The city of angels, a place that, to many hovers between dreams and reality. A once near forgotten colonial outpost, the pueblo metamorphosed into an agrarian paradise owing to its sandy beaches, towering palm trees swaying in the gentle ocean breeze and hospitable climate before once again reinventing itself as the central hub for the burgeoning motion picture industry. While the palms and climate remained, they were forced to take a step back to the glamour and glitz of high-profile celebrities sashaying about the busy shopping districts of its Beverly Hills suburb and of course Tinsel Town itself, Hollywood. Visitors seemed to care less for the natural splendor and more for the gem studded fashionistas, expensive cars and homes which sprouted an entirely new industry, celebrity sightseeing. Tour busses roam Santa Monia Boulevard, one of the primary arteries to the city, their diesel fueled engines churning out noxious black clouds of exhaust. Street vendors line the sidewalks, their eagle-eyed gazes hunting for tourists, hawking maps of celebrity homes and chasing down anyone showing even the most remote interest.
A few short blocks north sits another vein of commerce, the even more famous Hollywood Boulevard where Chloe Benton strolls casually along the marble and gold walk of fame. Pausing every few steps for a glance at the gold stars emblazoned into the sidewalk bearing the name of movie stars, musicians, director and producers. Some display a list of achievements, others a simple camera or bullhorn and some bear a hand imprint in the cement. Recognizing the name of Aliens star Sigourney Weaver, she drops down for a closer look. Ignoring the assiduity of the street vendors trying to sell her various Knick knacks supposedly related to the stars represented by the walk of fame. Catching a glimpse of the stars’ handprint in the sidewalk she places her own inside of it, curiously comparing herself to the actress. She frowns, pulling it away, cradling the hand while resuming her trek.
“My hands are so tiny,” she mutters softly.
Continuing she crosses the notorious Vine Street ambling towards the Museum of illusions nestled into the corner of a tawny, non-descript concrete building resembling more a bank branch than a tourist attraction. The museum if flanked by the colorful signs of two offshoot attractions, looking to capture some of the spillage of the museum: Upside Down House and Giant’s house. Offering unique perspectives to the world the sites hold true to their names. Chloe passes them by, her eyes trained to her phone, specifically, the time.
“Oh fudge! I better hurry or I’m gonna miss the boat!”
Quickening her stride the ginger topped tourist blows past a number of hawks, squawking into her wake. Her simple black and white sneakers carrying her 100-pound frame nimbly over the rigid walkway, weaving in, out and between groups of tourists flocked together at a bus stop. The sun shines directly overhead, painting the honking cars, flat footed pedestrians and streets with afternoon rays. Absently the trotting teenager adjusts the position of a silver and black Las Vegas Raiders ballcap and rambles on until spying a taxicab parked outside of a Starbucks Coffee shop. She breaks into a full run noticing a middle-aged man with a dark, sun-drenched complexion stepping to the vehicle. Just as he reaches for the door of the white Dodge Charger. She cries out, anxiously waving her hand to draw his attention. He regards the girl curiously through charcoal marbles as she approaches huffing,
“I-I need a r-ride please,”’ she wheezes. Reaching into the hip pocket of snug fitting blue jeans she pulls out a wallet and asks, “H-How much?”
“Where are you going?” he seems to demand in thickly accented, broken English leaving her to guess him as being from somewhere in the middle east.
“I-I’m g-g-going to the P-Port of L-Los Angeles,” she stammers breathily. “P-P-Pier 13.”
The thinly built man takes a sip of his drink, nodding softly, gesturing her into the back seat. With a grateful smile she dislodges the neon pink ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and tosses it into the vehicle, stepping in after it and slams the door shut. With the press of a red button the V6 engine roars to life voraciously feeding on the fuel supplied by a heavy foot and belching out plumes of caustic white smoke from the violently spinning tires. The four-wheeled barbarian obnoxiously careens into traffic, the honking protests of the plebian machinery drowned out by its bellicose battle cry. Chloe, slammed back into the seat by the homicidal launch buckles up, snapping the over the shoulder harness across her simple white tee with a resounding click. She prefers not to watch the streets whizzing by and instead shoves her face into the appetizing glow of her cell phone. Activating the GPS service, she thumbs in the desired destination and is fed an estimated arrival time of just under fifteen minutes.
