Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Read online

  She held it against her chest, with her good and her bad arm.

  And closed her eyes.

  As tentacles began to drip over the front seats.

  Tentacle FIVE

  James Bond is Naked

  The next day.

  Mike thought he'd try to get on Katherina's good side by seeing if she'd like to be the slinky-sexy "silhouette" hot babe in the James Bond type opening he wanted to shoot this morning. I hope she's still not grudgin' about our little chat last night...

  "No thanks," she'd said, with a colder-than-coldy-cold look. "I'll stick with playing Tara. Whatever sexual preference she ends up with."

  Yep, still grudging, Mike sighed.

  So: he offered the job to Alysia.

  She didn't even answer -- just shot him one of her punky looks, flashed an unnecessary tattoo, then headed back upstairs with her bored glower and bowl of Lucky Charms.

  Man, I'm collecting my own set of angry birds, he mused, as he approached Britnee, prepared to get shot down yet again--

  "Absolutely," she said, almost as instantaneously as he'd asked her. "I love Sir James Bond. So, do you want me to bring some bikinis, or are we doing this naked?"

  Mike stood there for a moment, blinking with barely restrained happiness.

  Welcome to showbiz, kiddo.

  Welcome indeed.

  ~ ~ ~

  How'd the morning shoot go?

  Very breasty, friends. Very, very breasty.

  Was she a good actress?

  Hard to say.

  But she sure didn't mind showing off her body. And in Beddlam Studioz terms, that made her Meryl freakin' Streep.

  Even in the fog, she looked hot. Not too short, not too tall, just perfect for her giggly little look. Her hair was pretty freakin' fantastic for a junior college chick -- what she did to make it look that good, Mike didn't know, and probably would never know, but good it did look, even in all this (endless) turbo smoke and shadow. As annoying as Britnee could be, (and boy, like her little friends back at the beach house, she sure could be) she was -- hate the cliche, but here it is: a sweeeet little package.

  Still, despite her apparent ease in front of the camera, it took a bit to get the mood going. Mike was a little uncomfortable, as he always was when filming girls nude. Not that he had a problem with nude girls -- far from it -- but he always felt a bit guilty, because usually you could tell the girls resented just being photographed for their bods, even while being not so secretly flattered. Make fun, but most of them did harbor actual -- if not realistic -- aspirations to, you know, actually be actresses.

  But this one, this Britnee here, if she was bothered or resentful, it sure didn't show. And what did show, to Mike's POV anyhow, was pretty impressive.

  Pretty freakin' impressive.

  (Welcome to Hollywood, Kiddo.)

  Eventually, safe to say, Mike got into the mood.

  So they did all the James Bond stuff, the silhouettes, the silky dancing, the shadows that seemed to just reveal a tad more than what she was actually showing, the kinky-arty gymnastic positions...

  Not bad. Pretty hot even.

  Almost --

  (dare we say it?)

  -- Bond Girl Hot.

  Really, Mike couldn't believe his luck -- it all looked so good. If the footage was anything like what he was seeing through the viewfinder ... well, this thing might actually look like a real movie. One he could (dare we say it?) put on his reel, as opposed to denying he had anything to do with it (as per usual with his Beddlam work.) They kept filming for another hour or so. Getting good shots, having fun, and actually feeling almost like sorta nearly professional-ish moviemakers. (Kinda.)

  And when they were done, Britnee quite sweetly and totally professionally stepped out of the water, gave her damp but perfect hair a saucy shake, and, as she started to pass Mike to the car -- still naked -- she turned around, pressed her very breasty body against him, and kissed him.

  Hard.

  ~ ~ ~

  "Wooah," Mike said, gently. "Hey, now, let's be cool, here..."

  "Ohh, I don't do cool," she whispered huskily. "I only do hot. Caliente hot."

  She kissed him again.

  ~ ~ ~

  He gently, but firmly, slipped from her embrace.

  "What?" she laughed, like she'd just heard some absurd bit of gossip. "You're turning me down?"

  She stood there, in all her nakedness, her pose saying:

  You're turning this down?

  "Not turning anything down," he said, palms out hey-now! style, trying to keep things casual and all no big deal. "It's just, I'm the director, of a movie with three women in it, and counting, all living in the same house for two weeks, and it just wouldn't be cool to look like I'm playing favorites, that's all. Otherwise -- s'cool."

