She took the twenty, quickly crammed it into her zebra purse, and set it down on the floor between her legs.

  Before I had my wallet stuffed back into my pocket, she crawled over the center console and began unzipping my pants. At that point, I wasn't at all hard. The overall sogginess and stink of her was too overwhelming. I'm used to hookers dry and leaving my ride smelling like perfume and cigarettes, not seaweed and wet leather.

  I closed my eyes, dropped my head back, and let her go to work. After some delicate stroking, she managed to get me up. It took some imagination work on my part, and only breathing through my mouth to get me there. I was about to cum, when she dropped her face into my lap and started sucking.

  I hollered, "Whoa! What're you..." But I found her reticent, deepthroating action left me at a loss for words. Stricken beyond the fear of orally transmitted STD's by how her tongue seemed to twirl the entirety of my shaft, I let her continue. There was a sticky, plucking quality to her tongue that was beyond explanation. Unlike anything I'd ever experienced. And I was in no position to complain or question. She was suddenly giving me the best blow job I'd ever received; a Blowjob so supreme, it felt unnatural. With my cock knocking at her tonsils, she managed to slurp one of my balls halfway into her mouth as she went to work on the base of my shaft. As her tongue swept the wing of my scrotum, I felt a separate tongue begin to lap at my asshole. Then another. I would'a figured the slick, sticky tickle as her fingers, but with both her hands on my right thigh, the sensation made no sense. Where's that tickle coming from? I wondered, confused, still in the escalating grips of absolute arousal.

  Does she have three tongues? I pondered, half-hypnotized by the overall sexual intensity of her mouth on my dick and the gloriously foreign sensation of her tongue teasing my anus. It was good in a wet-dream kinda way, but after a few seconds of that, it just got too weird.

  I decided to pull on her wig. Strangely, at that moment, I was more curious about her actual hair color more than the unearthly head she was giving me.

  After lifting the side of her wig, I realized just how inhuman she actually was. Behind her ear, there was a column of three inch-long slices. When I saw them flap open sequentially, the glistening red fibers became visible beneath each slit. Gills, I realized in horror. She has fucking gills! Next to each set of gills, there was a stout, tubular, winking orifice that I immediately recognized as a series of fleshy siphon valves, similar to what an octopus uses to help propel itself through the water.

  In a panic, I grabbed her by the shoulder and hastily lifted her face from my lap. Her wig landed on the dash and her shades toppled from her face, but she held fast. Her head didn't get far, due to the set of squid-like tentacles jetting from her mouth, still attached snuggly to my shaft, scrotum, and anus. She drew blood, and I still have the scars on my cock and balls to prove it.

  With her wig missing, she was cue-ball bald. Her pale scalp was webbed with purple veins. With her shades missing, her eyes were abhorrently large, too far apart, and froglike. Black, hourglass pupils dilated within the iris of each plum-sized eyeball as I struggled to force her as far away from my cock as possible. I don't remember shrieking, but I'm pretty sure I did as I clenched her tentacles in both my hands and twisted to release their tiny piercing suction cups from my crotch and asshole. Her jaw dropped, dislocating from the rest of her skull like a python preparing to slurp down a jungle rat. As her maw expanded, I noticed the spiraling rows of pointy, serrated teeth lacing the inside of her mouth. She let out a screech as I wrung her tentacles like a wet rag, and she released them from me.

  With my left hand free, I quickly found my right hand was still restrained. Like an agitated fistful of constricting garden snakes, her tentacles had wrapped around my right wrist and forearm, latching onto my skin. Hundreds of suction cups along the undersides of each tendril fastened to my flesh, drawing more of my blood as the tiny hooks within each micro-cup punctured, rooting into my skin from wrist to elbow. In the blink of an eye, her head lurched forward as her tentacles simultaneously pulled my entire fist into her gaping mouth. It felt like jamming my fist into a giant pencil sharpener. The bitch jerked her head back and forth like a dog on a chew toy. Her jaws had the clamp and razor-ferocity of a pit bull-sized piranha.