Two minutes and nineteen seconds later she is pulled from her reverie by the driver’s fragmented words,
“We are here,” he says, slapping the T-Bar console mounted shifter into park. He cranes his neck, turning around to face his disheveled client, “That will be one hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents,” he mumbles.
“F-For a two-minute ride?” she stumbles over the words, her mind clearly not anticipating such an egregious sum. “I-I-Isn’t th-that a lot?”
“Don’t forget the tip.”
With a sigh of capitulation, she begins to rifle through her backpack for the appropriate sum. Her diminutive digits pulling out pieces of clothing, a makeup kit, hairbrush, perfume and finally a haggard nest of crumbled bills. She picks them out counting out loud as she goes,
“Twenty, Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-one, fifty-one… I-I-I’m sorry Mr. Taxi driver man, I-I’m a slow c-counter,” she offers weakly and returns to the bills. She manages to fish out an assortment of Twenties and tens, counting them until reaching the magical number, “One hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents,” she says handing the money over.
“You forgot the tip,” he snipes.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she offers, demurely returning to her pack. A frown arcs over her sunken eyes upon noticing that all she has left are a clutch of ones. Preoccupied with the contents of her bag she fails to notice the gleaming white cruise liner being untethered from the pier. She rummages further still but is unable to find any larger denominations. “I-I’m s-sorry Mr. Sir, a-all I have left is a bunch of ones.”
“I will take them all,” he snorts, snatching the Two hundred sixty-eight one-dollar bills from the girl’s outstretched hand. “Now you must leave.”
Her hands are a blur grabbing and stuffing the scattered contents back into the bag, an effort that consumes several minutes of precious time while a foghorn pierces the air. With the last item hastily shoved inside she struggles to zip the bag closed and only by holding it to the floor with her feet and by using both hands is she finally able to close it. Slinging it over her shoulder she thrusts open the black leather padded door ajar and steps out onto the hot asphalt. No sooner than she can close it does the car fishtail maniacally back into traffic.
“Th-Thank you Mr. Man, sir!” she offers to the Dodge disappearing in a voluminous cloud of tire smoke. She shakes her head, confused by the breakneck departure and turns towards an unexpectedly empty pier. “Oh no!”
Heart pounding, her small feet explode into a full sprint, charging down the burnished plank jetty, dodging and weaving around clusters of people snapping pictures with their cell phones and waving goodbye to loved ones lining the promenade. She extends her arms hoping to grab hold of the synthetic black dock tie only to see the triple knotted far end fall into the azure waters lining the coast. Released from the ship the line is ratcheted back in by a dock worker who regards her critically.
“Miss your boat?” he questions indifferently, his sunbaked face focused on the task at hand. “Sorry kid but it ain’t gonna be back for a couple weeks,” he mutters in a dry southern twang, spitting out a dark brown wad of tobacco. “Come back in two weeks, ask if they’ll honor your ticket.”
“I-Is there a-another w-way?” Chloe gasps, her burning lungs dry heaving for gulps of the humid early summer air. “M-Maybe a boat th-that can c-catch up to it? I-I-It’s r-really imp-portent to me. M-My asshole b-boss just re-reinstated me, b-but if I m-miss the boat h-he’ll indefinitely f-fire me again.”
The man, tall and lanky, brushes aside an errant start of dirty brown hair, his grey-green eyes shimmering in confusion under an arced brow. He studies the girl’s round face, her gaze sullen and downturned, biting on her lower lip and sweating profusely from the sprint down the quarter mile long pier. He shakes his head in empathy.
