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Heartbreaking, yes. Candy had cut him deep. A love like that didn't come cheap. The breakup had been expensive in every way.

  Oh, and it burned...it burned deeply, wonderfully.

  He hugged the fiery, wet crotch of his slacks.

  Well, passion burns, honey. And breaking up is very, very hard to do.

  He found her stash afterwards. A pocket stitched into the black curtains backstage. Alice had some mending to do tomorrow.

  Before that, he'd taken a good, solid fist of cash from the safe, and marinated it in his special love potion while Candy writhed through two turns onstage, and warmed the laps of her three johns in the private rooms.

  Only then had he waved her, smiling, to his nest.

  He yanked the door open and burst, arms wide, into the rain-filled night. She'd passed, screaming through this same door only moments before. The thought made him feel good, powerful. The sounds of his sweet revenge still echoed through the steely, rapid fire, of the LA torrent. That felt good too, cooled the burn.

  The heavy rain had formed black rivers, they swept the trash of LA's backside, before him.

  Wadded bills swept and rolled past his feet. The very thought of a trail of soiled bills stretching as long as Candy could waddle and run, screaming, hands plastered to her bottom, brought a snicker and a snort from him.

  He let the bills go. At first he did.

  The money wasn't important to him, not really. It was the pain she'd caused him, the lies, the disrespect. She’d stolen from him, taken advantage of his goodness, his charity, like so many had.

  It wasn’t until he reached the dumpster behind the dilapidated club, where his VW love bus awaited him, that Alice finally bent to recover a nastily-stained $100 bill.

  “Huh?”

  A black raincoat rode along the surface of the river before him, sweeping that bill and several others with it. And just past the coat -

  Alice recoiled in terror.

  A tall, no, gargantuan man stood naked beside the dumpster.

  Alice fled, sloshing through the rainwater, back to the door, his hands slipped, tugged, clawed at the knob.

  Locked. Of course it was locked. It would have locked the moment it closed.

  “Aa!” was all Alice could manage.

  He looked back to see the man collapse in a splash of foam to the asphalt, like a wave crashing to a sandy beach.

  He was gone.

  Coke? What was in that fucking coke? Fucking LSD?

  This was no fucking joke. The coke was fucking laced.

  His knees gave way. He would fucking kill his pusher. Lance was fucking dead.

  No joke.

  He fumbled for his keys, they dropped to the river of muck and bills at his feet and he stooped, quickly, to retrieve them, along with a few sodden bills while he was down there. His eyes blinked, raced from keys to dumpster, to sidewalk and to the refuse of East LA beyond. No apparitions this time. No naked giants.

  I don't deserve this!

  I don't!

  His keys sparkled in the slowly rising creek at his feet - but before his hand could scoop them up -

  Another hand did. A huge hand.

  It rose up to his face faster than his coked-up reflexes could dodge it, and then Alice was flying backwards. He slammed the metal door with rib-snapping force.

  His scream strangled with water, his nostrils, throat, and lungs burned and filled with it. The water filled his lungs to the point of bursting, then beyond.

  The creature's eyes, two blue stars of pain, stabbed into his.

  And then there was only pain.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  “Got a real Sunday night special for you this morning, Sara. Meet, Cecil Benson, alias, Alice.”

  Sara thumbed an extra dab of peppermint oil just below her nostrils, as she made her way between the tables. The oil didn't help.

  “Peppermint won't help with this stinker.”

  “Thanks for that, Ben.”

  “Probably, make you more nauseated than you already are.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  She'd had a good night, but a rough one too – last night’s White Russians mixed with the odor of mint intertwining with the powerful stench of feces and whatever devil's cologne the stinker had splashed on the day he’d perished nearly made her puke.

  “Ah... let me guess,” Ben wafted the air around her with his latex-clad palm. “White Russians?”

  “I bow to your genius. What happened to his eyes?”

  Ben nodded toward the cylindrical jar resting between the man's legs. Two brown eyes stared crazily at her from their formalin bath.

  “I don't mean where are they now – why aren't they in him?”

