Nazi Sharks! (9 page)

From my good humor, one would
not suspect I had found the Commandant buggering my wife earlier.
“Here is a real man, Sigmund,” she’d shouted, “a real man goes in
the back door and comes out the front.”

I wasn’t even sure what that
meant, other than to insult me. The Commandant, for his part,
continued the buggery in earnest, the sweat glistening on his bald,
red head, gluing to it strands of his comb-over. Even in this
state, he took the time to explain himself. “You are too much the
tit-man, Sigersbaum,” he grunted, “and have neglected this
fantastic ass. I do not even care about tits. They are the
protuberances of cattle. Let them hang there, out of my sight.”

I was disheartened. As much by
my wife’s infidelity as by the unwholesome neglect of her bounteous
boobs. His hands had no desire to squeeze them into erotic pulp.
His mouth no need to slather their every square centimeter. Yet I
was not the real man!

At any rate, he’s dead now.

Chapter 18

“Do you think they’ll even
show?” Nikki asked.

She figured they wouldn’t, but
what if they did? What had Edwina gotten them into? Synchronized
swimming was one thing, but in shark-infested waters with a serial
killer on the loose—those are no conditions for a pirouette.

“They’ll show,” Edwina
affirmed.

Was it just over a Spic calling
himself Burt Reynolds, she wondered contemptuously, or—no, this was
a point of honor. We cannot let our men by stolen willy-nilly, even
creepy Hispanic men with no visible means of income. Really, her
resentment went deeper, to Edwina’s ongoing talent for dragging the
girl-gang from one fad to another. If it wasn’t 1950s synchronized
swimming, it was a 1970s delinquent gang, a 1990s goth troupe, or
that weird bee costume fad—what was that about, anyway? Ultimately,
she thought, Edwina just watched too many movies and was way too
impressionable. Nikki knew this, but how did she end up in the bee
costume? And would she end up in a shark? These questions remained
relevant to her.

Andrea kicked a little dune
that had once been a proud sand castle, in which a noble sand king
once reigned.

“That was such an AIDS-ridden,
douche-washy thing to do!” she spat.

“No kidding,” Mila agreed,
casting her glances over the beach, shielding her eyes. There was
no sign of the Cherry Bombs. It was just like them to be late.
Skank Standard Time is always an hour behind.

“Thanks, guys!” Edwina said. “I
know it’s risky with that shark around and I just want you to know
how much this means to me.”

Nikka felt her resistance
crumble. She knew Edwina felt every word of that sentence—not just
in her throat, but in her heart. She cast her arms around her
troublesome friend and held her tight.

“Hey, death by shark-devouring
before dishonor by slut,” Steph proclaimed, joining in on the
increasingly sexy hug. “It’s too convoluted to be our motto, but
it’s how I feel.”

Mila and Andrea joined in,
making the group hug complete and impressively arousing. Kevin
Costner trained his binoculars on the delectable sight of
compressed girl-flesh and mentally filed it away for later, just
behind the mental bestiality folder.

“What would I do without you
guys?” Edwina gushed.

“You dykes already at it?”
Sherry asked. Where the hell had she come from?

The Cherry Bombs were standing
right behind the sexy group hug, hands on their hips. With their
black-and-red two-piece bikinis and fin-shaped mohawks, they were
ready for action.

“Here’s an idea,” Edwina
answered. “You can suck the turds out of a squirrel’s asshole—or
you can shut our mouth and start swimming.”

Sherry snorted with derision.
She’d been told worse things by better people. Why’d she keep
emailing the cardinal anyway?

“So who’s the judge?” Sherry
asked.

“I am!” Costner answered, from
directly behind her, the sunscreen on his nose only enhancing his
pervert’s smile.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Nevermind that,” he answered.
“Same rules as the main competition. I do not judge you based on
your tits or your asses—not professionally, anyway. I judge based
upon grace of execution, harmony of the team, and innovation of the
moves. Not, I repeat, tits and ass.”

Sherry and Edwina exchanged
skeptical glances, the first and last time they’d ever be on the
same wavelength. All the girls crossed their arms and Costner
imagined what it must feel like to be those forearms.

“Uh-huh,” Edwina answered.

“Both teams swim at once,”
Costner stated. “Everyone ready?”

“We’re readier than your wife’s
greasy tortilla-hole on fiesta night,” Sherry snapped and drew her
team to the water’s edge.