“I’m sorry,” he grumbles, reeling in the last few feet of the dock line. “We don’t have anything like that…” a pause breaks his flow with a thought sliding into home plate. “But you might be able to hitch a ride on one of the fishing boats down yonder on the north end of the marina. They come and go all the time.”
Thanking him profusely Chloe turns and begins her third sprint of the day, legs pumping madly, thighs burning, lungs ablaze and heart playing a boogie beat. Her jaw is agape, having abandoned the limited supply of air available to the nostrils in favor of a more cavernous mouth. Her pace begins to slow. Gradually succumbing to the demands of her weary legs but the mind overrides her petite body, insisting on ‘just a few more steps’ until she is unable to run any further and collapses in a withered heap. Lined up along the much smaller docks are numerous fishing boats parading their sea worthiness in front of her desperate eyes. She takes a few moments to catch her breath and regain some of her depleted strength before swinging. But she misses, the small, open excursion boat has already been booked to capacity the captain tells her flatly. Dejected but not deterred she swings again, a speedy looking white deck boat with seating for six plus amenities. It too has been chartered and unavailable. Unwilling to give up she swings once more.
This vessel, a 30-foot red and white lobster boat sporting a black keel appears available at first glance. Chloe trots up a weathered wooden boarding ramp, her gaze fixated on a pilot house affixed to the top of the cabin. An older man wearing a ratty olive drab coat stands behind the antiquated looking boat’s wheel with six wooden spokes wrapped on the ends in tattered grey duct tape protruding beyond the felloe. The sturdily built man busies himself with a can of malt liquor, adjusting the brim of his grey leather ballcap to accommodate the changing position of the sun.
He casts a casual glance through steel-grey eyes towards her and offers a curt nod. She waves back, stopping just short of the edge of the boat. Reaching up he runs a huge, rough hand along a few curly strands of dark brown hair and turns to face her. His expression belies his demeanor, a coriaceous scowl framed by thick, greying sideburns and a thin mustache. He leans against the chest high brim of the pilot house, his body swaying ever so slightly, despite the absence of waves.
“What can I do for ya Missy?” he asks gruffly and a moderate, Boston accent.
“I-I-I n-need a ride please? I-I m-m-missed the cruise ship a-and m-my boss is g-gonna fire me again if I-I miss my m-m-match against J-Jessie Salco,” she whimpers, intimidated by the man’s rugged presentation. She tries and fails to follow his eyes as they appear to be wavering with his body. Fearing the worst, her eyes are drawn downwards towards the plank with a jutted lower lip, pouting. “P-Pretty please Mr. Sir?”
Draining the remains of the silver can of Steel Reserve, he crushes it and tosses it over his beefy shoulder where it lands with a clang beside five yellow 30-gallon plastic DOT barrels nestled in a sliding rack on the right of the stern.
“I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do little lady,” he belches, reaching down for another can which is popped open. Taking a long swig he continues, “I’ll get ya to yer big ole boat if ya agree to give me a hand with what I wanna do.”
“S-Sure!” she agrees, bobbing her head eagerly with voluminous ginger tresses jumping for joy. “A-Anything you want Mr. Sir!”
“For starters,” he growls, firing up the inboard V8 engine. “My name is Quaid. Now, get on board and pull in that ramp, then go the stern and untie that tether.”
Still trying to catch her breath Chloe grabs the six feet by two feet plank by the corners. Planting her sneakered feet against the rough, anti-slip strips lining the sides and pulls the heavy object, reinforced with additional cross pieces lining the underside. Leaning back she grunts mightily, the platform grudgingly giving way to the demands of her body until it is slid into a fitted section of the water logged deck and latched securely in place.
“I-I…”
“The next thing is to drink this,” he interrupts. tossing her a 24 ounce can of malt liquor which is caught between her chest and arms. “I ain’t about to go out to sea with a first mate that ain’t drunk. So, chug that bad boy and let’s set sail.”
