Holy Guacamole! It's finally gonna end! The whole gawd-awful adventure of the studly dumb fisherman, the silicone starlet, and the plain-Jane Manson-family reject. After this, no more misogyny, blasphemy, pornography, cruelty or toilet humor! No more nothing! Just flowers and bunnies and skipping through the daisies! So don't click here to order your own copy of CHUM.

 
Father O'Flugence knows there's nothing he can do. It's all in the hands of God now, or the Devil--who can tell the difference? The latter, of course, knows these people better.      
     Father O'Flugence, however, believes in God just as much as he believes in the Devil--he knows it's just an excuse for a job. What he does believe in is fraternity--but he knows he's in the wrong place for this. The island is an atrocity, its people are an abomination, and its future is just the same as its past: disaster. He closes his shutters, lets the storm hammer at his house, and pretends to pray.
     He appeals to Nature to exterminate those who deserve it. Mother Kralik is at the top of his list--a fact that he is ashamed to admit--but nevertheless, confesses. He is evil and he knows it. He hates. He hates her, and the women of the island. He hates the way they look, he hates the way they think. He hates the way they walk, the way they chew their food, the sound of their voices, their insignificant concerns--everything they do. He hates them all. Except Nadine... such a dear child... the only hope for their gender on the island. April, of course, won't last long.
     Father O'Flugence believes in Nature. He believes it has a mind of its own, but no destination. He believes humans evolved from primates, and that some are still apes. He believes we are all part of a big mistake, that the species is corrupt, and that the storm is pure. He believes that Nature is correcting itself. He believes that accidents are glorious--and that the will of Nature is the only will.
     "Do what you will, Will..." he pleads to the darkness, "but please... spare the lads..."
     Meanwhile, Mother Kralik rages through the storm, working the women up. "Slaughter the Whore!" she screams, jabbing her cross at the sky, "Burn the Whore! Tear her limb from limb! Rip Her Fucking Cunt Wide Open!"
     "Rip Her Fucking Cunt Wide Open!" the hags repeat. "Rip Her Fucking Cunt Wide Open!"
     Now there are even more than before. They've emerged from the woodwork--coming from kitchens, trailers, the night-shift at the factory. There are at least two dozen of them now, brandishing sticks, stones, fireplace pokers, rope. Leaning into the downpour, carving a path with swipes and swats, their intentions clear and venomous--as they head up the hill toward April's house like a pack of Skinheads on their way to an immigrant picnic.
     "I'll spit in her face, that stinking bitch!" Nadine lets them know. "I'll rip her Motherfucking Ovaries Out! I'll take care of her! That California Movie-Bitch! I'll rip her Goddamn Gallbladder Out!"
     They arrive at April's house. Mother Kralik walks right up to the front door, shatters the window with the crucifix, reaches in, and turns the bolt. Nadine pushes past and they all burst in with the storm.
     "What was that?" Suzanne asks. She can feel the storm on the roof, and all the walls of the house.

"What's what?" April asks groggily. She is still hugging Suzanne from behind.
     Then they feel the footsteps on the stairs. A stomping sound is coming closer--many stomping sounds. They sit up in bed, the door bursts open, and the hags come screeching in.
     Suzanne screams. April screams. The hags scream. For almost half a minute, everybody screams. Nadine flicks on the lights and all of them continue to scream, as their eyes adjust. Then, when April and Suzanne recognize their tormentors, they scream even louder--which causes the hags to scream back harder.
     "What do you want!?" April manages to gasp, but nobody answers. Nadine drags her out of bed. She shoves her up against the wall.
     "You Cunt! You Slut! You Devil-Whore!" Nadine screeches off her rocker. "You Stinking Semen-Sucking Bitch!"
     April doesn't know how to respond. She just shakes her head, denying the crime--as Nadine looks her up and down like a piece of meat, then spits in her face just like she said she would.
     "Filthy Fucking Hosebag Whore!" Nadine gouges with her tongue. "Why'd you come here!? Come on, tell me! You can't say, huh? You Bitch! You Smear of Shit! You Crab-Infested Dog-Fucking Whore! You should've stayed where you came from! From the Devil! Well I'm the Devil too--and I'm gonna do a make-up job on you! So get ready... to Marry the Devil!"
