I spotted a few streetwalkers keeping dry under the dimly-lit eves of liquor stores and vacant shops, but just your standard hookers, dressed in normal sized heels and appropriate slut-gear. None of them resembled the lanky, large-footed, fish-faced whores I was looking for. No trashy pink wigs. No ridiculous Jackie Onassis shades. Just standard, human whores: miserable, cold, wet, out to pull tricks on a rainy Friday night.

  Poor things, I thought briefly.

  I almost scratched my plans of bagging a fish-face to pick up one of these legitimate ladies-of-the-night for a warm ride in my Camino and a dry hand job.

  I was about to pull into a secluded alley and park between a liquor store and Chinese restaurant to proposition a blowjob from a gaggle of spicy Latinas dressed for a Whore-War. Four of them, all gathered near a dumpster behind a Rite Aid. My attention shifted from the working ladies when I saw the red Lincoln with the INN$MOUTH plates cruising the street ahead of me.

  I'll snub the Latinas for now, I guess. Instead, I'll track this asshole in the Lincoln, see where the fucker leads me; no doubt to where his fish-faced whores would be. They might even be in the back of the Lincoln. Hard to tell from my distance. I stayed a good two car-lengths from his rear bumper, cruising along Westharbor Blvd.

  He circled the block twice. I followed at a reasonable distance.

  I trailed him for two more blocks before I came to a stop behind him at a red light. It was hard to make out much of the passengers because of the tinted windows, but there was definitely movement in the backseat.

  Eventually the Lincoln headed west towards the harbor. The driver pulled into a vacant lot near the Westmouth Pier. I parked across the lot and killed my headlights, but left the engine running. The Lincoln's lights cut off and the trunk popped open. After a few moments, the driver side door swung open.

  I watched from my rearview mirror as the Lincoln's suspension rocked and the gargantuan pimp stepped out. Whoa! The sight of the black giant sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. He was huge, and I quickly had my doubts about taking him on with hooks and blades. Even the single .357 round from my Powerhead wouldn't bring him down, unless I nailed him in the head or heart. It was difficult to prepare for a gamble like that. Just one round in the chamber. If I miss, I'm fucked.

  The man was a monster. He had to weigh at least 400 pounds, mostly muscle, and stood at well over 6 feet tall. He wore a red bowler cap and vest, covered in red sequins that shimmered under the parking lot lights. Like the pink-haired whores, he also wore ridiculously large-framed sunglasses that concealed his eyes and much of his face. I'm sure this guy is just as unnatural and grotesque as that fish-faced whore I chopped into chum.

  He removed his bowler cap, revealing his dark, glistening, bald head. He gazed up at the falling rain and opened his mouth wide. Like a coy fish's gaping lips opening and closing at the surface of a pond, he seemed to be breathing in the rain. His neck was a series of jiggling folds as he gulped. It was hard to make out his ears, but they looked small and flat against his scalp. I'm sure he also has gills running up and down both sides of his corpulent, crumpled neck.

  His gaze settled on my parked car across the lot.

  Is he looking at me? I wondered. It was hard to tell behind those shades he has on.

  Shit, he knows I followed him, I thought, ready to put the Camino in drive and take off. He was definitely looking in my direction.

  Both rear passenger doors of the Lincoln opened, and out stepped three pink-haired fish-heads, dressed in their trashy work clothes. Fishnets, short skirts, tight tops, and those large clown-shoe go-go boots. Upon exiting the Lincoln, they all stared in my direction as well.

  Uh, oh. The jig is up. They know I followed them here.

  The pimp finally turned his gaze from where I was parked to the three fish-heads. He said something to them I couldn't make out, and lumbered to the open trunk at the rear of the Lincoln. Watching closely in my rearview, I saw him pull what looked like a harpoon gun from the trunk, loaded with a harpoon long enough to snare a full-sized mako shark.

  The hookers were still staring in my direction.

  His shaded gaze shifted back to where I was parked, staring for a bit too long before ushering the three fish-heads towards the pier as he followed. He glanced back over his other shoulder at me once more as he marched behind the whores, harpoon gun in hand.

  What…or who…is he gonna use that harpoon on? I wondered.

