Thomas Prescott Superpack Read Online Free Page A

said, “Why’d you agree to come up here if you knew this in the first place?”
    Making a concerted effort not to let my eyes drift to her boobies, I said, “I could care less if they pin all the blame on me. Hell, I’d take the blame for the JFK assassination if it’d keep these FBI types from bringing it up after one Sex on the Beach. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only—I kill killers.”
    I think the last three words hit deep because she turned her gaze to the window. A suffering thirty seconds passed, each rivet in the bridge rumbling louder than the last, when Caitlin turned and said, “Let me get this straight. You had drinks with an FBI guy and he ordered a Sex on the Beach. What a bunch of fricking pansies.”
    Be still my heart.

Chapter 4
     
     
    I finished off the bottom third of a now warm beer and lifted my one hundred sixty pound frame from the captain’s chair. I still hadn’t regained the weight I’d lost and I could actually see the egg salad and bologna vying for position at the gates to my large intestine.
    I cranked the steering wheel to the left as I approached the Bayside Harbor, making sure to stay clear of the large ten foot tires deviating the marina entrance. Funny story, about two months ago I’d taken to high seas, making sure to pack enough food and beer to last a week (just in case I repeated my Maine Catch disaster.) But you know what, sailing is boring. Let me rephrase that, sailing looks like a blast, not-sailing , the term I came up with for what I do on the water, is boring. Next thing I knew, a week’s supply of food and drink were gone, I was five pounds heavier, and drunk as a skunk.
    When I woke up, I was naked except for a pair of socks, which still baffles me because I started the day in bare feet and sandals, and my boat was in the middle of a marsh swamp. Lucky for me, some acne-faced fifteen-year-old was fishing nearby and agreed to sail the boat back to the Bayside Harbor if I gave him a cool hundred up front. When we were about a hundred yards from the harbor, the little shit had the balls to ask me for another hundred. I told him to go jump off a bridge, whereby, he jumped off the boat.
    Long story short, I cut a check for two grand to the owner of a 22-foot Whaler. After the quote, “Whaler incident,” it’d been common practice for the local kids to line up on the pier each Saturday waiting for my boat to enter the marina. The kids would dive in the water and try to be the first to climb aboard, thus receiving a crisp five dollar bill from the marina manager on the successful dockage of my vessel.
    As I passed through the tire entrance roughly at three miles per hour, I made out close to fifteen kids meandering on the small wooden pier. There was one runt who I rooted for each time whose name was Kellon. He was a foot smaller than the other boys and looked like he still belonged on his momma’s tit.
    Kellon was the only one to notice my boat penetrate the harbor and stealthily entered the water. He had about a twenty second head start before any of the other kids took notice and dove in. He was within ten feet, splashing up so much water he was hardly visible, when he was overtaken by a couple of the elder boys.
    I ran to the edge of the boat and shouted, “Come on Kellon. Come on buddy. You can do it. Show these kids who owns this friggin’ town.”
    The elders were pulling themselves over the side when they kept accidentally falling back in. When Kellon finally reached the hull, I leaned over the edge and snatched him from the surf. Then I stood him on the railing and whispered in his ear, “Tell the big kids who owns this town.”
    He took a deep breath and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Kellon owes dis fwiggin’ town.”
    Now, I didn’t like kids much, but if I said I wasn’t looking for a place to stow him, I’d be lying. He was about three beer bottles tall, with brown eyes the size of a half dollar, and missing his four front