  "Well, then there's no problem," she said, slinking toward him again. "Because I want you to play favorites. I want your favorite to be me. I want the best scenes, I want the best lines, I want the best part. That makes me happy. And if you make me happy, I'll make you ... delirious."

  She arched a very sexy brow.

  "'s'cool?'" she whispered, sort of mocking the way he said 's'cool,' though still sounding sexy at the same time too.

  As she leaned in for another kiss.

  He artfully -- or so he thought -- maneuvered out of her grip.

  "You're starting to hurt my feelings." She was smiling a smile that was no smile at all.

  "Look, it's no thing," he said. "It's just--"

  "No. It is a thing. And it's going to be a bigger thing -- a way bigger thing -- if you don't get what's what."

  Mike pondered this for a second -- she was getting madder way faster than he expected. Maybe it's because he was turning her away while completely nude, that must be what was making her go so red-hot so --

  "Now, I'm started to get mad," she said, in a very calm voice.

  "Look," Mike said, palms out and workin' it, even more no big deal than before. "Just a little misunderstanding. Plus, you really don't have to go through all" -- he gestured vaguely, trying to indicate her nakedness without really pointing it out -- "this. There's plenty of good roles and scenes for everyone to shine. Like you did, in what we just shot -- you're, you know, everyone is going to notice that, for sure."

  "Let me make this as clear as I can, Mr. Supposedly A Director," she said, in that same calm tone. "I don't want everyone else to shine. This is a piece of crap movie. There's not enough 'shine' to go around. And I don't want my highlight to be a silhouette in a bunch of weeds and fake smog. I could do a Huey Lewis music video if I wanted that -- like my mom. I want this movie to be about one thing ... me. Or else."

  (Huey Lewis...?) Mike blinked.

  "Or... else."

  "Or else, what, exactly?" He hadn't meant to say that out loud -- the last thing he wanted to do was provoke her more -- but he was actually kind of curious, at this point, once he got Huey Lewis out of his mind. After all, she was already as naked as she could get. What else was she going to do?

  She informed him. "Or else: I make noise. I make noise to the media. I get me one of those nasty female lawyers, and she starts throwing around words like 'sexual' and 'harassment' and 'casting couch' and whatever it takes to make your career go... buh-bye."

  And then Mike did something else he hadn't meant to do -- he laughed out loud.

  "Excuse you?" she glared. "You think I'm joking? You think I'm bluffing?"

  She held open her hands, again emphasizing her sweeeeet little package, in a way that said this is as much a weapon as it is a toy, Mr. Director.

  Mike's demeanor turned from kindly Mr. Rogers to a wise mentor Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  "Britnee," he said, with a shrug. "You're in a movie. About a shark. With tentacles. Made by a straight-to-DVD company that, artistically speaking, is barely two steps ahead of porn. Barely. Trust me, if you start slinging lawyers around, along with words like 'sexual harassment,' and 'casting couch,' Beddlam Studioz is going think
one and only one thing: Free Publicity. They live for this. They HOPE for this. I'll probably end up getting promoted. Now, let's just chalk this all up to a little spur of the moment improv session, and head on back to the beach house, and not even give it a second thought."

  "Fine," she huffed. Then, victoriously: "Then I'll sleep with your boss. Producers outrank directors. What'll you think about that?"

  Mike laughed, exasperated. "To be honest, I assumed that's how you got the job."

  ~ ~ ~

  It was a long, looonnng cold, quiet ride back to the beach house.

  ~ ~ ~

  Later: that night.

  More research; more rewrites. More --

  -- squueek! --

  -- rumbling through the duct-taped box.

  Mike sat there, in the office, again, shuffling through the stupid box lackadaisically.

  "Hey, heartbreaker," said a slinky voice from surprisingly close over his shoulder.

  He paused, mid-shuffle, mid-stupid, mid-squueek.

  Katherina.

  All serious, David Mamet-y, smokin', sexy glasses, luscious eyes, raven-hair, ponytail, creamy skin, blah-blah.

  "Hello, uh, there," Mike said, smooth as always, though, due to the events of the morning, far from being in the mood for actress talk, even from this one. "What's, uhm ..." -- squueek! -- "... up?"

  "I'm impressed."

  "With me? That doesn't seem very possible." He carefully put the plastic shark back in the box. (It still went -- squueek! -- )

  "Well, I am. Very impressed. You had a chance to rut with Britnee, and you turned her down."