     The hags grab hold of April. Nadine goes to the dressing table and brings back a handful of cosmetics. She smears lipstick all over April's mouth. The hags squeal hysterically, pinching and twisting April's skin.
     "You look like a clown!" Nadine laughs. "Hey, where's the circus at!?"
     April screams again, but Mother Kralik makes her shut up. She steps forward and slaps her in the face. April turns away, and when she does, Mother Kralik rolls her over, and lifts her nightgown up, revealing her ass. Mother Kralik gets down on her knees and bites her on the butt, twisting her jaws back and forth like a feeding shark. April screams again, as Mother Kralik rolls her back, spitting a wad of meat in her face.
     "You've got nice wide eyes, huh?" Nadine asks. "Come on, tell me, you Sack of Shit! You Sleazy Slut! You've got nice wide eyes, dontchya!?... Yeah, the wide eyes of a Trashy Little Whore! And the Smelly Tits of a Dirty Stinky Lesbian, that's what you got!... But your tits ain't big! You ain't got big tits! Oh No! You got little tits! You got itty-bitty titties, that's what you got! And zits! And an ugly black snatch! And Yann don't give a shit for you! And you ain't preggie! You Ain't Shit! You're Nothing! Do you hear me!? Nothing! You're Shit!"
     April stares aghast at Nadine, too afraid to say anything. There's a puddle of blood under her ass. She'll never wear a bikini again.
     "But we're gonna start with your eyes!" Nadine screeches. "I'm gonna give you some little piss-hole eyes, you Stool-Sucking-Bitch-Cunt-Whore! Hold her still!"
     April suddenly breaks away. She scrambles for the door, but the hags tackle her, and hold her head against the bed. Nadine approaches with a needle and thread--her hair gone wild like some mad composer who just got out of bed.
     "I'm gonna sew your eyes shut!" Nadine informs April. "You Goddamn Member of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee!"
     The hags, however, have forgotten about Suzanne, who has just emptied her bladder on the bed--before recalling the flaregun. She reaches down, finds it, points it at Nadine, and pulls the trigger. BLLAFF! There's smoke, as the flare enters her abdomen. Nadine falls back against the make-up table and looks down. There's a big black hole in her stomach, and flames are shooting out.
     "AIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!" Nadine screams, and tries to cover it up--but the shower of sparks burns at her hands. The women shield their eyes as the room grows even brighter. It burns for over a minute, blazing orange all over the place.
     And then it fizzles, and so does Nadine. She drops to the floor, and the rupture in her belly gives birth to her intestines. Her dress is up around her waist and her crotch is exposed. She is bleeding from her vagina, her period having finally arrived. Everyone is silent.
     The shrews shriek with fury. They charge Suzanne and grab the gun away from her. They rip off her nightgown and beat her senseless. And then they do the same to April. In the end, two naked women are lying on top of Nadine, as the hags take turns kicking them.
     "Now do you see what happens to whores who come here without a invitation!" Mother Kralik snaps at April. "We never wanted your pretty ass here, Miss Rich Bitch! You're a disease here, you Disgusting Little Slut! With your Big Fat Tits and Your Million-Dollar Movie-Muff! You came to the wrong place! Oh Yes! You Came to a place Where Dogfood Rules! That's Right! We're Humanity Gone Bad, Baby! That's Who We Are! We're What's Left After The Gutting's Been Done! We're A Bucket Of Fishheads And Blood! All Of Us! We're Worse Than Scum! WE'RE CHUM!!!... And You Stepped In It!"
     April tries to object, but Mother Kralik slaps her in the mouth. April gulps. She knows her ass is grass.
     "Oh!" Mother Kralik responds. "I'm soooo sorry dear, did I smear your make-up? Hmmmm... you don't look so pretty anymore... In fact, you look kinda flushed! I think you could use a powder!"
     Mother Kralik grabs all the perfumes and powders she can find and pours them on April and Suzanne. She laughs at them, then lifts up her skirt and positions her wrinkly old ass in front of their faces.      
     For a second, April can see Mother Kralik's ancient organ--like a mess of hissing, twisting serpents, tangled in a thinning thicket, all surrounding a crusted yellow hole--which suddenly widens. Mother Kralik pisses on them, as the women roar approvingly.