  With my hand engulfed in her saw-toothed maw, I could feel her tentacle tongues prying my fingers apart, pulling them down her throat, splitting the webbing between knuckles, and rending thumb-meat as she gnawed. Every tendon and bone in my hand cracked and snapped under her bite. Yanking my fist free was impossible. I could feel my hand disintegrate and detach inside her mouth with each passing millisecond.

  I reached with my left hand under the driver seat and pulled out my lug wrench. Leverage wasn't on my side, being cramped behind the steering wheel, and my right hand being ground to bits. But I still managed to bring the wrench across the side of her skull hard enough to break open her scalp. The blow caused her to bite down on my forearm harder, breaking more bone and severing vessels. I brought the wrench back and took it to the side of her sloped head, shattering her right ocular socket. Her bulging eye ruptured, splattering my face with transparent ooze. The tentacles in her mouth retracted down her throat as her body seized, and I was able to yank my mangled hand free from her jaws. It wasn’t much of a hand at all anymore; nothing more than a frayed, drooping mess of tendon and pink bone fragments from mid-forearm to the tip of my only remaining finger. The sight was gruesome and all too real. The pain and anger I felt was dizzying. If I stared at my mauled arm much longer, I would have gone into shock.

  She trembled and made 'cacking' sounds in the passenger seat. Her gills and valves were leaking blood and flapping sporadically. Her remaining eyeball swiveled blindly like a dashboard compass on a bumpy road. She was literally flopping like a fish.

  In a rage, I reared the wrench back and went in for another swing. The entire right side of her skull caved from the blow. Her blood smelled like fresh fish blood. I removed her tube top and fastened it tightly around my bicep as a tourniquet. Along her ribs were more sets of gills. These were much larger than the ones along her neck, and had thicker red fibers swelling from beneath each flap. What the hell is she? I wondered as I tightened the tube top around my arm to slow the bleeding.

  I removed my jacket and used it to wipe her splattered bits from the windows and most of the interior. Careful not to draw any attention, I drove out of the apartment complex. Shifting gears with my left hand was difficult, but I managed.

  I feared that hellish shriek she let out may have raised some curious tenants. Still raining hard, there weren't likely to be any. The coast looked clear as I pulled back onto Westharbor Blvd.

  Pulling into the closest, darkest alley I could find, I then decided to haul the whore's corpse into the bed of the El Camino. I rolled her up snugly inside a painting tarp, careful to not get too much of her blood on the fabric. Amongst my tackle box, tool chest, and chum buckets, she was well hidden…but still leaking.

  Back in the driver seat, the overall stink in my car was nauseating. My car smelled like the processing floor at the fishery on a hot day. The overwhelming smell combined with all the blood I'd lost had me on the verge of fainting. Despite the rain, I cracked the window.

  I could feel my brain growing colder. Medical attention! And fast!

  Rushing to the hospital, I nearly blacked out twice. Stumbling up to the reception area, I was quickly rushed off to the emergency room by two nurses that saw the gruesome condition of my right arm. When asked by the doctor what had happened, I explained that it was a shark attack; a fishing accident. After briefly inspecting the wounds, he bought the story.

  Medicare covered the amputation surgery and prosthetic.

  I stayed in the hospital for eight days before I was attached with this prosthetic hook and released. It was custom-molded to the stump just below my elbow. A nylon harness attached it to both my shoulders. I adjusted to how it worked pretty quickly. Opening and closing the set of steel prongs was easy to manage with the slightest of shoulder or elbow movements. During my entire stay at the hospital, I worried about the corpse of that fish-headed whore under the plastic tarp, leaking in the bed of my El Camino. I dreaded a set of police officers walking into the room and questioning me about the dead thing under the tarp in the bed of my car. What would I tell them? How would I explain? Would they charge me with murder, even though the bitch wasn't human? My mind raced with these concerns. Without the morphine drip, I wouldn't have slept a wink.

  Thankfully it rained throughout my hospital stay, and it was the middle of winter; the cold air kept her from getting all soupy. Parked amongst the other patient's vehicles, my ride looked like nothing more than an active fisherman's beat up El Camino with a tarp covering his supplies. Amazingly, I was in the clear. If it were summertime, she would'a started getting gamey real quick. The stink of rotting fish emulsifying under that tarp in the midday sun for eight days would surely draw the attention of hospital maintenance workers.