  Nobody would be wandering the pier at this hour, in this weather. The whole beach appeared vacant. Aside from one or two passing cars, traffic along the streets was pretty scant. Whatever these mutant sex criminals were up to, they had the whole beach to themselves.

  All things considered, I had them to myself; no witnesses to the quadruple-mutant-homicide that was brewing in my head. I hadn’t expected to take on the entire gaggle, along with their pimp. My plan for the evening was to just bag one fish-headed hooker.

  I felt my plans were quickly changing as I sat behind the wheel of The Drowning Machine. After all, these fuckers are responsible for my missing arm. And how many other desperate, horny johns had fallen victim to these gilled whores? How many cash-paying men out for a quickie had been mutilated or murdered by these street-walking sea-tramps?

  For an instant, I questioned the idea of human creation. Evolution, religion, whatever. If there is a God up there responsible for the creation of all the creatures that walk, swim, and fly the boundaries of the Earth, I'm damn sure that he didn't make these things. Human/fish hybrids? If anything, the existence of these fish-headed whores has reinforced my belief that I have no fucking clue as to what's going on in this world.

  What I do know, is that this is my town. My harbor. My workplace.

  Westmouth Harbor; this is where I grew up. Where I was raised by a loving family. Where I became the best damn bait processor on the west coast. These fucking mutants don't belong here. Not on my turf. They belong in the tides; diced into chum and sloshing about the rolling currents, their remains enticing the appetites of tuna, carp, sharks, marlins, and barracudas.

  Yet still, I couldn't help but feel a clump of concern about how well Westmouth Harbor's new surge of abundant sea life would fare after wiping out my chum-source.

  Fuck it. Life here on dry land was fine before fish-whore chum. Life here on the shore of Westmouth will be fine without it.

  After double-checking the fillet knife and Powerhead on my sharpened hook-arm, I pulled the keys from the The Drowning Machine's ignition and stepped out into the rain.

  ***

  Apparently they had shrugged the presence of my El Camino in the parking lot off as a non-threat. Good for me. Bad for them.

  I waited until they made it halfway across the pier before I stealthily darted across the lot, tactfully making my way to the beach, where I can stalk them undetected from the unlit shadows of the high tide shoreline on a moonless, stormy night.

  I crept closer to the pier, treading with a werewolf-hunched gait along the hiss of the breaking waves. When I was about thirty yards from the support pylons, the pimp and his three fish-heads had nearly reached the end of the pier. They disappeared behind the idle Ferris Wheel, still unaware of my presence. Hopefully.

  I needed to get the jump on these fuckers; especially that mammoth-mutant in red sequined pimp gear. He's only got one shot with that harpoon gun. I only have one round in my Powerhead. Kinda gave me an edge…I'd take the .357 round over a harpoon any day.

  With the sound of falling rain and crashing waves, I didn't have to take my time clambering up the wooden steps connecting to the mouth of the pier. Once I made it up to the top planks of the pier, I scanned ahead of me. There they were, gathered at the end of the pier. The pimp had his arms outstretched towards the sky, his right hand still clutching the harpoon gun. The trio of pink-haired whores stood side by side at his back, arms stretched and staring skyward as well.

  I kept a sharp eye on their backs as I approached. With my left hand, I ensured the fillet knife was secure to my prosthetic, and the Powerhead was loaded and ready to fire. I then removed the hatchet-hammer from the left inside pocket of my trenchcoat and gripped it tightly as I moved in on them.

  First I'll get in close and use the Powerhead round to take out the pimp, I plotted. Then I’ll take my blades to those fish-heads. Hack ‘em up real good and toss ‘em over the pier's edge. Chum up the water's of Westmouth one last time. Draw in one last surge of sea life for tomorrow’s fishermen.

  I got nearly halfway across the pier and halted when the black waters beyond the coastline erupted. Through the rainy darkness beyond the pier, a four-story pillar of white water blasted from the sea's surface. There was a ground-shaking rumble that cracked the wooden planks under my feet. The pier groaned and popped as it rocked from side to side. An intense hiss filled the air as the towering geyser dissipated into the wind. A salty mist swept over the entire pier.

  Water surged the shore. Over the side of the pier, the entire beach for a quarter-mile became engulfed by the miniature tidal wave.