“B-B-But I’m n-not old enough t-to drink,” she protests hesitantly. “I-I j-just turned 18 a few m-months ago.”
“Out on the open water nobody gives a shit,” he snaps. “Besides, that stuff will put hair on your chest. Now pop that top and get to drinkin’.”
Cracking the thin, aluminum tab open to pop the opening Chloe raises the heavy can to her lips and takes a curious sip. Swishing the cold brew between her cheeks she notes a somewhat sweet blend of barley and corn before swallowing. The drink flows smoothly down her parched throat, grateful for the relief following an afternoon of running.
“That beer ain’t gonna drink itself,” Quaid cackles. “Turn that thing upside down so we can get goin’.”
She does as instructed, tilting her head back and allows the lager to rush down her open throat. She notices her head feeling lighter and skin growing flushed with each subsequent gulp until reaching the frothy bottom of the can.
“Now just toss it aside so we can get to work.”
The can hits the deck with a hollow clang against the hard wood and the boat is finally put into motion. The vessel lunges forward through the water thrusting Chloe from a seated position to prone. Bracing herself against the heavy, torn and faded gray leather pontoon seat which has been bolted down onto the flooring. Reaching up she grabs hold of a leather restraint draped over the seat and uses the strap to pull herself upright.
Then it hits her. Twenty-four ounces of 9.5% alcohol consumed in less than a minute has quickly been absorbed into the bloodstream and has worked its way through. The small young woman’s 100 lbs. body proves no match for the sugar fermented intoxicant, and she is forced to brace herself against the seat while the world spins around her.
“Wh-What is it th-that you n-need me t-to do?” she asks, shaking her head vigorously trying to depart the free spinning merry go round.
“There’s a shark swimming in these waters,” he replies hoarsely, the man’s voice struggling to be heard over the thundering engine. “A big un, and I aim ta catch it.” Turning around he notes her attempts to regain her equilibrium and grins, chuckling. With beefy index finger her directs her attention towards the row of barrels. “In front of the barrels is a five-gallon bucket with a lid filled with chum. I want you to take that lid off and shovel some into the water.”
“Wh-What’s it do?”
“It’s fish bait,” he says. “It’ll attract all the big fish in the water to it. That stuff’s like candy to ‘em, they can’t resist it.”
Popping the orange plastic lid Chloe is immediately repulsed by the foul odor and turns away from it, grimacing. The bucket is laden with bit and pieces of fish; meat, bone, internal organs and lots of blood. Shoving an aluminum single piece ice scoop into the putrid concoction she quickly tosses it overboard with a hurried flick of the wrist. The chum lands with a splash, some of the pieces sinking, with the bloated organs managing to stay afloat, enveloped by a crimson coated marker bobbing with the gentle waves of the slowly escalating current.
“Th-This stuff smells l-like my stepmother’s perfume.”
“Sounds like your stepmother and my ex-wife have something in common,” Quaid observes dryly. “Go ahead and drop one more marker,” he commands. “Then put that blasted lid back on. We’ll slow down ‘n see if we get anything.”
Slowly the afternoon sun continues its trek across the boundless breadth of the uncluttered sky. The ocean water laps lazily against the sides of the trawler. Quaid leans against the steel railing of the pilot house, his steely gaze trained on the horizon, staring into the aqueous abyss. The seagulls have departed in favor of the shoreline leaving him alone to his thoughts. Draining another can of Steel Reserve, he tosses the crumbled container over his shoulder and onto the deck. It lands mere inches from Chloe, seated on the deck staring absently into the darkening waters. Her gaze wavers with her head, a product of a third can of malt liquor. She contentiously shakes her cranium in another effort to depart the ceaseless merry-go-round to no avail. The ride proves as stubborn as a proverbial mule eventually leading her to rest it against the faded white paint of the side railing, spinning ever faster in a vortex of torpor.