  The man’s empty lids, streaked with mascara and blood, had sunk deep into the pits beneath them.

  “That is the real question. Cops had to chase them down the street before they saw El Segundo for the last time.”

  Sara nodded, continuing down his body.

  “Throat and abdomen are extremely distended, he lay face-down for a while, purple with lividity all the way down to...fucks' sake-”

  The man's penis, still erect, was fiery red.

  “And that is the primary source of today's atmosphere.”

  “Jesus. What did he do?”

  “Apparently he delivered a hot mint poker to a friend.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It's a mix of Schnapps and hot sauce. It’s a form of figging?”

  “Figging?”

  “That’s where you use a shaved ginger root for an anal plug. Keeps your partner from clenching – it was all the rage...somewhere back in the Renaissance.”

  “Maybe that’s why I failed art history.”

  “With a hot mint poker, one usually rubs the mixture over the condom, a gift you give, not receive. But...apparently, this one was a giver and a taker.”

  “That can't feel good for anyone. I'd rip his eyes out too.”

  “You never know until you try.”

  “Remind me again why we don’t hang out after work. Oh, that’s right - you just did.

  “That's a weird scar.”

  Just over the customer’s carefully-shaved pubis, a cluster of bluish lines, slightly raised. She moved her gloved index finger lightly over it.

  “Yeah. Noted that. No stitch or burn marks. Could be a birthmark.”

  “Huh. I think it's a tat, just really badly done. Likely caused an infection.”

  “Nasty place for body art.”

  “Well...I'd say this fellow wasn't too discerning. So who was Mr. Benson’s last date? Anyone out there missing a freak?”

  “Perp wasn't hard to find. She showed up at Mercy Hospital with severe Colo-rectal distress at 2:12 AM, a few minutes after they found him.”

  “Well...let's see what else she did to him,” she said, “Check his back, I'll get his arm.”

  “Watch that hand...”

  It too was bright red and stunk to high heaven.

  “Jesus. What a bastard,” she muttered.

  “This one could be messy inside. From the looks of him, she shoved a hand grenade up his ass.”

  “Yeah?” Sara said, with a glance at his flaming erection, “She deserves a medal for heroism. One. Two. Three.”

  The man's unhinged jaw flopped wide open; a torrent of water, mud and gore gushed onto the table, cascaded over the troughs.

  The force of the liquid was so shocking that, for an instant, they both stood, flabbergasted, leaving the man on his side as the effluence fire-hosed out of him.

  Just as suddenly, the filth and water separated, the water seemed, almost, to slither over the sludge.

  Beneath the table, the five-liter collection bottle filled with it.

  “Get another bottle!”

  Ben crashed into the corner of the table. The cylinder with the eyes teetered, the balls inside twirling, and Sara caught it with one hand as she fought to disconnect the collection bottle, just as Ben slid a new one in place.

  She capped it, or tried to. The cap didn't fit – no, it did – she just couldn't twist it down far enough to catch the thread.

  “What the fuck is this?!”

  Sara grasped it with both hands. She shoved down with all her weight.

  The big plastic bottle swelled beneath her. Beside her, another bottle filled.

  “Damn it!” It throbbed, pushed back against her as she forced the cap down.

  Then it burst!

  She shielded her face with her arms as the water slapped into her, knocked her back, painfully, against the next table. The second bottle exploded beneath the collection pipe, soaked her.

  “Fuck!”

  The water slid off her in one thick sheet then dropped to the floor.

  “Plug the drain!”

  Ben pulled the control with everything he had – it wasn't enough.

  They watched helpless to stop it, as the water slid through the grate of the floor drain. And then the floor was dry, completely dry.

  Sara looked at her gloves, her coat. Dry.

  They looked at each other, stunned. From the table, the dead-man groaned as the eyeless corpse collapsed onto its back once again.

  Chapter 2

  Lake Pleasant

  "It is my distinct honor to introduce the next senator from the great state of Arizona, Todd Worwick!" crowed Sondra Tucker, one-time assistant to the creative director, of the Burl & Tennet Agency, and now that former director's campaign manager.

