Dash in the Blue Pacific Read Online Free

His head
was pinned to one shoulder by a heavy chunk of metal that pushed
him deeper. He twisted his face to profit from a shrinking air
cavity, breathing quick puffs. Down he slid into the darkness, the
water colder, filled with objects that deflected off his legs and
ass. He filled his lungs with the last of the air, raised his hands
and pushed with his remaining strength. He went down feet first,
kicked sideways and got free, ears aching, water pressing his
sinuses. He toed off his old canvas sneakers and swam toward an
orange light.
    Two bodies danced. She was already topless,
immodest, long hair a shocking corona. He had no hair or face, one
remaining arm twisting on a thread.
    Our Father in Heaven.
    A girl, not quite a teen, wore a pretty dress,
an unbuttoned sweater. She had no shoes or legs.
    Dash broke the viscous surface, a smoldering
cauldron of oil and jet fuel. Burning islands floated in every
direction, reflecting their hellish light in the poisoned water. He
latched onto the first object not spewing flames, not caring if it
was the Devil himself; anything to keep his face out of the toxic
mix. Deep breaths pulled in the searing heat, cooking him from the
inside. He switched to the quick puffs women in labor did on
television, climbed higher onto the demon’s spine with blind faith
in the thick smoke. The creature was buoyant, the scratchy hide
vaguely familiar.
    The oven glowed for hours, Dash turning slow
rotations, a rotisserie singeing both his sides equally. The fires
eventually ate themselves and blinked out, shrinking into gray
mounds and dipping beneath the surface. The debris field spread,
the water spotted with swirling rainbows. He was submerged to his
chest, his legs being brushed by hidden things with no interest in
biting just yet. Unmerciful thirst forced a cupped hand into the
littered water. He sniffed and then drank the warm, briny liquid.
He was adrift in a sea of stale margaritas. Dash shifted more and
guzzled a bellyful, then paused when a cramp pinched his stomach in
a steel vise. A deep belch nearly knocked him from his host. The
retching began and wouldn’t stop. He vomited salty water, and every
last bit of mini pretzel and gristly meat the lovely flight
attendant had served. Tiny fish came to say hello with eager round
mouths, greedily cleaning up his mess.
    Hallowed be Your name.
    Up from the depths rose a human hand, a fleshy
stump with manly fingers. It arrived pinky side first then righted
itself just beneath the surface, luring away the hungry fish. The
hand didn’t seem to belong to anyone, had struck out on its own. A
dull flash showed off a gold ring.
    Dash drew a painful breath. “How’s married
life?”
    The hand did not answer, only stood upright
with its three middle pads tickling the oily surface.
    “ I’m going a little crazy
now.”
    He collapsed, leaned his cheek on a forearm,
chin stirring the water. He tried his best to ignore the hand, its
constant waving, the monotonous hellos or goodbyes. Thirst came
back worse than before, and he couldn’t fight the impulse. He
tilted forward, took noisy gulps, swallowing hard. He wiped his arm
across a burned face and cold tears, braced for the spasm building
deep in his gut. The pain subsided when his mind latched onto a
better place, in a different time, one with a more peaceful view
and better margaritas.
    Your kingdom come, Your will be
done ….
    * * *
    The music hurt his ears even after he finished
chugging an icy thick margarita from a beer stein dipped in salt.
The Omega Psis were rich pricks who spared no expense at party
time. Live bands, top-shelf booze, a level pool table with no rips,
and juicehead goons on barf detail ushering woozy partygoers to the
front of the bathroom line.
    One of the goons stopped Dash in the act of
retrieving his coat from a second floor bedroom, stepping in front
of the door, latching one giant hand to his shoulder. Sausage-like
fingers from the other hand dangled in front of