Looking up over the railing she sees nothing of interest, only a maroon trail of cruor. Stifling a yawn, she glances up towards the pilot house where Quaid stares ahead muttering under his breath. With a sigh she turns her attention back to the water and frowns. For more than six hours she had been chucking the bait into the water with nothing more than a pair of seagulls to show for it. The seagulls have long since departed without so much as a squawk.
“M-Mr. Shark, sir? I-I-I know you c-can hear me. I-I’ve been t-t-trying to f-feed you for six hours n-now b-b-but you won’t eat, w-why? D-Do you like another k-kind of food, l-like cupcakes, or ice cream maybe? P-P-Please come out Mr. S-Shark. I w-want to be friends. Please?”
The water in the boat’s wake churns as a massive, pointed snout emerges from the surface. The shark stares at Chloe through lifeless black lenses, its massive dull grey head watching her curiously. A towering four-foot dorsal fin trails some ten feet behind it with a thinner, but equally rangy caudal fin following another ten feet back. She gasps in amazement, estimating the inquisitive Carcharodon carcharias at close to 25 feet in length.
“W-Wow,” she grins in admiration, “Y-You’re a big one. B-But are you a boy shark or a g-girl shark? I-I’m sorry if I-I mislabeled you. I-I want to use th-the correct pronouns.”
The shark inches forward to mere inches from the stern with its two feet wide jaws agape displaying rows of serrated, triangular teeth up to two inches in length. It closes its jaws at the sight of the diminutive hand reaching out towards it and angles its nose up slightly allowing her to pet it. She runs her hand along the rough skin feeling the edginess of the V-shaped dermal denticles lining the behemoth’s entire body. The shark flicks its tail from side to side, seemingly happy with the girl’s gesture of friendship and playfully bobs its head asking for more attention. Her eyes widen as her mind fishes up an idea nearly as substantial as her new friend. Removing the affable pink backpack, she begins to fumble about for some unknown object.
“D-Do you want t-to play?”
Quaid steps carefully across the pilot house, his badly scuffed work boots surrounded by crushed empty cans. Absently he kicks them aside, reaching for a sturdy looking nine-foot fishing rod tucked into the front right corner secured by a simple latch. He releases the latch with a metallic click, lifting the black and white fiberglass and graphite rod by the black foam spiral fore grip for a closer inspection. He runs his fingers along the extra-large reel seat, loaded with 200 pounds test line dabs at the lower roller guide with the tip of his index finger. Reaching for another can of malt liquor from a red and white ice chest bungee corded by the plastic handles to a pair of fastening hooks on the deck, he cracks the can open with a winded sigh.
“Don’t look like we’re gonna get to break you in today,” he mutters. “Thousand bucks for you, but not a blasted fish in sight. Been dropping chum markers for several hours now but it don’t look like it’s gonna be our day. Ah well,” cracking a toothy grin he cackles, “At least we got each other.”
Turning his gaze from the rod and back to the open sea his mind begins to wander, swimming away from the ebbs and flows of the present towards the wilder waves of yesteryear. He smiles reliving old adventures, from bagging a 2100-pound Great White after a seven-hour battle to harpooning an errant bull shark having swam its way from the Gulf of Mexico into the fresh waters of the Louisiana Bayou, and to nearly being eaten by a rogue tiger shark. Running the tip of his middle finger along a faded scar stretching from the left earlobe to the lower jaw he revisits an ill-advised slap fight against a Thresher shark. Several decades, hundreds of battles. Some won, some lost, but all memorable to the grizzled veteran of the sea. Taking in another swig he sets the rod down to his right leaning it against the barrier of the pilot house and cuts loose another elongated sigh.
“Show me the way to go home…
I’m tired and I want to go to bed…
I had a little drink about an hour ago…
And it’s gone right to my head.
Wherever I may roam…
By land or sea or home…
You can always hear me singing this song…
Show me the way to…
“Good boy Bruce!”
Caught by the unexpected high-pitched cry he spins on his heels shouting,
“Why do I always have to be interrupted when I… get… to... that… part...?”
His reddened eyes bulge in disbelief at the sight playing out mere feet in front of him. Chloe, all 5’1” 100 pounds of her playing fetch with the largest shark he has ever laid eyes on. His voice trips over distrust of his bugged-out orbs, watching Chloe hurl a football into the water and the gigantic elasmobranch fish retrieve and bring it back, placing it into her hands. He shakes his head, certain that the alcohol in his system has somehow altered his perception. He shakes it a second time, looking on dumbfounded as his passenger reaches over the edge of the stern to pet the beast on its pointed snout.
“Holy Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbles in a slurred Boston twang. “Almost 40 years of chasing after these bastards I ain’t never seen anything like this.”
Grabbing the rod, he steps to and slides down the short, aluminum ladder from the pilot house landing on the lower surface. Hurriedly he plops down into the fishing chair and begins to strap himself in, setting the rod into a cylindrical brass holder bolted to the deck. Reaching down to his left he snatches up an old, half rusted harpoon gun from beside the chair and tosses and end of rope to Chloe barking,
“Hurry up and tie that rope to the first barrel, we got us a shark to kill!”
“W-What? Noooo!” she cries, positioning herself in front of Bruce, obscuring Quaid’s view. “Mr. B-Bruce is m-my friend!” she laments. “I w-won’t l-l-let you h-hurt him!” Reaching over the edge she wraps her arms protectively around Bruce’s oversized head. “H-He’s my friend!”
“Hey ya little shit,” he snaps angrily. “I told you the conditions of this ride to your boat, help me catch and kill a shark. Now if ya ain’t gonna do it then jump your whiney ass overboard ya little brat!”
“No!” she screeches defiantly. “I-I won’t l-let anyb-body hurt my friend Mr. Brucie!”
“Fine,” he relents, unfastening the thick leather harness. “I’ll do it meself!” Reaching out he grabs Chloe by the arm and flings her across the deck where she lands with a thud against the side of the cabin, crumbling in a lifeless heap. “Now stay the hell out of my…?”
The shark has vanished, diving into the depths but Quaid remains undeterred. He pops the lid off the five-gallon chum bucket and turns it upside down, emptying its corporeal contents into the water. Quickly, he grabs a heavy slab of bluefish and affixes it to the end of the rod. He takes the rob into both hands, planting the rubber soles of his boost against the non-slip lining of the deck and heaves, casting the bait into the water. Setting the rod back down into its holder he attaches the rope from his harpoon gun to the first barrel as he had previously instructed his unconscious guest to do before strapping himself back in.
“Come at me ya big porker,” Quaid shouts bringing the harpoon gun to his shoulder, spying a fin off in the distance but closing in fast. “Just another hundred yards you scaly bastard and you’re all mine.” His lips quiver in anticipation, his eyes focused as a beam on the fin seeming to rise as the beast draw closer and closer. He places an agitated index finger on the cold, serrated trigger and draws a breath. “That’s it you…’
Bruce dives, removing himself from the line of fire. Slamming his fist in frustration against the arm of the fishing chair the man frantically loosens the harness and bolts to his feet. Approaching the end of the boat he peers into the water below, his crazed eyes rigorously scanning the royal blue surface for a sign of his quarry. Not satisfied he approaches the starboard side, again scrutinizing the tears of the Earth to no avail.
“Where are you ya overgrown bastard…?”
His question is quickly answered by a monumental thud against the port side sending the vessel careening onto its right and knocking Quaid from his feet. Desperately he reaches out grabbing of the iron footrest of the chair. He clings to it, gripping the metal piece with both hands as the barge is struck again, this time from the right side. Although the fisherman manages to hold on, the still unconscious Chloe is jettisoned into the salty pool along with the barrels, his fishing pole and harpoon gun. Panting frenetically, he scrambles back into the chair and works feverishly to strap himself back in, hoping to ride out the thunderous impacts.