  It was 96 degrees Fahrenheit with no clouds in the sky and no hint of relief from the few wispy clouds above. Todd Worwick, former Arizona State University quarterback and NFL hopeful, practically squirted sweat through every possible pore and orifice of his six-foot-five frame. He had tossed the blazer over one shoul
der, pulled down the tie – but he was still a layer too hot in his dress shirt and slacks.

  He towered center-stage at the microphone on a wide platform before the sun-drenched Lake Pleasant, flanked by councilmen, children from a local school, and several Pima Indians dressed in ancient Hohokam garb. A dust-devil sent a blast of sand swirling across the stage, upsetting the sun screens and flapping the curtains behind him.

  The candidate himself was unflappable.

  "Hey Arizona - how the heck are you?" He shouted.

  "Worwick’s our man! Worwick’s our man! Worwick for President!"

  He waved and shook his head.

  “No – that was my opponent's idea, not mine. A bad idea for him too! We know where Barry Goldwater's heart is – we all know he still wants to be President someday. He doesn't care about us anymore. But until Washington comes to Arizona, my home is right where I was born – right here in Phoenix. I'm an Arizonan! I'll ALWAYS be an Arizonan!”

  That brought an even louder cheer.

  “Water!!! Bring us the water!!!”

  “That's going to take leadership, my friends! Leadership we’ll never get from that failure, Barry Goldwater.

  “It is time for a change, Arizona. Todd Worwick will work for you. I will work with Washington for Arizona. We all know that water is everything.”

  “Real water...not that “gold-colored” stuff!” Someone shouted.

  Todd raised his hands and shook his head.

  “Now come on. Let's be civil,” but he couldn't help but smile.

  “Lakes like Pleasant hold the lifeblood of Arizona – the lifeblood of agriculture. Agriculture is Arizona's heart.”

  “The Central Arizona Water Project will pump that blood into our economy. That will bring the jobs we need, the prosperity we deserve. But that is a grand project my friends. Hat's off to the Hohokam and the beautiful canals they built...but after a thousand years or so, their irrigation system needs a little work, don't you think?”

  On cue, the faux “Hohokam” turned to him and shook their fists.

  “Whoa there, Chief! I didn't mean any disrespect!”

  Laughter erupted from the audience.

  “Completion of CAP, the Central Arizona Water Project, will take money and lots of it. And, unlike my Republican opponent in this race, I will not saddle Arizonans with that burden. I will work with my good friend, President Lyndon Baines Johnson to bring Federal money to bear!”

  “Bring us the money, Todd! Bring us water!”

  “You know I will! And speaking of water! I don’t know about you,” he crooned into the microphone, “– but I can't think of anything better than catching a wave in the desert, can you? And the great folks at Great Wave have brought surfing to us right here at Lake Pleasant. How about that? What do you think Arizona?”

  Right on cue, the curtains behind him parted and a dozen local teens in jams and bikinis Boogalooed onto the stage, surfboards in tow. The opening phrase of the iconic Beach Boys hit, Catch a Wave, thundered over the public address system.

  The assembled crowd hurrahed. Todd waved and turned toward the shade, and large whirling fans located backstage.

  “Keep waving, the cameras are rolling,” Sondra said.

  Todd turned back, smiling even wider, brighter than before, waving with renewed vigor. Blue eyes and impeccably capped ivories gleaming. There were worse things than being here. Even if he couldn't think of any just now. He was at Lake Pleasant – possibly the most ill-named, god forsaken body of water in the great US of A as far as Worwick was concerned, stuck in the middle of the desert north of Phoenix. There was nothing remotely pleasant about the steaming sand hole – not late in May. But submerging the old Waddell Dam was a key piece in the Central Arizona Water Project, and the fact that an Arizona company, Great Wave, had figured out a way to put an artificial ocean wave, or some-such apparatus that forced something resembling an ocean wave onto a man-made beach in a man-made bay in man-made Lake Pleasant – had turned the idea of kicking off his water for Arizona platform here an opportunity his campaign couldn't pass up.

