Great White Winged One [part 4]


The head researcher asks him why he looks so exhausted these days, so much like a corpse, like a lamprey. He specifically used the term “lamprey”, though lamprey do not look particularly tired or exhausted or anything of the like but disgusting certainly. The circular rows of teeth, the blood-leaching latching-onto-bigger-fish way-of-life. Which the young scientist surmises is why he used this term, his superior.  The head researcher is a moron.


The young scientist has managed to break into one of the small motor vessels in the marina and now cruises himself out to sea on a near nightly basis, weather depending. The nocturnal boating could also reasonably be explained in terms of the surpassing beauty of the sea, in these latitudes, by night, the moon & clouds swimming upon its surface in soul-bending variations of luster, so and so and so. But this is not it.


It is the tirelessly breaching white pointer, declared arch nemesis of dolphins, with which there must be something significant up that makes him get out there, in-between the double moon and double sky. Which in turn is itself not entirely exhaustive explanation of why the protagonist numero due is doing what he is doing.


Three years earlier he had been with a young woman, name of L, who very much against his will he had fallen in love and ended up in a relationship with. L had displayed a near-pathological interest in Selachimorpha, without a particular preference for Charcharodon Charcharias and subjected herself and him, not yet so risen and not yet so bright at the time, at least emotionally speaking, to hours and hours of national geographic footage documenting sharks from hammer to goblin to whale to you classify it. His amour fou had managed to somehow even circumnavigate these sheer socio-time-managerial cliffs of engagement to said L. However, as per usual after about two years the love-of-his-prospective-life, for no reason evident to the young man, decided to Titanic his heart and set sail for greener romantic seas.


By all reasonable logic of devastating emotional trauma, the youthful, brilliant biomariner should presently keep thousands of nautical yards between himself and Selachimorphae so that none of the dreadful memories has any chance of resurfacing. But that is forgetting considerations of revenge. If he can make an astonishing discovery in the study of shark, make himself a name in the field then L will be confronted with Ex’s halo of success in her very own area of obsessive-compulsion, a condition he imagines as emotionally devastating, possibly even suicidal. To the young man, this is an extremely delightful prospect. And so then thus he would not miss it for all the sleep in the world and idiot head-researcher lamprey-barbs. Of course, knowing he could at any given moment verbally destroy his superior helps, too.


Therefore: the night, the little boat, the moon, the breaching shark, the glistening, joyful eyes, the sensor-fitted harpoon…and WHAT THE FUCK!!! Wings, this here shark is growing himself a set of wings as in: Goodbye Darwin, Hello Lamarck! He aims, and visualizing Starbuck fires, the harpoon spearing point perfect into the tissue between fin and main body where the bleeper is buried. The really interesting part being that the great white shark at this point is passing about two meters above his head, though this is not, as yet, breach 47’503. Just imagine.

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[to be continued….]

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About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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