  From where I watched, crouched behind the gate of the Ferris Wheel, the pimp and the fish-heads hadn't moved an inch. They remained with their arms out and heads tilted back, as if welcoming a hug from God.

  Something massive was moving in the darkness beyond the pier, nearly impossible to make out, being so dark itself. What little light there was from the lights along the pier, I could make out its general dome-like peak, which reached well over four stories high. Scant threads of light washed over its many protrusions and ridges at either side of the dome.

  The sight of this monstrous black thing looming in the choppy waters no more than five hundred feet away had me wanting to run for my life.

  The pimp and his trio remained with their arms spread, unfazed by the gargantuan creature.

  Just as I turned to make a break for shore, the waters beyond the pier groaned menacingly. The displaced seawater had reached the streets, and had even submerged The Drowning Machine all the way up to the windows.

  As the displaced water slowly rolled back, I saw bodies scattered in its foamy wake. Bald, naked bodies washed ashore by the small tidal wave. They squirmed and pawed at the ground as they struggled to their large feet. More fish-faced whores, I realized. At least a hundred of them scattered along the shoreline and streets of Westmouth Harbor, all getting to their feet and heading for the pier.

  Sure I was armed, but I was in no way prepared for an army of naked mutant whores, a giant pimp with a harpoon gun, and whatever that black mountain of horror was out there in the water.

  I made it off that pier damn quick, but not before swiping off half a whore's head on the way with my hatchet-hammer.

  The army of naked fish-heads screeched in unison.

  I heard the pink-haired trio on the pier howl, and I was sure that the pimp would be giving chase. I looked back as I ran and saw the hefty mutant burling across the pier, harpoon gun at the ready. He wasn't moving fast and I had a good lead on him, but he was still closing ground. I made it to the Drowning Machine with time to spare.

  The interior was soaked from the wave. Fucker better start. Better not be flooded. The driver seat squelched under my ass as I fired up the engine on the third stroke.

  Across the parking lot, the red sequins pimp was still charging. He took aim with the harpoon gun and fired into my left rear tire. With a bang, my tire flopped and the back rim kicked sparks across the wet concrete.

  I sped for the parking lot entrance, aiming to nail the pimp on my way out. I spun the wheel, lining him up with the middle of the front grill. With my shredded rear tire, I swerved out of control, banking into two naked fish-heads, splattering one of their heads across the windshield. I nailed one of the straggling pink-haired sluts before I made it onto Westmouth Harbor Ave.

  I couldn't see the looming dark thing out in the water with all the rain pelting my windows. I wonder if the thing can come on land, I pondered. The damn military would have to get involved. What the fuck was that thing?

  All the naked fish-head skanks washed up after it appeared. The pimp and his trio summoned that thing, somehow. Ultimately, summoning more Hoes From The Deep.

  Heading home on a flat tire, I realized how busy I was gonna be from now on, hunting these mutant sea-cunts from a deep sea world I never plan on understanding.

  Yessir. Roy Castor's sole purpose now is to send them all back home.

  One bucket of chum at a time.

  About the Authors

  W.H. Pugmire The Quickening of Ursula Sphinx

  Wilum Hopfrog Pugmire has been an obsessed H. P. Lovecraft fanboy since 1973, at which time he began to correspond and hang-out with the surviving members of the Lovecraft Circle . Inspired by his friendship with Robert Bloch when he was a Mormon missionary in Ireland, Pugmire began to experiment with writing horror fiction and made a first sale to SPACE & TIME. Originally devoted to writing for the small press horror journals, he now concentrates on writing collections of weird fiction. His most recent books are ENCOUNTERS WITH ENOCH COFFIN (Dark Regions Press) and BOHEMIANS OF SESQUA VALLEY (Arcane Wisdom Press.)

  Kevin Strange McHumans

  Kevin Strange makes shit up for a living. It's his job to take the cool ass stories out of his twisted brain piece, and get them into yours without going broke in the process. He's sort of like a mother Pterodactyl. But instead of newly hatched little dinosaurs, he flings books and movies out of his nest. Some catch wind and fly majestically forth to eat, fuck, and kill their way through this fucked up world, while others simply splat on the ground below. Food for the insects. Yeah. That's what he does. Every fucking day of his life.

