Read Online Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) by Mark Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Henry
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Q-tips and gauze, my ears were bleeding.
As the finale drew near, three girls
dressed as sand, a pier and what must have been the Felicity Theater itself
with a single curved clay tile on her head, bore the brunt of a tidal wave of
nuclear garbage, and somehow remembered to spring back for the final bow.
Our entire row of seats shook violently
as silent laughter finally exploded outward, hidden underneath the cheers of
the well-meaning or impressed or possibly drunken townsfolk until then. But was
quickly covered up by a raucous standing ovation which really did fuck up my
whiskey buzz.
When Miss Sandflea was finally crowned—my
fingers were crossed for Moonglow Featherberry (not her real name but she wore
a foundation that was two shades too light and some odd contraption in her hair
that looked like she'd been slaughtering chickens in a cranberry bog, so you do
the math on the nicknaming)—I nearly choked when the scepter arrived
topped with a golden sandflea replica. A name was called, Becky Swinton,
perhaps—it doesn't matter, I suppose because it wasn’t Moonglow—and
a pretty blond girl strode forward, smiling feebly and nodding. The lack of
personality in the winner was staggering and I began to pray that someone had
had the wherewithal to jerry rig a bucket of pig's blood to dump on her and
strip away my disappointment—as only a telekinetic massacre could rescue
this non-event.
“Boo!” Wendy and Gil shouted through
cupped hands. When the rat-faced woman inevitably turned to scowl in judgment
not just one, but both of them pointed that I had done it. I simply flipped all
of them off including Mrs. Frisbee. The townie's gasp of horror was oddly
heartwarming.
I did glance at Moonglow, the runner-up,
wondering what she might be thinking…also what she tasted like, but that’s
beside the point.
A strange sensation spread across my
face. I caressed my jaw and the upturned corners of my mouth. A smile. That’s
going to be sore tomorrow, I thought. It’s like when you’ve neglected your body
for a long time and then go to the gym. Those smile muscles were going to hurt
like a motherfucker tomorrow.
What more can you ask of a poorly
produced beauty contest with no actual beauties? Nothing. It was perfect. The
only thing that could make it better? A dirty martini. “Let’s beat it out of
here and grab a drink.”
“Now, you’re making sense,” Wendy said,
buttoning her jacket.
As the cheers faded, we slipped down the
back stairs and into the lobby. The crowd gushed out of the center aisle doors;
chattering about the spectacle as though they lived in North Dakota or
somewhere and not a few hours drive from Seattle and some actual cultural offerings.
Gil scooped our hands up in the crooks of his arms and led us out a shady side
door and up a short alley to an impassable chain link fence.
“This emergency exit leaves a lot to be
desired,” I said.
We turned to peer into the darkness that
seemed to absorb the back end of the alley and were greeted by a gust of wet,
salty wind. The flavor of it caught in my mouth, lingering there like an
unwelcome spritzing of perfume in a department store make-up department.
I opened my mouth to remark but was silenced
by a high-pitched shriek that echoed against the bricks and stucco. If I had a
beating heart it would have stopped dead—the organ is in there, but I’m
certain it’s a shriveled piece of jerky by now. I flattened myself against the door,
reaching for the knob and found nothing but flat splintery wood.
“Listen,” Gil whispered.
Wendy’s mouth dropped open, her eyes
saucering cartoonishly.
Another sound rolled toward them from the
far end of the Theater. The top of a fence was silhouetted by a streetlight, turning
the shadowed end of the alley into a treacherous cavelike hole in the night. The
tone was familiar.
A gnashing of teeth against flesh. Sinew
stretching and snapping. Entrails flopping onto gravel.
You know, the usual.
But there
As the finale drew near, three girls
dressed as sand, a pier and what must have been the Felicity Theater itself
with a single curved clay tile on her head, bore the brunt of a tidal wave of
nuclear garbage, and somehow remembered to spring back for the final bow.
Our entire row of seats shook violently
as silent laughter finally exploded outward, hidden underneath the cheers of
the well-meaning or impressed or possibly drunken townsfolk until then. But was
quickly covered up by a raucous standing ovation which really did fuck up my
whiskey buzz.
When Miss Sandflea was finally crowned—my
fingers were crossed for Moonglow Featherberry (not her real name but she wore
a foundation that was two shades too light and some odd contraption in her hair
that looked like she'd been slaughtering chickens in a cranberry bog, so you do
the math on the nicknaming)—I nearly choked when the scepter arrived
topped with a golden sandflea replica. A name was called, Becky Swinton,
perhaps—it doesn't matter, I suppose because it wasn’t Moonglow—and
a pretty blond girl strode forward, smiling feebly and nodding. The lack of
personality in the winner was staggering and I began to pray that someone had
had the wherewithal to jerry rig a bucket of pig's blood to dump on her and
strip away my disappointment—as only a telekinetic massacre could rescue
this non-event.
“Boo!” Wendy and Gil shouted through
cupped hands. When the rat-faced woman inevitably turned to scowl in judgment
not just one, but both of them pointed that I had done it. I simply flipped all
of them off including Mrs. Frisbee. The townie's gasp of horror was oddly
heartwarming.
I did glance at Moonglow, the runner-up,
wondering what she might be thinking…also what she tasted like, but that’s
beside the point.
A strange sensation spread across my
face. I caressed my jaw and the upturned corners of my mouth. A smile. That’s
going to be sore tomorrow, I thought. It’s like when you’ve neglected your body
for a long time and then go to the gym. Those smile muscles were going to hurt
like a motherfucker tomorrow.
What more can you ask of a poorly
produced beauty contest with no actual beauties? Nothing. It was perfect. The
only thing that could make it better? A dirty martini. “Let’s beat it out of
here and grab a drink.”
“Now, you’re making sense,” Wendy said,
buttoning her jacket.
As the cheers faded, we slipped down the
back stairs and into the lobby. The crowd gushed out of the center aisle doors;
chattering about the spectacle as though they lived in North Dakota or
somewhere and not a few hours drive from Seattle and some actual cultural offerings.
Gil scooped our hands up in the crooks of his arms and led us out a shady side
door and up a short alley to an impassable chain link fence.
“This emergency exit leaves a lot to be
desired,” I said.
We turned to peer into the darkness that
seemed to absorb the back end of the alley and were greeted by a gust of wet,
salty wind. The flavor of it caught in my mouth, lingering there like an
unwelcome spritzing of perfume in a department store make-up department.
I opened my mouth to remark but was silenced
by a high-pitched shriek that echoed against the bricks and stucco. If I had a
beating heart it would have stopped dead—the organ is in there, but I’m
certain it’s a shriveled piece of jerky by now. I flattened myself against the door,
reaching for the knob and found nothing but flat splintery wood.
“Listen,” Gil whispered.
Wendy’s mouth dropped open, her eyes
saucering cartoonishly.
Another sound rolled toward them from the
far end of the Theater. The top of a fence was silhouetted by a streetlight, turning
the shadowed end of the alley into a treacherous cavelike hole in the night. The
tone was familiar.
A gnashing of teeth against flesh. Sinew
stretching and snapping. Entrails flopping onto gravel.
You know, the usual.
But there
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