New Shark Fin Titled

Meanwhile in Long Beach, California… 

Here’s What You Do With a Drunken Sailor.

“It’s only me, from across the sea said Barnacle Balls the Sailor.”

The evil MacHeath hired a detective, Captain ‘Marlin’ Bill, friend with a great and sensitive snout, to follow Dauna’s (his love’s) pheromone trail across the Pacific. The captain sang as he anchored his boat, The Kegger on a small sand bar near  California’s Anna Copulata Island. That is where he had ‘sniffed out’ the shark goddess asleep at the edge of the water. Bill grabbed a net and sung a line from Minnie the Mermaid, “We lost our morals among the corals,” as he staggered toward her.


At noon, Dauna had found herself a quiet sand bar outside of San Pedro. A place  to rest before heading into the insanity of LA.

Upon the soft sand, with the water gently lapping at her tail, Dauna had fallen asleep.

Tales of mermaids abound. Some sport the tail of a codfish. Dauna, the Fijian shark goddess, in transition from fish to human form, was sporting the lower half — the deadly sword-like tail — of a thresher shark.

Dauna’s long, smooth, rear end kept a slow, rhythmical sway in the cool shallow water. The phantom image of a human wearing funny shorts — the tourist who visited her island — kept finding his way into her dreams.

While Dauna dreamt, her head turned and her eyes squinted to get a different  perspective of the strange human that she’d met before leaving her island home.“Bula, my name is Bernie,” his I.D. tag said. It had been foretold by the island’s crone, that the human with the cheesy Bermuda shorts would save her people. (Humans. Ugh.) Sure they’d have a few laughs, a coupla’ drinks, maybe even a dance or two. And afterward, well, she would chomp on him and wash him down with a hot aromatic cup of ‘A Rocket Up Your Ass,’ her newest coffee blend.  Despite the recent demise of her arranged-marriage husband, Bunji, on the way toward their honeymoon destination only a few days earlier, the journey to California remained important. During the long swim across the Pacific, she’d been contemplating the book Eat, Prey, Spawn — Seeking the predator within. Dauna felt Oprah- style empowered as she swam toward her destiny. 

As she lay face down, a hand began to rub her back. Sensing alarm, she awoke to the scent of dead mackerel, a whiff of peppermint schnapps, beer, Southern Comfort, Seagrams, tobacco, BO and urine, almost hiding the unmistakable scent of “long pig.” A filthy human hand dares to touch me!

Dauna felt the stranger’s shadow looming above, but kept herself still.

Even it’s shadow smelled bad. The disgusting thing was standing behind her, trying to … A net?

Yes, a net. Captain Bill suddenly threw a heavy section of fish netting over her head, and with compulsory drooling, he began to run his hands over the rest of her still half-fish body. He began calling her “his prize” and “his fortune.” He squatted next to her with the intent of lifting the sleeping mermaid into his boat.

She was dead weight, and he was too drunk to budge her.

“Damn! Well, what doooo we have here?” Bill whispered in her ear. “I’ve been following you, my fine little filet. Your boyfriend Mr. MacHeath, told me to look after you! I should take you home with me, and stuff you.” He began to stumble backward but managed to stay standing. “Maybe I’ll sell you to a fuggin’ museum.” Bill was now trying to unzip the button fly on his pants. Wait a goddamn second, babeeeee. How do fuggin’ mermaids make wookie, anyways?” 

Before he could jam his filthy hands into the sand beneath her human breasts, Dauna’s scythe-shaped tail swiftly raised itself from the sand and sliced off Bill’s pickled head. The graceful tail quickly transformed into shapely human legs. She stood and tossed the net aside. Take a breath Dauna.

Fully human now, Dauna checked out her fine ass in the reflection of Bill’s sunglasses. She put the glasses on, stripped the captain of his shirt and pants, slipped them on and dragged the headless body across the sand, back to The Kegger. Eighty-proof blood poured from the man’s throat like a spigot. Dauna, a five-foot-four powerhouse, lifted the fisherman’s body by its feet, smashed it against the side of the cabin and spilled the remaining guts on the deck. — All this before Bill’s pickled, brain, bobbing jauntily in the shore-break had a chance to spark its last.

Dauna tossed the head onto a pile of rocks for the harbor seals to play ball with. She sliced and diced the captain with an axe she found aboard and fed the bite-sized chunks pieces to the starving tuna imprisoned in the vessel’s hold. In the crowded tank, over a dozen large fish swam in patient circles around Bill‘s cold beers.

“Let’s have lunch!” Dauna said, tossing scraps and drinking a beer. “Sorry I couldn’t give you something better. Don’t get too drunk off of CAPTAIN FUCKFACE! And before you go home, pick yourselves a designated swimmer.”

Bill’s excess trimmings were tossed overboard for the crabs. The moment that the tuna were done eating, Dauna released her blitzed, but satiated new friends back into Mother Ocean.

“The word ‘dispatch’ came to mind. I like that word. I just dispatched that two legged pile of detritus! Dauna downed a beer screamed to the heavens in her loudest booziest whoriest voice. “Hey MacHeath, you asshole, wherever you are. I just killed your SCHEISSE FUR GEHIRNE (shit for brains) captain! Just call me the FUCKIN’ DISPATCHA!”

Dauna fired up The Kegger’s engine and swerved in the direction of LA and destiny.

Fish often “vocalize” through a series of body movements and grunts.

That night, the school of stewed tuna belched, “I love you, man,” to their buds — between bouts of blowing gastric chunkage. The dudes didn’t seem to care that their freakin’ heads would be pounding major ass the next morning.