  Back in the driver seat, the stink of fish still emanated from the whore's leftover skull leakings that stained the carped and dried in the cracks of my leather seats.

  With my new hook, shifting gears was still a pain in the ass.

  Before anything, I gotta get rid of this body, I thought. I decided to drive down to the docks and take this Cunt-Fish's corpse for a little trip on my boat; dump the bitch's body into the sea.

  Hauling her onto my vessel, The Chum Dumpster, wasn't difficult. She was a dainty girl...fish-creature-thing…no more than 110 pounds. Though she was still leaking from her cracked skull, the tarp I wrapped her in made for a fairly inconspicuous boarding. Plus with the poor weather and choppy seas, nobody was out and about to witness me and the bloody tarp mummy, anyhow. The entire harbor was vacant, aside from a few grizzled fishermen scattered throughout the docks, but they were too busy prepping rods and loading their vessels with fishing supplies to notice me. Either for sport or for food, the desperate fools were out to make a catch. Poor bastards. I thought. In this weather? In these barren waters?

  These waters haven't seen any real fishing for over ten years. Most of the seafood that comes into Westmouth Harbor is freighted in from Japan. Nobody really knows why the fishing in Westmouth Harbor has grown so scant over the past decade. I'm assuming it's environmental.

  Once I got the fish-whore's corpse on deck, I decided to set sail. A good two miles from the harbor I dropped anchor and unrolled her corpse from the tarp. I figured it would be best to chop her into pieces. After unfolding the tarp, a waft of her fishy smell hit me.

  Then it struck me: Turn the bitch into bait. Hell, she smells like fish, might make for some prime chum, I thought. Plus, what better way to dispose of a body than to turn it into fish food?

  I hauled her below deck where I had a baiting station, equipped with a sink and a steel cutting table with a drainage reservoir for collecting blood. The table wasn't large enough to handle a fish of her size. I removed her clothes and boots. When I got a look at her bare feet, I saw why her boots were so large. Her feet practically resembled a pair of scuba diving flippers. A venous membrane connected each of her three pencil-thin toes.

  Above my baiting station, a rack of blades was organized from fillet knife to cleaver. I grabbed the cleaver, then started by disemboweling her and plopping her innards into buckets. Her intestines, liver, and wads of unidentifiable offal filled two five-gallon buckets to the brim. From my knowledge of fish anatomy, her insides were quite similar, just proportionately larger. I split her sternum with three solid whacks of the cleaver and opened up her ribcage with surprising ease. Her exposed lungs were porous and carpeted with bright red vessels. They were excessively long and ran the entire length of both sides of her torso. Water-lungs.

  It took me nearly two hours to dismember her entirely and strip as much from her bones as I could. Even her bones had a brittle cartilage transparency that was much like fish bones (which would also explain why she was so light). Easy to hack through. By the time I was through dicing, chopping, and peeling, not much was left of her but a crimson stack of wet bones. I had filled six five-gallon buckets with her…enough chum to last a busy fisherman for weeks.

  I gathered her bones in the tarp, hauled them topside, and tossed them overboard. Then I brought up the first bucket of fish-whore chum and dumped it into the sea as well. I returned below deck for the next bucket, when something struck the hull of my vessel; then something else hit from the opposite end. Soon the underside of my boat was being hammered from all sides, like hundreds of fists pounding the belly of the boat.

  Baffled and concerned, I ran back topside and peered over the side of The Chum Dumpster. My boat was being swarmed by fish. All kinds. There were, bass, barracuda, carp, and even a few snappers roiling the choppy waters surrounding my vessel. The waters smacked and splashed with the pattering flurry of eager sea life. I even spotted a few shark fins amongst the crimson slick of whore chum.

  I hadn't seen anything like this in all my years as a commercial fisherman. Apparently the bucket of fish-whore chum I tossed overboard had roused a feeding frenzy unlike any I'd ever witnessed. As I watched the swarm of fish increase in numbers around the dissipating chum slick, hundreds of gulping mouths and flapping flanks swarmed to suck up the floating gore. Schools of smaller fish bounced over the surface like falling hail on concrete, trying to get their fill.