     "Please..." April begs, "she's only eighteen, let her go, please..."
     "SHADDAP!" Mother Kralik orally defecates--then shoves the crucifix under April's nose.
     "You want this!?" Mother Kralik demands.
     April nods yes.
     "Well you're gonna get it!" she laughs. "Oh yes, you're gonna get it! You're Gonna Get It Good!"
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After April and Suzanne have been thoroughly violated, Mother Kralik leads her legion back to the storm--holding the cross high in the sky. April and Suzanne have been tied together naked.
     "To the Cliffs!" Mother Kralik cries. "To the Cliffs!"
     The storm thunders and flashes. April and Suzanne are hauled to the bluff. The ocean is smashing at the talus below. Megatons Crash and Bash, going off like bombs. Chaos in the sky, anarchy in the sea. Calamity!
     The hags are squealing, drunk on blood. They set their cargo near the edge. Mother Kralik walks up and looks at them. Suzanne has fainted, but April hasn't. She is shivering, and begging again--a trait which Mother Kralik has become quite bored with.
     "Can't you do any better than that?" Mother Kralik asks.
     But she can't. April continues to blubber away, and not very creatively.
     "Come on!" Mother Kralik coaxes. "Say something! It'll be your last chance ever!"
     "... poo-poo ..." April finally manages to whisper.
     Mother Kralik roles her eyeballs in annoyance, steps up, and kicks the bundle over the edge. The violence of the tempest drowns out April's cry.
     "Send Us A Postcard, Bitch!" Mother Kralik calls after her.      
     The pink mass hits the rocks, bounces once, and disappears into the foaming spraying turbulence below.
     "Oh well," Mother Kralik tells the women, and shrugs. She takes out a pack of Tic-Tacs which she found in April's purse, pops one in her mouth, and inquires of the ladies, "Mint... anyone?"
     Widow Flanahan steps up, and Widow Murphy after her. They divvy up the candy, then head back to town.

By dawn it's calm, and the ships are twenty-seven miles out, injured, but still afloat. Three of them have weathered the storm. All flags fly at half-mast, except on one. Yann's boat. Where the mainmast is missing.
     Charlie had done an excellent job of riding the waves. He road one for over three miles before catching the next one. The other boats had followed suit, and El Niño eventually passed.
     Now, all the pumps are pumping away and the nets are being retrieved. Between the three ships they still have a couple miles left.
     On Yann's boat, Charlie has appointed himself captain, with no objection from the crew. He saved their ass, he can have the crystal meth--if there's any left. The others just want to get back to the island.
     The Big Run, however, is still on. They can see the salmon leaping and splashing, heading for freshwater. To go back without a catch is unheard of--even if there are dead on board. They get to work restringing the nets.
     
A few hours later, the boats are chugging for shore, following the salmon back to the island's only stream. Tons of fish get snagged in the process, including rare white king and "protected" chinook.
     Yann has been banished to the bilge where the pumps are running steadily. He sticks his head up and looks around. It is sunny outside, and the gulls are gliding over the rail.
     Yann looks toward the stern where Lester and Fred are hoisting the Captain over the edge. He hits the water like a sack of garbage, bobs a couple times, and ends up shark-food.
     "And Don't Come Back!" Charlie calls after him. The three of them laugh at the captain.
     The fishermen, still, will not talk to Yann--unless it's to give him an order. His quick thinking may have saved them for a bit, but he is not one of them. This is their message to him, and he hears it loud and clear. Yann doubts he'll even get paid for this trip.
     "Get the fuck back down in your hole!" Charlie yells at Yann, and he obeys, slinking back to the belly of the ship.
     Periodically, the boats stop and haul in their nets, emptying their catches onto the decks. Down in Seattle, this primo salmon would no doubt be prized, but up here, it will be mixed with ratfish and manta. Nobody will ever know the sweet pink flesh gone to waste. By the time these fish arrive in Japan, they will be part of a brown gelatinous mass.
     The nets are set again, and the boats continue on, hauling in every ten or fifteen minutes. The fish have become more concentrated now, though mostly it's only common dog salmon.