  "Oh, that. I think it was more I insulted her."

  "Oh. Even better. Intentionally?"

  "Well, let's just say I meant it, but I didn't mean to say it out loud."

  "Interesting."

  She nodded.

  "Interesting," she repeated.

  "Yeah," Mike shrugged. "I figure I keep interacting with you actresses the way I've been the last couple days, soon the whole cast won't be talking to me."

  She smiled, enigmatically, beautifully. And stood there a long moment. Then: as if coming to a long-pondered decision: "I'll keep talking to you. Just not in public."

  She smiled. Then turned, and disappeared into the hallway.

  Not so fast this time.

  Mike watched her walk out.

  Interesting.

  Interesting indeed.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the night (thankfully) wound down, and the day (even more thankfully) headed toward its end, Mike stopped by Jake the P's uber-messy office. Apparently, he still had 'Angry Birds' fever. "Hey, iPad man," Mike said. "Where's Camera Bob? And the goth lesbians? I'm tired of doing pick-ups of nothing."

  "Heh," Jake the P muttered, flinging digital birds at disgruntled digital pigs. "Sounds like a cool band. 'Camera Bob and the Goth Lesbians.'"

  "Well, where's the gig they're 'playing,' because it sure ain't around here."

  Jake the P managed to wave a hand dismissively between bird levels. "Who knows, legal glitch, probably. Contempt of court can be tricky, or so I've seen in the movies. Especially with a couple of tattooed lippy hippy gothbians. Just shoot around him."

  "Shoot around him? He's the cameraman."

  "Take the handheld."

  "Again? And shoot what?"

  "What, now I'm directing the picture too? Simple, take some of the girls, the ones left that'll have anything to do with you, and do a montage."

  "We've already got seven montages in the movie."

  "People love the montages. Pretty girls, running around in the surf, throwing Frisbees, almost kissing, then kissing if you can get 'em to do it -- it's perfect. You don't even need a sound guy."

  "The whole thing could be avoided if you guys in the cheap suits would just spring for a cell phone for the poor hairy guy. Now the whole movie's going to be a montage," Mike grumbled, looking at a crumpled Far Side taped upside-down next to the dart board for some reason.

  "That's the idea," he grinned back. Mike just stood there, looking dubiously grumpy. "What, now I got to edit the picture too? Mikey, montages rock -- they practically film themselves. Which reminds me -- Hey, look, the studio sent some of the special effects CGI sharky crap they got already. Check it out."

  Mike flicked on the monitor, and watched some footage. "It looks like the monster from your other film, 'Croctopus,' with a fin superimposed on it."

  "Hey, waste not, want not, right? Besides, you know how many units we shipped on 'Croctopus?' You're welcome."

  "And how many returns got shipped right back?"

  "Luckily, not my department. Anyway, there it is, that's your CGI wizardry, live it love it. Grab some girls, film some reaction shots, preferably without tops, edit, convert, save, bingo -- movie magic."

  "Reusing old footage, it's so ... cheap. Even for you."

  "It's recycling, good for the environment, global warning, haven't you heard? We all have to do our part. Besides, the more those computer dorks churn out, the less we have to film, the more of the budget we get to keep, and ipso facto split twixt us, my friend. And the faster we can get outta this sandpit and onto our next digital crapfest."

  "Always the cineaste."

  "I love it when you talk dirty. Now, begone. And take the fog machine."

  "Why don't I just film the fog machine for two hours and be done with it."

  "Oh, now you're being silly. Would be cheaper, though. Make a note, will you? 'Fog Beast,' sounds like a winner."

  "I'm not your secretary. I'm everything else, apparently, but give me a break."

  "Fine -- I'll make a Jake the Producer note." He scribbled in mid-air with an invisible pen. "There. Golden."

  "Great. We're covered then."

  "And the world keeps a-rockin'. Oh, if you don't mind a favor -- don't worry, it's not secretarial -- be sure to lock all the doors and windows extra tight. Starting tonight, all the way until we leave. 'kay? Thanks."

  "Why? It's steaming in here."

  "Well, not that I believe any of this, and frankly, it's great publicity, either way, though don't mention it to the girls -- but there was a report on TMZ or one of those places, someone reported a shark beast sighting. An actual one. Supposedly. Anyway-- seems an old lady with a bunch of cats woke up to find some kind of 'monster-fish-thing' rooting around in her mini-fridge."