“We’re ready,” Edwina
agreed.

“Go!” Costner shouted.

Edwina led her Queens into the
water for the dramatic showdown. Yet, her mind was preoccupied.
What were the twenty-eight flavors of Dr. Pepper? And she wondered
if Reynolds would show up. Had he stayed up all night filling
Sherry with his slimy queso? “That could’ve been me!” Edwina did
not think. She felt it, but really she was angry. And violence
isn’t the answer to anger; a fist will never give you back your
superiority (unless it’s
really
well aimed), but skilful
competition and honorable victory will.

When Nikki was a little girl,
she’d ride a pig named Mister Bertrand. Her mom even made her a
tiny, pink saddle for the Bertrand Rides. Whenever Mister Bertrand
would crash into a pile of filthy, stinking mud, so would Nikki.
Being there, with their finals routine readied for an audience of
perverts and sharks, she felt she was back on that saddle in some
sense—and she couldn’t be happier.

The Bubblegum Queens reached
their positions and immediately began their elegant strokes, first
circling with the geometric perfection of Aunt Gertrude’s hideous
wallpaper, then spiralling, kicking, arms and fingers flailing,
like any girls in a Busby Berkeley musical. Boooooring! These girls
were certainly hot, Costner thought, and worthy of licking over
every inch of their body, yes. There were inches of body they
didn’t know existed and his tongue would find them. Would find them
all. But they hid it under a definitive not-slutty approach that he
couldn’t comprehend. The Lord Jesus didn’t give them maracas like
that to hide under a one-piece. Consequently, his head turned
toward the edgier, nastier Cherry Bombs, or ‘Cherry Bowls,’ as he
called them, because he wanted to eat cherries directly from their
rectums.

The Cherry Bombs, for their
part, had saved their skankiest routine for last. That’s making
daddy proud. They began their formation in a C-shape that rotated
into a ‘U,’ then to an ‘n’, and then broke into a T-shape. They
then fell onto their backs, as they had so often done, and synched
into the form of a huge vagina. Their legs shot into the air like
daggers and each side stabbing at the other like a hideous swamp
beast with teeth around its vagina. Costner was initially confused,
then intrigued, engrossed, and ultimately aroused by the deep
statement on the theme of pussy power.

The Nazi sharks began their
routine in earnest. They had formed a harsh, rectangular formation,
with the Shark Fuhrer at the lead. Their pattern remained
synchronized, yes, but constant, without any flourish or variation,
making their routine the most unambitious and belabored of the
three. Of course, the sharks weren’t there to compete—they were
there to eat. And they, much like Costner, liked what they were
seeing: hot, sexy lunch.

Costner and the sharks thought
at once, “I’d like to eat that.” But who stood a better chance at
succeeding? Here’s a hint: it’s the sharks.

Unaware of the sharks’
presence, the Queens unleashed their secret weapon. Not that
sudden, warm stream of urine Andrea thought she felt. That was an
accident and Nikki had hoped no-one noticed. Not having time to
prepare a new routine, Edwina had decided, “We’re sexing that shit
up,” and so they did. As they’d planned, the Queens tore off their
pre-ripped one-pieces to reveal heavenly bodies unsullied by cloth,
completely painted in waterproof body paint to resemble sexy
fishwomen. “We can do it,” Edwina had told the girls, “we can
combine tits and talent. And then combine that with ungodly fish
mutants.”

As though a fishing hook were
lodged in Costner’s dense skull, his head suddenly and almost
involuntarily began turning to the Queens. What he saw would defile
many a tissue and keep his hands busy for years. “How did they
know?” he wondered. “My lifelong obsession with fishwomen has at
last been fulfilled.” Of course, Costner had a lifelong obsession
with many things: faeries, centaur girls, Catholic schoolgirls,
amputees, the head from
The Head that Wouldn’t Die
, and,
naturally, Bugs Bunny in drag.

When Costner finally did look
back at the Cherry Bombs, they were finalizing the slice of
performance art they’d titled, “Sea Cunt, Sea Cunt Run, Run Cunt
Run.” Even their sly reference to
The Postman
was completely
lost on Costner, who was immersed in the Queens’
Waterworld
.
He turned just in time to see Sherry hoisted onto the shoulders of
the Bombs, her legs spread as wide apart as possible. Her angry,
red vagina stared at him from her crotchless bikini bottom like an
evil hypnotist. Then, like an overstuffed Pop Tart, Sherry’s cherry
innards gushed from her open orifice. Costner scarcely even
registered the presence of the shark that had chomped her. Sherry’s
gore rained down from the rent torso over the shrieking Cherry
Bombs. With entrails hanging over her shoulders, Ginger the Cherry
Bomb began swimming to shore. The others followed, Pepper
unconsciously carrying Sherry’s leg with her like a floatation
device, club, or elaborate time-telling device.

