On The Beach:

  A Nerd With A Metal Detector

  and An Odd Theory Concerning

  The Alleged Misunderstood Quality

  of "The Phantom Menace"

  A real nerd by the name of J.J. Sully Chase was scouting the edge of the tide with his brand-new beach metal detector.

  Unfortunately, something detected him first.

  ~ ~ ~

  He had been drinking a bunch of beer, looking for treasure. He'd just finished pounding out a whole article on how "The Phantom Menace" was actually the best of the Star Wars movies, and had prepared to put it on the Kindle, sell it as a controversial article. Controversial, yes--but he actually believed it--or, at least, he did when he was drunk. Like here, now, looking for drunken treasure. It was the kind of article one could believe only when drunk, of course, but he didn't know that, and, in a few moments, wouldn't ever care.

  Still, it kept running through his head...then, in a slurry monologue, out of his mouth...

  "First--it was more realistic," he pointed out to the waves. "A lot of supposed complaints came from the movie focusing so much on space taxes and such. But let's be real--that would be a real problem, no? Space can't be all laser fights and hyperspacing. And even if it were--are lasers free? No, J. J. sure doesn't think so. And gas for the space ships--or dilithium crystals, whatever, it doesn't matter, that isn't the point, is it, no it isn't. The point was, and is, whatever you use for fuel, it's gonna cost money, or space coins, or whatnot. It certainly wouldn't be free. At least not for everyone. Obviously, if you were a member of the Empire, you'd get a good rate, but there would still be forms to fill out, and such. That's the point. So, c'mon--get real."

  He laughed knowingly, with a condescending-- if somewhat wobbly-- smirk.

  "Second--Jar Jar," he continued, as he twisted a dial on his metal detector. "Okay, he was an idiot. And annoying. I'll give you that. But before you celebrate, deluded readers, let me inform you of this undeniable fact--again, did you think every creature in space was going to be cool and neat, and well-designed? No. Of course not. That would be ridiculously unbelievable. There had to be some galactic creatures out there that were just plain out-and-out-annoying. That's a simple fact. And not 'cute' annoying like C-3PO, with a nice British accent, where you could just unplug him when he got on your nerves. No, that's not how it works--not on Earth, so how could you imagine it would be that way in space? Get real. You know there'd have to be some places that, truly, were like 'District 9'--and yes, that was a flawed film in itself--that's understood--but it showed that all aliens are not cute and cuddly or scary and cool. Excuse the series for wanting to be mature."

  Nodding drowsily, he congratulated himself for his once-again impeccable logic.

  "Thirdly, killing off Darth Maul... okay, there's no excuse for that."

  Generously, he allowed that point; he nodded, accepting that as a given.

  "But, now, fourth, Yoda's--"

  And that's when the tentacles whipped out from the dirt, and wrapped themselves in a rubbery tangle around the end of his metal detector.

  He paused, eyes swimming with uncertainty.

  He'd seen pink elephants before--cliche though, admittedly, that was-- but he'd never seen--

  "Hey!"

  A strong yank. The detector came out of his lubricated grip, and sunk about half a foot into the beach.

  Eyes narrowing frustratingly, he leaned down--

  "Now just a rotten pickin'--"

  --just as the detector was suddenly expelled out of the sand, smashing J. J. right in the forehead, and knocking him out--sending him tumbling like a sack of dirty Jabba the Hutt t-shirts, on his back, to the ground.

  Where he sprawled, unconscious and just plain out of it--

  --fortunately, so that he missed the rather gruesome details of his "Darth Maul-esque" exit from our story, as the tentacles rose up from the beach sand around him, did an ominous little dance, and slowly slithered tightly around him.

  ~ ~ EIGHT ~ ~

  Back Up In The Attic Of

  The Hermit Crab Used Bookstore:

  Oblivious Sex

  Roxy, looking quite woozy, walked into the attic hallway, guided by her candle. She stumbled groggily--then suddenly stopped, glaring at her candle, deeply transfixed by the flame, which seemed to be changing colors.

  "What's your deal, pokey woman?" asked D. J., stuck behind her.

  Roxy grimaced, blinking thickly. "I think ... the whore ... put something... in my tea."

  "You shouldn't call people names," said D. J. "It's judgmental."

  Roxy leaned up to him, eyeing him carefully. "Huh. And yet, that's exactly what you're doing to me right at this..."

  She blinked, cockeyed.

  "...whatever." Roxy nudged him aside. "Let's just get back, neuron."

  D. J. rubbed his forehead as she continued down the hall. Seemed he was feeling a bit of the tea himself. "'Neuron'...?"

  He stumbled after her. When he caught up with her, he found her staring into the abandoned office, her arms crossed, her face scowling.

  D. J. cautiously peeked around the doorway.

  Hoagie and Luna were really going at it. Hoagie on top, Luna leaning over the Ouija board. They were deliriously oblivious to their witnesses.

  "Many attempt..." Hoagie grunted feverishly, "...but few... reach... ohhhh... the I-I-Island of ROOOCKKK--!"

  Luna giggled in a gaspy wicked whisper, "Oh, play me... plug it in and play me..."

  Hoagie gibberished, played rapidly-diminishing air guitar with her very large breasts...

  Roxy and D. J. just stood there, for a long moment. Watching. It was quite the sight. Then Roxy turned, and vaguely looked at D. J. with a dull, bored expression.

  "Now can I call her a whore?" Roxy grumbled, giving D. J. a punch as she stalked back down the splintery hallway.

  ~ ~ NINE ~ ~

  Yet Again Out On The Beach:

  OPERATION: GETTING SOME

  There was no getting around it, Beck was a teenage dork and that was that.

  And Tara, she was officially semi-hot. Not cheerleader hot, by any means, not even majorette hot, really, but still sorta mostly near-hot. Certainly hotter than dork-hot. She was hot
like that redhead girl on the Mythbusters show--she was that kinda hot. Tall, thin, great hair (though she didn't know what to do with it, really), and a nice chest--very nice--and great legs.

  Great legs.

  Her only minuses, really, if you had to nitpick--well, her butt was a little big, not too big--Beck sure didn't mind--but it was... a little thick, technically. Not even chunky, but with girls, thick was too much (in their minds, anyhow). So there was that. And she was a little pale--again, not by Beck's standards, he was an albino snowman on the best of sunny days--but, again, technically, she was a little on the non-tanned side, no getting around it. Now out here, in the moonlight, he thought she looked beautiful, but if you had to point out flaws, that technically was one. And the other one, was those glasses. They weren't cool glasses, by any measure. If she'd just get contacts, or that laser-thing, she'd be hot. Officially right-close-to-hot.

  But then, if she were Officially Hot, or anywhere close, let's face it, she wouldn't be out here on the beach with him. Right now.

  Susceptible to his big plan...

  Operation: Getting Some.

  He was 18, and had never had any. He didn't really like to think about it, but it was a fact, so--still, he didn't like to think about it. She was 18, and she never talked about that kind of thing, but he figured she had, at least a couple of times. He didn't really like to think about that either. Still, he knew on pretty good authority she made out with at least a couple of guys, so-- odds were, right?

  But he didn't really like to think about it.

  Still--on to better things! Operation: Getting Some.

  No real point dwelling on how he managed to talk her even this far, to this point, sitting out on the beach at who-knew-what-time in the morning, in her bikini (and those awful glasses), with one sleeping bag between them. Suffice to say it involved a little bit of guilt-inducing, some begging, some more guilt, some accusations--"you owe me!"--some more guilting, a lot more begging, some twisting of the truth, just the barest hint of blackmail...