  “Your boat’s ready to launch right after you start the first wave. Sun cover and all the tackle you could ever want.”

  “Fishing is good. Cassie loves it, but is it really necessary, today?” he said through his smile. “I can't just…you know…slip out once they flush that wave out?”

  “Not if you want to be Senator." Sondra said through her own tight smile. “Our next senator is a happily married father.”

  “Right.”

  He raised his hands, and shouted over the music, “Time to turn the mic over to a couple great friends of mine I don't have to introduce – but I will! From your favorite Channel Five show, it’s Wallace and Ladmo!!!”

  Two men in twenties-style body-covering swimwear, one pudgy in bright polka-dots, the other tall and skinny with wide stripes on his baggy swimwear accented by a wide tie and top hat, hopped onto the stage - the kids in the audience went wild!

  “Hey kids! Give a big Wallace and Ladmo cheer to our next Senator, Todd Worwick!” The pudgy Wallace said, taking the mic as skinny sidekick Ladmo offered Todd his top hat – which Todd proudly donned to the cheers of the kids, tipped, then handed back to Ladmo as he headed, waving, offstage to a smaller platform on the brand new artificial Lake Pleasant beach where a giant turquoise button emblazoned with the turquoise Great Wave logo, stood atop a pedestal. The crowd and cameras followed closely behind.

  The surfers had already begun paddling out to a line of buoys marked by brightly colored flags. Todd squinted into the dancing diamonds of sunlight glinting off the lake.

  “How does this thing work?”

  “Submerged pumps, they tell me.” Sondra said. “Think of Lake Pleasant as a huge toilet.”

  “Not that difficult.”

  “Same principle – when enough water gets pumped into this bay to create a siphon it flushes – we get a wave.”

  Todd considered that.

  “You know, CAP goes through…a couple years from now this whole bay is underwater.”

  “Not a problem. The pumps are mobile. The lake moves – the bay moves. Blasting a new beach out here is easy enough; plenty of rock and sand.”

  “And, soon enough - all the water they'll ever want.”

  Tall Ladmo took the mic, one long, lanky arm waving to the surfers, who waved wildly back. “Okie dokie, surfers! Ready to hang – five?”

  Wallace took the mic back, “That’s ten, Ladmo!”

  Ladmo slapped his palms to his hat, “Dang!”

  “Let’s hope Gerald doesn’t come along and ruin it…OH NO!”

  A man dressed in velvet knickers, spectacles, water-wings, and a Dutch-Boy blonde wig sauntered out to them, carrying a small, Styrofoam surfboard and a mic of his own.

  The crowed jeered.

  Todd snickered, “Gerald tries to ruin everything. All these years…still gets me.”

  “Me too.” Sondra laughed.

  Spoiled rich kid Gerald, was actually Pat McMahon, a local KPHO talk-show host, and a regular on the Wallace and Ladmo Show – McMahon played other characters on the show – including a kid-hating clown. Todd always thought he was a hoot.

  “I’m rich. I own this lake,” Gerald said. “I get the first wave.”

  “No you don’t, Gerald. This lake belongs to everybody!”

  Ladmo, had moved behind Gerald, directing the crowd, and Todd, with outstretched fingers.

  “ONE!”

  Todd raised his palm over the big blue button.

  Gerald stomped his feet, “No! No! No!”

  “Two!”

  “Damn thing better work,” Todd said, sideways at Sondra through his wide smile.

  “No! No! No!”

  “THREE!!!”

  Todd slapped the button down.

  For Todd Worwick, a moment of utter silence. He blinked. He was alone.

  Out on the water, the surfers, the brightly colored floating flags, were gone. All around him, only the desert, and the lake. The water.

  He stood atop a huge boulder overlooking the dam. Staring at that place where the water lapped the concrete wall...

  With a shudder and roar – it all came rushing back. The cheering crowd, the Beach Boys. Just beyond the buoys, a long blue swell began to rise, bringing a collective gasp from the crowd. The surfers paddled toward the rising wall and turned back to the beach.

  The wall of water sheered and a great wave began to curl toward the shore, bringing the best of the surfers along with it.