Edwina watched in undiluted
horror as the shark swam away from the scene with a piece of
intestine hanging out of its mouth—how embarrassing! Like a
stubborn piece of spaghetti, it sucked the intestine down its
throat and swam toward the Queens at an unholy pace.

Mila suddenly wished she could
walk on water and hoped Jesus might do her a solid. But to no
avail, she could still only sink or swim, that age-old metaphor.
Somehow it doesn’t feel so cliché when you’re trying to escape from
demonic sharks with Nazi cyborg powers.

Screams resounded over the
ocean signalling the consumption of more Cherry Bombs. From his
position on the shore, Costner’s erection had completely died—much
to his credit—and he remained frozen in abject horror as sharks
sank their monstrous teeth into two more Cherry Bombs. Such a waste
of tits and ass!

“Hurry!” Nikki shouted back to
Mila, who had begun trailing behind the rest of the girls.

“I’m trying!” Mila shouted.

That’s when Nikki noticed her
friend had no feet left! Mila’s gushing stumps crashed against the
ocean with admirable fury, propelling her with speeds impressive in
any Special Olympics. But the sharks were not so impressed. With
disgusting, totalitarian sadism they chomped her stumps down bit by
bit, until they were to her knees. Still, Mila kicked those
gradually disappearing legs like a wind-up bath toy.

“We have to help her!” Nikki
shouted to the others.

But it was too late. Mila’s
stumps could propel no more and at last, unable to swim, she sank.
The one time she’d asked for a physically impossible miracle, Jesus
let her down. Way down, to the bottom of the sea.

The other Queens had reached
the shore, a strange, huddled mass of panicked fishwomen. Costner
was right there, helping them—and how he wished it were under
better circumstances. In blubbering anticipation, the naked babes
shuddered at the shore, hoping Mila would resurface. When all hope
seemed to be lost, the limbless Mila somehow wriggled to shore,
smiling like the happiest wormwoman you ever saw.

“I made it!” she exclaimed
excitedly, unaware of pain, blood loss, horrifying deformity, or
Nikki’s sudden need to vomit. “Let’s go watch
Breaking
Bad
.”

She wriggled further ashore to
stop herself choking on the waves, paying no heed to the sharks
flying from the ocean behind her. One sank its teeth into the
buttocks of a fleeing Cherry Bomb who had thought she was safe.
Like a mock rendition of the Coppertone girl, it pulled her to sea
by the badonkadonk.

“You always said I had too much
junk in my trunk,” she cried in detached shock to her one surviving
teammate, who at that moment was being pulverized beneath a
flopping shark. The weight of the beast crushed her ribcage into
her lungs before she had time to worry about that sudden and
unexpected charley horse. As her life breathed out, the shark
slapped her dying mammaries with an insolent fin and returned to
sea.

The Bubblegum Queens realized
they had to get Mila away from the shore, but were unsure of how or
wear to grab her. “Dammit!” Edwina shouted, “no time to stand
around!” She grabbed Mila’s double-Ds and started to pull her up
the beach when the Shark Fuhrer itself leaped onto the shore. Its
cold, demonic eyes and Edwina’s met with pure hatred and a contest
of wills. A contest the shark easily won by snatching Mila’s pelvis
in its mouth and throwing her like a discus to a waiting shark on
its left. The waiting shark caught her and devoured her like a
Gummi worm. Good pass, man.

“Noooo!” Edwina shouted.

The Queens restrained Edwina as
she tried to run at the Shark Fuhrer in blind fury. Frustrated by
her friends’ good intentions, she crumbled to the ground in tears.
Only then did she notice she still had Mila’s breasts in her hands
and threw them away with a shriek.

The sharks receded into the
ocean, regrouping to think over strategy/dessert. All that was left
of Mila was her rack. The Cherry Bombs had been eaten completely.
And they were late for
Judge Judy
. Somehow everything seemed
empty. As Costner pleaded with the Queens to recuperate in his
homemade jacuzzi, they could think of nothing but going home.