THE CURSE OF THE SEA-HEARSE
The sudden appearance of that damned cutlass brought about a tension quite capable of cutting through the air like butter. I don't quite get the simile, seeing as butter is a bit more viscous-- and, well, solid-- than air, but it bloody well works, so you keep quiet.
Olive and Mike, more naked and small than they'd ever felt before, stared at the sharp tip of that blade. Mike's balls had ascended to the relatively safe confines of his body, so it seemed that it was now up to Olive to 'save the day', as they say.
She eyed her two wannabe-captors. Sized them up. One was a man with more scars than beard-hairs-- and he had a hell of a lot of beard. The other was a woman who looked like she was still getting used to the idea of being alive, with her waxy skin, shadows under her eyes, and do I see pointed fangs? Ahem, maybe. Both had identical scars on their forearms; fresh and still red with irritation around the wound.
"Fancy rocks you got there," the man noted, emphasizing the obvious remark with an unnecessary head-bob.
"Oh, you mean this?" Olive raised her Psych Stone. To the casual observer, it looked like a miniature Jupiter, complete with the swirling rusty creams. All that was missing was that great red spot. But to the keener eye, one began to realize that it was certainly more egg-shaped than spherical.
"Yeah, that." With his free hand, the man pointed at the nude Mike. "He's got one, too, though."
"Show him, Mikey," Olive said, grinning that adorable grin of hers.
Mike shrugged and obliged, holding out his own Psych Stone for the two beach-buccaneers to worship. His was a purple amethyst handed down to him from his father, Steevus (may he rest in peace).
"Ooooh," the two rock-enthusiasts sounded. They'd never seen Psych Stones before. The things looked mighty valuable, though...
Olive had an idea. Well, she had to have an idea-- seeing as how the love of her life wasn't 'in the zone', so to speak. Her idea relied upon her own quick-thinking and the slow-reflexes of the two wannabe-thieves. She knew a spell that could-- oh, just wait and see.
While the two numb-skulls with the cutlass were too busy getting lost in the glitter of Mike's magik-rock, Olive whispered the Incantation: "Scheiden!"
An acid-green spray of magik shot out the end of Olive's stone, landing on the blade of buddy's cutlass. The magik began foaming and frothing, seeming to boil-over like tomato soup with milk does when the heat is much too hot.
"What the--?" the man cried, naturally surprised at this new shocking turn of events.
The blade was being eaten. Inch-by-inch, the magik worked its way down to the hilt, digesting and disintegrating the steel as though it were nothing more than a banana. Speaking of bananas, I could really use the potassium.
Before his hand was eaten along with his cutlass, Scarface tossed the weapon into the sand. He wiped his hand on his ratty old pants, just in case some of that weird magik-stuff had managed to get on him. Then he checked his palm for burn-holes.
Now Olive and Mike had their Psych Stones trained on the thug and thug-ette they'd saved from the sea.
The man looked to his woman.
YOU ARE READING
The Landshark BrigadeFantasy
Sequel to SURVIVOR: LIFE AFTER DEATH The Pacific Ocean is home to many terrors of the deep. But none of those terrors are as terrifying and raucous as the Landshark Brigade. They're a band of swashbuckling bastards (and bastardesses) who think plund...