Nazi Sharks! (7 page)

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 squirted 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

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.

“Yeah,” he said, with one of
those sighs that come from a life of confusion in which a purpose
never becomes clear, obscured by the steely bristles of Burt
Reynolds’s beefy mustache. “I don’t know. My dad has this thing
about America, and testosterone, and combining them into a
delicious confection. Kinda like a blueberry pancake. Only more
butch.”

“Right,” Edwina encouraged,
poking at a deviously evasive olive that kept slipping beneath the
feta.

“Well, so, when he comes to
America,” Reynolds continued, “the caterpillar that had been Carlos
Alvarez blooms into the butterfly that is Kevin Costner. Why
Costner, right?”

Edwina, despite owning an
original VHS printing of
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves
,
nodded. (She’d had it signed by Christian Slater.)

“His favorite action star.
Simple as that. Now, at that time, I’m only ten years old. And he
tells me, ‘So who you want to be, eh?’ And I say, ‘Ryan Reynolds.’
He’s a funny guy. But my dad—Ryan Reynolds doesn’t exist to him.
Two Guys, a Girl, and a Pizza Place
may as well never
happened. He only hears ‘Burt.’ So, I become Burt Reynolds.
And—”

Reynolds paused to deride
himself with a mocking ‘hah,’ a scoff laced with bitterness, like a
hint of nutmeg in a sopapilla.

“I’ve had my whole life trying
to live up to that name,” he went on. “I can grow a mustache as
much as I can eat oil spills and crap lollipops. And the worst
thing about it all? Even Ryan Reynolds got all beefy and macho now!
What’s with that? I’m a pussy in my father’s eyes and—yeah, y’know
what? Maybe even my own.”

Edwina had listened with
growing sympathy for a tale so equally harrowing and stupid. But
she understood completely, minus the bizarre homoeroticism; she
remembered how it felt to be told she would amount to nothing
unless she learned the proper use of go-go boots, the sense of
uselessness she felt upon receiving a stripper pole for her
fourteenth birthday, the desire to just disappear when her jeans
would always come out of the wash as daisy-dukes.

“There’s always Debbie
Reynolds,” Edwina suggested with glib amusement.

Lancing one of the shrimp
sulkily, he replied after some hesitation, “You’d get along with my
dad.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Really. I can
see how Burt Reynolds can be a cloud over your head—a hairy,
musk-scented cloud. But you shouldn’t let it get to you. I’d pick
you over Burt any day.”

With a mischievous grin,
Reynolds finished off the helpless, marinara-covered shrimp, and
spoke these magic words, “Thanks, Deezen. Let’s dance!”

Reynolds rose from the cherry
wood table with the nimbleness of any cartoon mouse, his hand
out-stretched to the fine piece of ‘50s-throwback ass. He’d never
felt more free. He didn’t need to be Burt, Reynolds, not even
Debbie. He’d be his own damn Reynolds. The kinda Reynolds that’ll
get laid by Eddie Deezen—a hot girl named ‘Eddie Deezen,’ that
is.

Not sure what the radio station
was, but Elvis was singing “Burning Love,” and Edwina had never
felt more like dancing. She accepted Reynold’s delicate, brown
hand, and they broke to the dance floor with such joy, the
breadstick-wielding patron had to play dead and hope they’d just
pass. Other patrons, however, made space in the center of the
café’s small dance floor—built by a blind carpenter named ‘Tantra
Jack,’ and where he got that name is best left a deep, dark
secret.