  Mike laughed.

  "What's so funny about that?" asked Jake the P.

  "What's not?"

  "I don't see the humor. I like old people. They rent a lot of crap."

  "Jake the P, c'mon. The star of our movie attacked... a mini-fridge."

  "Put a nice dent it in too, supposedly. Luckily, she shooed it away with a broom and one of those electric Dustbuster things."

  "So it got away. And of course no one else saw it."

  "Yeah. But she did end up missing three cats, so -- who's laughing now? Not the cats, that's for sure. Just close the windows, eh? And don't tell the girls. Those of them who are still talking to you."

  "Fine, whatever. I'm done for the day, anyway. I'll just sleep in my skivvies. That should keep the sharks and the girls away. See ya tomorrow, boss," Mike said, heading off for bed; a nagging pointless thought; he paused at door. "Since I'm a glutton for punishment, and a pint low on common sense these days, I have to ask -- what do you think it wanted with a mini-fridge?"

  "Well, 'experts' say, it was attracted either by the cold, or the noise of the rattling ice maker." He nodded, then, paused: "Hey. You think we should turn off our fridge? Or just the ice box?"

  "I'd say unless you're planning to sleep in the kitchen, who cares."

  "You're a bold man, my friend. Bold man." J the P looked up, a nice friendly-like we're just buds here grin. "You don't believe in any of this, do you?"

  Mike paused, letting a long-missing but-very-welcome grin come over him.

  "Do I believe in a half-shark, half-squid lobster shark that goes around eating cats and noisy kitchen app
liances? Gee, Jake the Producer -- I'll have to get back to you on that."

  Tentacle SIX

  the girl in the shower

  & the girl in the garage

  Imagine this: somewhere, that very night, in a beach bungalow, not too far away.

  ~ ~ ~

  Imagine: a naked girl, deep in the pleasures of a warm, late night shower; and the phone rings.

  She is annoyed at first, a grimace frosts her features; and then, suddenly: a tiny shiver of doubt, a touch of worry. Someone calling at this hour?

  Imagine how she must feel, as she hurriedly palms away the shampoo from her eyes, grabs a towel as she steps out quickly onto a damp rug. The soap that had once felt so soothing, relaxing, is now a sticky goo pasting the towel against her cold skin. She is a large-breasted girl, and it is a very small towel, a combination that leaves her lower regions exposed to the icy-cool air of the beach bungalow. This is a girl who doesn't have a lot of money -- she's an actress, like so many heavy-chested girls -- but she has many credit cards, so she feels this entitles her to run the air conditioner pretty much at all times. It was one of those air conditioners, big and boxy and intrusive, the kind that hangs crooked in bungalow windows, half in, half out, a hundred percent precariously. A piece of junk, actually. Or at least ugly as junk. But it did a good job, and, like her, it was determined -- it hung in there. So she rewarded it -- and herself -- by continuously leaving it running. At the moment, for reasons she can't isolate, she regrets that.

  She is young, this girl, and very pretty, with many friends and even more admirers, so a ringing phone is not a rare phenomenon for her -- still, it is late, and, understandably, in that hardly-a-towel, she feels vulnerable. So wet, so cold, so ... alone. Alone: that thought strikes at her brain like a soft, insistent gong. Goo-o-nnng. She lets it peal, but she doesn't dwell. This is not a girl who specializes, particularly, in dwelling on much of anything. Still -- it isn't hard to imagine the tiny sense of, well, dread probably isn't the right word, but, for now: it'll do.

  This girl: she leaves the shower door open, behind her.

  This girl: she heads for the hallway.

  This girl: she... well, it's more than safe to say she's, well, no offense, not the smartest girl in the world -- by far -- but she's not without the primal instinct that is a perfect, natural fit for the raw organic simplicity of her sun-tinted looks, her sleek-lined beauty, her fleshy-soft loveliness. It's a combination that has served her well in her short pretty life; yes, this is a girl who has learned to trust her instincts, her impulses -- even the rash ones -- rather blindly, without the shadowy intrusion of analytical thought. So it makes more than perfect sense that, as she pads softly into her bedroom, leaving soapy-wet footprints in the hall trailing behind her, her instincts tingle darkly, and glassy chimes ring -- shhrnnng -- with a touch of foreboding in the back of her very pretty, very young, very girlish head: