Free Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) by Mark Henry Page A

time to make a scene.”
    I opened my mouth and cut loose with a
blood-curdling scream—not really, blood doesn’t curdle unless it’s been
sitting out in a bowl too long. You can’t scream your milk into chunks, why
blood? It just doesn’t make sense.
    “Well,” Gil said and paused, chewing on
his lip as though he were about to say something naughty. “At least we didn't
catch that shark fucking her.”
    A fan of chocolate spittle sprayed from Wendy.
“Ph-what?”
    “Sharks have two dicks,” Gil said,
matter-of-factly, as though that kind of thing were common knowledge.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “It's true,” he said. “I read about it in
an article on Davenport.”
    I sighed. Gil was obsessed with the web
magazine Davenport, an online gossip and propaganda network catering to the
pencil-moustache set and offering up obscure musical acts, bizarre food and
style tips that they pulled straight out of their assholes. Apparently, these
things are all important for mingling at parties where Pabst Blue Ribbon is
served exclusively. In other words, useless.
    “The article was called Making the Beast
with Two Backs...and Cocks. It chronicled one stallion of the sea's journey
from aquageek to porno predator. Ugly thing, it splits and grabs the lady shark
in unmentionable ways. But no, seriously, two dicks.”
    “That just seems excessive,” I said. “Most
of the time you don't even want the one that's there. I wouldn't know what to
do with two.”
    “Troof,” Wendy said, palming the now
empty Twix wrapper and acting like no
one was the wiser.
    “Luckily you guys aren't sharks then. But
if you were, you'd be slapping both cheeks.”
    Gil pantomimed what could only be the
breather between a shark blowjob spectacle. Shaking his fists next to each
cheek.
    I let out a second scream, less
enthusiastic this time. “Help! Someone. Come on.”
    Finally, footsteps pounded around the
back and the door from the theater burst open into the alley. These people were
not used to emergencies, clearly.
    “Call the police!” I screamed. “There’s
been a murder!”
    Wendy nodded, agreeing with both my ploy
and that there had indeed been foul play. Gil, too. Every supernatural knew
that when in a strange place, surrounded by humans and an incident happens, you
better do your best to act like one of the crowd or you’ll be suspect. More
suspect than you are regularly, I mean.
    We escaped the initial questioning by the
police by blending back into the crowd and making a lot of exaggerated horrified
expressions and nods at what a tragedy it all was, including a brief exchange
with the soon to be new Miss Sandflea, Moonglow Featherberry, who, I have to
say was absolutely glowing in the weird brilliance of the streetlight or, at
least, the circle of off-color foundation surrounding her face did, the rest
just faded away like a school dance wallflower. A white haired reporter roamed
through the crowd jotting notes onto a little pad—even more reason to
bolt. The only thing worse than being questioned by the police was the goddamn
media.
    The crowd thinned near the opposite end
of the building and we simply backed away as the police cordoned off the scene with
their bright yellow streamers like it was party time.
    Mrs. Swinton made her way toward us. Her
stare trained on me.
    I gasped, finally making the connection
between the carcass in the alley and the bookseller—Becky Swinton, the
announcer had said. The dead Miss Sandflea was the woman’s daughter.
    Jesus. This was going to be a
clusterfuck.
    Mrs. Swinton pushed attempted mourners
out of her way, spinning them in place by their outstretched hug-needy arms
like she were rushing to catch a subway train. She reached out and clutched my
forearm, her face a quivering mask of emotion—normally this kind of thing
turns my stomach, but something told me, I needed to be nice to Mrs.
Swinton...and that something was a royalty check.
    It didn't make sense to piss