     It is late in the afternoon and the sun is getting lower. Charlie and Fred are drinking harder, Lester is already out. They won't make it another couple hours. Yann will have to drive the boat in. They decide to call him up from the hold.
     "Hey Fuckdick!..."
     Yann comes up and sees it in the distance, rising jagged, like the smoldering shoulders of some medieval demon: the Island.
     "Stop!" Charlie suddenly yells. "Stop the fucking winch!"
     Fred cuts the power as they crowd around the pulleys, looking down. Yann walks over to see what they caught... probably a seal or something.
     With all that ocean out there, the chances that April and Suzanne would end up in their nets were not very likely. Still, the salmon could sense the freshwater flow, so that's where they were going. Which is why Yann's boat was where it was, as well as the corpses caught in the current.
     So there they are: naked and bloated, bound with rope, and covered with yellowish-purple bruises. The men haul them up, dump them out, and stare at their bare beaten bodies.
     Yann gawks. He knows the face of April, even if it's hideous, with bulging eyes and a rigid grimace. Who the other woman is, though, he doesn't have a clue. But that doesn't matter. The only explanation is there is no explanation. That's the way it is--and he must accept it.
     Yann doesn't know how to feel, as he cuts the ropes away from them. He tries to bend their bodies flat, but the stiffness has already set in--they are contorted, disfigured, bent beyond repair. Yann pushes down on them like he's trying to close an overstuffed suitcase. It doesn't work very well. Some bones get broken.
     "Shit..." Yann mutters. And then it hits him like a brick: April is dead, and beautiful no more. She's gone forever. Destroyed.
     Yann separates the women, and lays a tarp over each of them. The fishermen finish hauling in. Their boat is full.
     "Yann!" Charlie calls. "You're driving!"
     Yann gets up and goes to the wheel, as Charlie goes around to the stern to pass out with Lester and Fred, snoring and farting in drunkenness. By the time they get to shore, they'll be sober enough to unload.
     Yann rides into the glowing dusk, looking out across the forms lying supine on the deck. The squawking of the gulls eats at him. His gut begins to wrench.
     He thinks of those lips--those lips which had formed the horizons and valleys of everything--the only reason he had to head back to the island, all the hope and strength in him. He thinks of those lips and sees them clearer than ever before, now that they are nevermore.     
     But they are. They exist. They're out there on the deck right now--and all he has to do is do what he is driven to, before he can never do it. So he puts a bungie on the wheel and leaves the helm.
     Kneeling down in front of her tarp, he peels it back a bit. Her dead eyes stare up at him, veiled with a whitish film. And beneath them: those lips--transfigured, pulled back--her mouth frozen open, tongue puffed up inside.
     Yann's eyes glaze. His breast beats erratically. Everything he loves in the world is gone. Yann stares and stares. And makes her lips beautiful again. They are beautiful for him.
     He lowers his lips to hers. But when they get within an inch, he hesitates. No heat rises--he might as well just kiss a fish. But her lips are there--and he will be fulfilled, he will be able to keep on going, he will go to the Redwoods, get himself a crabbing boat, find a substitute wife, spawn some kids, and forget.
     He trembles, and lowers his lips a fraction of an inch. His lips are almost touching hers. He closes his eyes and aims his face--but can't. Something refuses.
     Yann pulls back, gets up, staggers to the rail, and pukes. When he's through, he wipes his mouth and feels the pressure rising inside. He has to let it out:
     "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!" Yann howls, for the first time in his life. He wants to kill. He wants to die.

After a while, the island starts looming larger. Yann covers April up and goes back to the wheel. The other boats are following, and the docks are approaching. It is sunset, and there are black forms standing silent, waiting to see who the widows will be.
     The crew wakes up and readies the ropes. Yann cuts the engine as they drift into the slips. Wordlessly, the ship is tied to the pilings. Four men step off, one woman drops.
     Yann feels the void envelop him. He might as well just be a ratfish, whose only purpose is to form a turd for some poodle in Japan. His worthlessness is the most profound thing about him.
     He heads for the bar to get fucked up.
     The island owes him this.
