Nothing Down by Vernon Steve

Author:Vernon, Steve [Vernon, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2011-08-18T16:00:00+00:00

* 2 *

I love building sand castles.

“Just hold still,” C. Garry said to me. “If you wiggle too much you’re going to get sand jammed up your trouser trout.”

Only it wasn’t a police officer any more. Not even close. All that was left of C. Garry was a heap of abandoned skin that lay upon the dirt beside me like a pair of flaccid pink overalls and a smear of something that looked as if it had been defecated by a herd of incontinent South English pygmy cannibals.

Oh, excuse me. Did I say the dirt beside me? I should say the dirt upon me. The horse-dicked bastard asshole had heaped beach sand and rocks and debris upon me. As far as I could tell from the feel of the damp ocean breeze, there was nothing poking through but my face up top and my one eyed zipper fish down below.

Oddly enough, my full blown Stallone bone was standing ten-hut erect, as if I were staring at a sky-wide three dimensional pin-up of Esther Williams. I’m not sure why that was happening. Being buried prematurely beneath a heap of oil-slicked beach jetsam was definitely not my idea of a steamy wet dream.

“Once I get up out of here,” I promised. “I’m going to pull you apart limb from limb.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” C. Garry said.

Only it wasn’t C. Garry anymore, like I said. It looked more like Mr. Ed the talking horse. Or maybe Frances, the talking mule on really bad loco weed. The self-centaured bastard was a definite example of Equus caballus or your everyday wild horse only this definitely was a horse of a different color. He looked a weird kind of blue/gray/green color, like nothing I’d ever seen before.

And that was just for starters.

“Ha,” he gave me a horse laugh. “You ought to see how funny you look with your pump-handle periscoped up out of the dirt like that.”

I didn’t find it funny at all.

“You remind me of a joke about this fellow who shits in his bathing suit and buries himself in the sand and then while he’s lying there looking up the skirt at the collective land clam of some wandering tribe of beachside nymphomaniacs, old Mr. Happy Helmet pokes up out of the dirt. Only while he’s busy raising his love flag the tribe of nymphomaniacs wanders off with a dude who looks suspiciously like Charles Atlas. And then while he’s laying there in the dirt bemoaning his beach-buried blue-balled fate this old petrified blue-haired octogenarian notices him lying there. Oh my, she says, all those years I spent looking for something like this and here it was growing wild on the beach. Then she popped out her false teeth and knelt down and gave him a big sloppy wet…”

“Stop,” I said.

He gave me another horse laugh. His teeth were large and irregular and stained a marvelous shade of verdigris. His breath stank of dead fish and worse things.

“So what the hell are you?” I asked.

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