Read Online A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) by Michael E. Henderson - Free Book Online

intangible reason.
    “No,” he said, pulling the blanket tightly around him.
    “Do you know who was chasing you?” the tall one asked, the blue light of the fire boat flashing in her glasses.
    If he knew that, he would probably know why. But he just replied, “No.”
    “How many were there?”
    “Two.”
    “So, you jump in canal to get away?” the blonde asked.
    “It seemed like the best way to draw a crowd.”
    “I see,” the blonde said in a tone of voice that indicated she might be pissed.
    Although Venice had pickpockets, it was rare for people to be attacked in this way. But he was American, and Italians knew there was a lot of crime in America. Americans all carried guns and ate bacon and eggs every day for breakfast.
    “ Va bene ,” the tall cop said, giving him back his ID. “You go home.” The two officers turned away.
    Brigham considered for a moment whether to keep his mouth shut but decided against it. “There’s one more little thing,” he called after them.
    “Yes?”
    “When I was getting out of the canal my foot caught something down there.”
    “There is much rubbish in the canals,” the blonde said.
    “But I don’t think it’s trash.” 
    The tall cop motioned to the firefighters. They jabbered in Italian for a few seconds, then a fireman got a grappling hook from his boat. He fished around where Brigham showed him, and a corpse bobbed to the surface. The crowd gasped as the fireman pulled it out, missing, as it was, its guts.
    “You stay in Venice, signore ,” advised the tall cop.
     
     
     
    OH FUCKIN’ BOY. It ought to be a barrel of goddamn laughs explaining this to Rose. And he hadn’t even had his drink yet. To mitigate the difficulty of arriving home after having been in a canal, and to correct his failure to have a drink, he went to his studio to clean up, have a martini or three, and then go home. Oh, the ideas that come into a man’s mind.
    In the studio, the painting with which he had been struggling, the one he called Pink Jesus , stared at him as if asking, “What the fuck happened to you?” The pale blue bottle of gin, however, called his name in a less judgmental way. Preferring the blue gin to the Pink Jesus, he fixed himself a martini sans vermouth.
    He stared into the mirror behind the sink. What reflected back was a living disaster. His hair and clothing were soaked, and he smelled of canal water; a strange mix of seawater, fish, and sewage. He could rinse and comb his hair, but there was nothing he could do about the clothes. These were not going to dry in any reasonable length of time, and he did not keep an extra set in the studio. He did have a small bottle of dish soap, so he could get some of the mess out of his hair, and he had a comb, but he otherwise would have to report home looking pretty much like he just crawled out of a canal.
    The warm water felt good on his head and face. He frothed up the lemony-scented dish soap on his head, rinsed it, and washed his face with hot water. He combed his hair and then sat in a small wooden chair next to an easel, drinking the martini and contemplating his fate. What would he tell her? Maybe he could sneak in.
    Emboldened, strengthened, and warmed by the gin, he started for home to face his scourging and crucifixion.
    The corgi met him at the door with the usual stretch and howl of delight. Delight, however, was not the howl he heard from other quarters.
    “There you are,” Rose said. She was at her desk writing on her laptop.
    He tried to sneak to a small room where he had a wardrobe and a dresser. If he could just get these clothes off and into the machine…
    “What’s that smell?” she said, getting up and coming into the room where he stood half-undressed.
    The corgi followed and observed with an expression of concern.
    Brigham, amid a pile of wet clothes, looked up, unable to speak.
    “Oh my God, you fell into a canal! And you’ve been drinking. I smell it.”
    “I didn’t fall into a