  D. F. Noble Ghost Load

  Don Noble was born in Alton, Illinois. He is the slightly older, fatter brother of Kyle Noble and does most of his writing in a metal shed. Thinking about it now, Don wonders if the shed acts as a kind of gigantic tin foil hat.

  Rich Bottles Jr. Olaus Wormius

  After an unillustrious print journalism career in southwestern Pennsylvania, Rich Bottles Jr. moved to West Virginia at the age of 32 to pursue a career in technical writing. He spends his free time visiting and hiking at the many state parks in the Mountain State, which is also where he develops the concepts for his novels. He is producing a trilogy of WV-themed "humorrorotica" and is currently working on a bizarro novel set in the vicinity of the West Virginia State Penitentiary. His previous novels include "Lumberjacked" and "Hellhole West Virginia." He was also a co-editor and contributor to the infamous anthology "The Big Book of Bizarro." His only regret in life is that his out-of-state secondary school education prohibited him from earning West Virginia's prestigious Golden Horseshoe Award.

  Jesse Wheeler Chumlord of Westmouth Harbor

  Jesse Wheeler spewed from his mother's infertile womb in the October of 1979. Just in time to grow up during the gruesome horror wave of rancid splatter flicks that were generated in the mid to late 80's. His father made the fruitful mistake of showing him John Carpenter's THE THING at the age of 9. Then exposing him to the heroics of, Jason Voorhees, Leatherface, Micheal Myers, and Dr. Giggles.

  At the partially withered age of 29, Jesse finally discovered Jack Ketchum's OFFSEASON, Richard Laymon's ENDLESS NIGHT, and Edward Lee's THE BIGHEAD; He found out that a much much richer world of horror needed to be explored with words.

  He's been writing ever since.

  Tim J. Finn Never Name He Who is not to be Named

  Tim J. Finn (no relation to musician Tim Finn) is a member of the New England Horror Writers and the Horror Society, an alumni of Grinnell College and a devoted and diehard fan of the awesome Darian Caine and the amazing Ruby LaRocca. (I'll give them copies of this anthology, for sure.) He has worked as a radio disc jockey, short order cook, office temp, busboy and copywriter. In his job as receptionist at a leading environmental engineering firm, he answers phones and greets visitors in a sickeningly sweet that threatens to bring on sugar shock. His writing appears in a number of horror, bizarro and splatter punk anthologies, all available at bookstore or e-reader near you.

  Kyle Noble The Curse of the Black Goat

  Kyle Noble was born 10,000 leagues under the poverty line. Horribly malformed at birth, kidnapped, and returned to the loving arms of the state by his kidnappers out of disgust, he was enrolled into the secret organization simply known as the W.A.N.D. He became a covert double agent Manchurian prostitute.

  Craig Mullins Vicious Jelly

  Craig Mullins should have been born a cephalopod, as the extra arms would have aided in the amount of projects he juggles. Primarily known for being the founder/webmaster of the long running H.P. Lovecraft film site/blog, Unfilmable.com (a torch he has since passed on), Craig has also written and directed two Lovecraft inspired short films, Read Me a Story (co-directed with Bret Mix) and the award winning Tomb with a View. As a writer, Craig Mullins has a small, but growing body of work that includes short stories in the StrangeHouse Books anthologies "Strange Sex" and "Strange Versus Lovecraft", and the forthcoming Atrophied Gangster Press anthology "Fifty Secret Tales of the Whispering Gash: a Queefrotica"… Current projects include a print magazine titled "Re-Animated States of America", featuring stories by Craig and Andrew Ozkenel and artwork by Andrew Ozkenel, scheduled for release in 2013, and follow-up stories set in the "Fuck or Feast" (from the "Strange Sex" anthology) universe… Craig is also an amateur Fortean, and lives in Glenpool, Oklahoma with his wife Amie and their two children…

  Jason Wayne Allen The Horror at the Garrsmouth Orgy

  Jason Wayne Allen has published stories in various horror, bizarro, and transgressive fiction publications and anthologies, appearing digitally as well as in print. He is currently working on many different projects.

  Jason Wayne is Southern by the disgrace of some dark god, but currently resides in the Midwest.