Chloe lies face down in the water, but the warm, alkaline water flooding into her mouth and nostrils brings her to. She coughs madly, trying to clear her orifices and starts gently kicking her feet allowing her body to tread water, but the choppiness of the situation threatens to overwhelm the girl at any moment. Looking out she sees the boat listing heavily to its right side with Quaid, strapped into the chair scrambling to find something he can use against his toothy nemesis. One of the barrels is nudged up alongside her and she gratefully clamps her hands onto a pair of side handles. Looking down she recognizes her friend’s gigantic form swimming away from her towards the boat, determined to fight the man. She cries out, spitting a concerned cocktail of words and water,
“Mr. Bruce, nooo! H-He w-wants to hurt you!” Her distress falls on deaf ears however as he dives deeper. “Please, don’t let him hurt you? Run, Mr. Bruce, run!”
Digging through a pile of splintered rubble Quaid finds a large hunting knife which he places between his teeth. Looking up he notices the pilot house relatively unharmed and, making a quick survey of the area, detecting no signs of his enemy he decides to unfasten the harness once more. No sooner than the clamp is released the schooner is rammed again from the port side. Feeling his body threatening to tumble overboard the muscles in his legs tense up and he springs to onto the ladder leading the con. His hands flailing perilously, he barely scrapes by, clamping them onto the second rung from the bottom which he now uses to himself upward and out of harm’s way. Another blow is struck from starboard which sends him slamming into the banister. The knife still clenched between his teeth he takes hold of the wheel, using it to pull himself to a vertical position and anxiously fumbles over the ignition key to the right, but it only sputters, the inboard engine compromised by the violent assault. Angrily he slams the tip of the sharp blade into the wooden control panel.
“Son of a bitch!”
Bobbing in the water with her hands clutching the handles of the bright yellow barrel Chloe looks on helplessly as her friend engages the mad man, slamming full force into the crumbling craft yet again. The vessel sheds portions of its wooden hull sending splinters flying. Taking the knife into his hands Quaid braces against the lopsided boat, his eyes wide and psychotic. He snags a muddled red fishing spear with his free hand while Chloe pleads with him not to hurt her three-ton friend. He responds angrily, hurling a can of unopened beer towards her but she ducks behind the barrel, and rescues it from plummeting to the bottom. A piece of wood debris is chucked in her direction accompanied by a choice expletive,
“Shut the hell up ya snot nosed little brat!”
Bruce does not appear to take kindly to the verbal assault on the girl and leaps from the water onto the rear deck of the heavily listing boat. The sheer weight of the shark crushes the rear banister, sending more pieces of waterlogged timber flying. The boat begins to succumb to the new belligerent ballast, it’s rear deck almost fully submerged. Desperately Quaid thrusts the fishing spear at the beast, hoping to hit one of its obsidian orbs. He misses as Bruce violently thrashes his tail, pummeling the sides of the boats and rocking it aggressively. Chloe watches the scene unfold behind tear-drenched lenses, crying out and hurling various pieces of rubble in support of her friend. Another heavy thud of Bruce’s tail accompanied by a thunderous blow by his head effectively tears the stern from the vessel. It sinks silently into the depths with the former fishing boat ‘s bow lunging upwards causing the gruff old man to lose his grip and slide helplessly down what remains of the deck towards the shark’s gnashing teeth hysterically kicking his legs. Chloe screams in fear, her high-pitched shriek cracking through the thick, humid air,
“Nooo! P-P-Please, d-d-don’t kick poor Mr. Bruce! Y-You mean man!”