  Incredible.

  This batch of chum worked like none other. Almost immediately after dumping the bucket into the water, the feeding frenzy erupted. I could make a fortune selling this stuff to all the local fishermen if it causes this kind of frenzy. The fish were going insane over the stuff.

  I decided to hold on to the remaining five buckets of my new chum and head back to the harbor.

  Once docked, I encountered a crew of commercial fishermen loading their boat with supplies.

  "You fellas want some free bait?" I hollered across the dock. "I'm a bit overstocked and could unload one or two of these buckets."

  "Why not?" a bearded man in a yellow rain poncho replied.

  That day, those fishermen netted nearly three hundred pounds of fish off my chum bucket; a record catch in Westharbor's recent history. I had quickly become popular down at the harbor for my special blend of bait.

  "Got anymore of that primo chum?" I would hear.

  "100 bucks a bucket," I would reply.

  The rest is history.

  And that's how I got into the business of making chum outta these fish-headed whores.

  ***

  I returned to work at the Westmouth Harbor Fishery the following week. Business was booming. We were seeing a three hundred percent increase in local fish intake. Eventually, I was even promoted back to my original position as bait processor, after I made a custom removable fillet-knife attachment for my hook (among other modifications, such as sharpened prongs and a slot for a folding straight razor). My hook hand had become a body modification rather than a burden. I found that I could still process bait like the best in the business. I was back in my element, cutting, gutting, and grinding fish into bait.

  The Castor Baiter has returned. Better than ever.

  "Hey, Roy," Bill Lockwell, the manager of the fishery, said, patrolling the processing line. "The word around the harbor, is that you got a special blend of bait that's been driving them fish ape-shit."

  "Yessir," I replied, scooping a wad of guts from a split carp.

  "Well," Bill slapped me on the shoulder, "What you puttin' in the stuff?"

  "Kinda my own secret recipe."

  "Top secret, huh?" He smirked curiously. "You got the chum market cornered, eh?"

  "Yeah. I reckon so," I answered dryly, focused on processing the bait line.

  "Well, whatever it is you're puttin' in that chum of yours...keep it up. We haven't seen a boom in business like this in over ten years, and I have a feeling that it's all cuz of that special mix of yours."

  "I believe so as well, sir."

  He gave me another friendly pat on the shoulder. "Keep it up, Roy."

  "I sure will, Mr. Lockwell."

  He leaned in close. "Call me Bill." He then returned to his office.

  ***

  So here I am, on a rainy Friday night, nearly one month after losing my hand to that fish-headed cunt, currently trolling Westharbor Blvd in my newly-dubbed “Drowning Machine,” looking to bag and process another fish-faced fuckwhore.

  Unlike my first run-in with one of them, this time I'm ready. I packed the inner left pocket of my duster with a hatchet-hammer, fresh from Home Depot; in the right pocket, my trusty cleaver. Both handles were at the ready for quick draw…well, as quick as I could draw with my left hand, anyways. Again, the thought of losing my good hand to that fish-headed cunt drove me to grind my teeth until one of my molars cracked.

  Fuck it. Hand's gone for good. No use lamenting over it now. I must focus back on my current arsenal.

  Earlier this afternoon, I spent a good half-hour filing the prongs of my hook to needle-sharp points. I then fastened a razor-sharp fillet knife to the custom slot I attached to the fiberglass wrist. The finest upgrade to my prosthetic arm is the mounted Powerhead I welded to a steel brace that I fitted below the wrist of my hook-arm. It's basically a steel tube the size of a road flare, consisting of a firing pin and a simple trigger system. It fires a single .357 Magnum round. Used for killing sharks, gators, and fish-headed whores from who-knows-where.

  Yes, I was ready for blood, ready to hook one of these fish-eyed hookers and hawk her remains off to oblivious fishermen as mere bait; make a few extra hundred bucks off a twenty dollar mutant-whore.

  For a Friday night, the streets were fairly busy with traffic. There wasn’t much foot traffic along the sidewalks due to the downpour. After hunting these bitches for weeks now, I found that they only come out when it's raining.