Free Nazi Sharks! by Jared Roberts

in the dream, your body was an olive and you
were getting attacked by these owls in white robes. What does that
mean?”
    “There were supposed to be
guys,” Janet continued moaning in intellectual agony.
    “Look!” Mandy shouted. Janet
looked at her finger. It was stiff, rigid even, the clear-coated
nail pointed—not unlike an arrow—at a downward angle. Janet’s big
eyes followed the angle of the finger over a lump of seaweed, past
the body of a crab, to a gelatinous heap that shimmered in the
moonlight.
    Mandy had retracted her
incredible finger and was already collecting the blob. She knew
exactly what it was, even before she’d picked it up. She’d
recognize that blob anywhere.
    “This is Sheena’s left tit!”
Mandy gasped.
    “What are you saying?” Janet
asked in horror.
    “This is Sheena’s left tit!”
Mandy repeated.
    “Ohhhh,” Janet understood
now.
    Janet stepped over the clump of
seaweed, in which one of their busty friends’ arms had been
entangled, to get a good look. Definitely Sheena’s left one. But
how had it gotten out? Sheena was very attached to them.
    “Maybe that guy knows what
happened,” Mandy said, her remarkable, rigid finger again rising
like the great trident of Poseidon to aim Janet’s gaze at that
mysterious silhouette against the full moon. How long had that been
there?
    Janet’s oversized eyes gazed
with apprehension at the boney arrow and at the moonlit figure. The
solitary shape reminded her of her childhood around the campfire,
her uncle making shadow puppet pornography against the RV. She
still considered rabbits sluts to this day.
    “Hey!” Mandy shouted to the
stranger, not comprehending any potential danger. “Have you seen
any other Pussy Willows here?”
    “You couldn’t miss ‘em!” Janet
added. “They’d be topless.”
    “Yes,” the figure replied
softly, his whisper carrying in the wind like faeries over a sneaky
rainbow. “They’re over here.”
    The surviving bimbos were
instantly pleased to realize that, yes, this is the beach. They followed after the distant figure.
His pace, slow as molasses poured over a rutabaga, ensured they’d
soon catch up with him. Still, that bright moon just kept him so
mysterious and…silhouette-y.
    “So, are you one of the guys?”
Mandy asked.
    The silhouette stopped
abruptly. He doubled over and moaned like a moose in heat. Janet
and Mandy waited for him to term’ his ‘sode, but he totally didn’t.
Instead, he spun with ferocity, a chloroform-soaked cloth in one
black-gloved hand. The fierce, leather claw clamped down over
Janet’s face.
    Her legs kicked wildly as she
struggled to free herself. She had never trusted a mysterious,
moonlit figure before tonight, and it would prove to be the last.
She realized she would die not knowing how hot she looked as
November in that Hustler calendar. She didn’t think the office-wear
suited her that well, but the photographer assured her the Xerox
machine brought out the curvature of her bosom like nothing else.
As consciousness faded, she tried to articulate to herself,
“Remember, remember,” to recall why she didn’t care for that shoot,
but it all seemed wonderful now, the Xerox, her breasts, yeah. “The
tits of November,” she muttered, as she at last succumbed to
oblivion.
    Puzzled, but undeterred, the
silhouette cast the bimbo aside to pursue the fleeing Mandy. The
way the soft, delicate light of the moon caressed her bouncing
buttocks filled him with fury. He wanted to squeeze them, twist
them, sink his teeth into them. “No ass should look that fucking
good,” he growled, leaping over sand dunes and driftwood to pursue
the jiggling escapee.
    As all fleeing bimbos must do,
Mandy tripped over some grains of sand. Each time she rose,
adjusted her bikini top back over her escaping boobage, and resumed
running. Her flying milk jugs slapped brutally against her chest
and up toward her face, so that she nearly cursed her massive
melons! Nearly. She in fact