He tries to stab at the shark’s head with the knife, having lost the fishing spear but a single crunch of its expansive jaws clamping down puts a quick end to his struggles by severing his torso. A final, blood choked gurgle is heard as the legs are discarded in favor of the upper body, which is quietly dragged under the frothy waves. Scanning the scene intently for signs of her friend Chloe begins to weep openly, fearing the worst. She bows her head ready to mourn her loss until a splash nearby draw her attention. Looking up she recognizes Bruce’s formidable frame swimming towards her immediately lifting her spirits. In his jaws is Quaid’s bloodied head which he gently places into her hands. Clutching the head by a clump of hair she thrusts her arms around her friend offering a warm hug.
“You won!” She chokes, fighting back another downpour. “Y-You won! I-I’m so happy!”
Bruce accepts the congratulatory hug, remaining still for several moments until Chloe finally pulls herself away looking at him from behind a beaming façade. Lifting the head, she studies it for a moment and turns back to the shark who appears to be smiling at her.
“D-Do you want t-to play some m-more Mr. Bruce?”
Chucking the head into distance the massive Great White happily chases after and brings it back to her. She giggles, tossing it again and the pair plays until the translucent blue tint of the afternoon sky is threatened by the shadowy approach of dusk. The sun recedes towards the western horizon, doggedly hunted by the tenacious old moon. Exhausted, Chloe slumps onto her friend’s back her body finally succumbing to the excitement of the day with Bruce dutifully staying on the surface allowing her to sleep.
Christian Underwood, the co-owner of SCW gently hoists his soundly sleeping charge over his shoulder after she is brought aboard the 857-foot-long luxury cruise liner by members of the crew. The behemoth 77,000-ton monster dwarfs the ratty old fishing boat chugging alongside it, uploading Chloe’s belongings including a red and white cooler which he announces with a cackle,
“When she comes to, tell her the last round is on me, and make sure ta tell she’s welcome to hitch a ride on my boat any time she likes.”
Christian nods curtly, uncertain what to make of the fisherman’s haggard appearance. Carefully he loops the straps of her backpack over his vascular forearm, a layer of sunscreen offers gleaming protection against the early evening rays. He grips the ice chest by the handle and turns to walk Chloe to her assigned cabin but cranes his neck for one final glance at the boat as it starts to chug away. His hazel eyes pan down to the foamy white wake left astern and locks onto an abnormally large silhouette trailing it. A large dorsal fin quietly breaks the surface indicating the presence of a shark, a very big one. Staring through incredulous eyes at the creature for several moments he eventually pulls his attention away from the sight and back onto the task at hand muttering under his breath,
“That’s one big fucking shark.”
He is met by his husband of many years, Scott Schreiner at the top of the stairs who takes the bag and chest off his hands. For a moment he stares at Christian from behind a pair of black Arnette Swinger shades, pausing to thoughtfully stroke his white goatee. With Chloe draped over his shoulder he turns to Scott, studying the tanned, shirtless massively pumped 270-pound physique. The big man, clad only in a pair of black, spandex shorts and flip flops pulls his gaze down onto the varnished wooden deck, his unspoken worries bubbling to the surface as a clouded frown.
“Hey, you’re not mad at the poor kid again, are you?” He asks softly. “For missing the boat?”
“Nah,” Christian shakes his head resuming his trek with Scotty in tow. “Truth be told I’m kind of impressed that she was able to make it at all, shows she has at least some sense of professionalism. Come on, let’s get her to her cabin. Kat and Whisper will be delighted to see her.”
“I’mmm happy to shee you too Mishter Christian,” Chloe mumbles drunkenly, lifting her head slightly, her words slurred and completely out of sync with her thoughts, owing to the liquid courage coursing through her veins. “I can’t waiittt to beat up Jeshie Shalco.”
Her head drops again, thudding faintly against Christian’s sky-blue button down with folded sleeves as he carries through the narrow, barely three-foot-wide hallway, and loud snoring reverberating off the walls, following them closely.