     Meanwhile, out in the Bering Strait, the Coast Guard is coming up from Nome, Alaska. Greenpeace has filed a complaint against the Alaskan Fishing Industry, regarding the sale of Yukon salmon to the Russians. And the Alaskan Fishing Industry, in turn, has sent the U.S. Government to find out what is going on.      
     There are questions to be answered, and men on board to enforce the laws of the United States of America: policemen, detectives, and even an agent of the FBI, who intends on questioning April. The media is also along for the ride.
     The shit is about to hit the fan.

In church, the women are on one side, and the men are on the other. Yann and the Australian gent are among the men, and Mother Kralik and Widow Murphy are among the women. Father O'Flugence presides, three coffins beneath the pulpit.
     Whatever is said makes no sense. Yann knows he will never leave the island--why the fuck should he? Happiness is selfishness, and monotony is reality. Like the island. Which he is part of. It's real. Too real. And he will never leave it.      
     Yann knows that the men will talk with him again, and that he will fish with them again, and drink with them again, and if he's lucky, grow old with them. He will carry on the ways of the island, and fish as Bubba did, and all the men before him did, for generations. He will live like them. And die like them, off the shores of the island. Northern California exists no more. He is resigned to this.
     The night before he fucked a whore. He pretended she was Nadine, and was glad that she wouldn't shut up. The bitch just kept talking smut. It gave him the excuse to hit her. So he did. So what? And then he fucked her again, and didn't even use a rubber.
     Yann sits there and sweats. He sweats like a fucking pig. He stinks. All night long he snorted crank. It felt good. He drank and drank. To become one of them. To ditch the fool he used to be. To get along on the island.
     Then he went to the junkstore. Through the glass he could see his accordion there. The money had already gone up his nose. He stared at it, the piece of shit! And for a second he almost wanted it back. What a dumbshit!
     The priest blares on, talking in a monotone. He talks about the evil in women who lay together, and the misfortune that happens when citizens dare to take a stand for what's right. He talks about how innocents die when they try to keep sinners in line. He talks about tragedy, and coming together. He talks about "fraternity."
     Father O'Flugence is on a roll. He talks about the depths of hell. How hell is having to live with monsters. How hell is having to see them take part of you, and merge it with themselves. How hell is a place that's easy to get to. And how hell becomes home. Blah, blah, blah...
     Yann feels the need for a drink. To settle his nerves. To make him numb. To have in his hand. To put in his mouth. To lift up and down. To do something with.
     The priest keeps droning on. He says some more religious things. It's the same stuff every time. He knows it all by heart, the sad old fucker.
     Father O'Flugence gives the signal, and the organ starts to play. Music rises from the pipes--long resonating notes that hold in the air. They're there in the air, almost solid.
     Yann gets up. Everyone does. The whole church heads for the door.
     Widow Murphy nods to Yann and he nods back. The organ continues to hold its note. She doesn't look that bad for her age. She is still gazing at him. Another note rises from the pipes. Yann looks away, knowing what his look can do. A couple more like that, and she'll be knocking at his door. And maybe he'll let her in.
      Widow Murphy follows him. When she gets outside, Mother Kralik is there. She's lighting a cig.
     "Got another?" Widow Murphy asks, and Mother Kralik gives her one. They huddle together and get it lit.
     Mother Kralik is strangely silent. She crosses herself and looks toward the sky. Actual tears form in her eyes. Widow Murphy shrugs, and the dirge begins.
     In the graveyard, Yann takes his place in line, and moves slowly through the overcast--April's casket on his shoulder. He mucks through the mud toward a pit someone dug, the postal clerk next to him, Charlie up front, and Hans at his side.
     Gray rain falls from the gray shitty sky.

Meanwhile, half a mile away, spawning sockeye leap upstream, as silt and sperm mix with egg, as the flesh of the male starts to turn red, as the cycle continues--as it has for centuries--in the draining rains, rushing over rocks, running under logs, cascading down to the mouth of the stream, where debris fans out alluvially: granite slabs, busted lava, crushed quartz, and other igneous conglomerations, carpeted by barnacles, covered with limpids and starfish and urchin and crabs, crawling from the cracks, across the crevasse of chasms and fissures where wolf eels wind and wait for their prey, in the rubble surrounding the island.


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