Total Beach

By Barton Grover Howe

When Oregon’s most famous weatherman comes to Surfland, Oregon, in the world’s most expensive RV to meet America’s most famous whale, Jackson Poe knows his ability to find a parking space is pretty much shot to hell. But when a psychotic driver perpetually double-parked in an erogenous zone begins stalking one of Poe’s oldest friends, Poe once again throws down his laptop and dives into his latest mystery. Who wants to kill “Stormy” Steele? And why does Stormy’s boss seem so intent on letting them do it?
In Poe’s biggest adventure yet, he searches for the answers—along with a science teacher with a MacGod complex, a drag queen with a fluctuating number of breasts and a vomiting dog—and discovers that, once again, life is a Total Beach.

“Oregon’s answer to Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry.”
—Sheldon McArthur, North by Northwest Books

“Move over Carl Hiassen, Tim Dorsey, Steve Berry and all the other Florida humor satire writers. A new voice and a very accomplished one I predict will be around for a long time, Howe does for the Oregon Coast what Hiaasen and the others have done for Florida.”
—Sheldon McArthur, North by Northwest Books, on Beach Slapped

“A non-stop laugh you cannot put down.”
—Sheldon McArthur, North by Northwest Books, on The Beach is Back

Barton Grover Howe is an award-winning writer, humor columnist, stand-up comedian and performer who has spends his days finding the humor in life or making it up—sometimes both. When he’s not writing, or joking, he teaches high school, which inspires some of his best jokes. He lives in a small town on the Oregon coast within shouting distance of Surfland with his incredibly patient wife and exasperatingly adorable daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barton Grover Howe
• Release date: Nov 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310809170

Barton Grover Howe

Barton Grover Howe is a high school teacher and humor columnist who has spent most of the last 10 years teaching, being a mascot and generally not being near as funny as he thinks he is. A former newspaper reporter, hotel manager, aquarium diver, stand-up comedian, forcibly retired Disney On Ice performer and professional mascot, Barton Grover Howe has combined his experiences and skills from all of those environments to create writing with a voice like no other. Living proof that you don’t need hurricanes blowing the palm trees sideways to get beach slapped time and again. He currently resides in the only small town on the Oregon coast that has seven miles of coastline and not one boat dock. He is married to the most patient woman on earth and is father to the cutest daughter in the universe, who got all of her looks from her mother.

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Total Beach

Copyright © 2014 by Barton Grover Howe

Published 2014 by Flying Starfish Press

First published in 2013 by BGH Publishing

Cover art copyright © 2014 by Yuliaglam/Dreamstime, Evgenia Bolyukh/Dreamstime

Design copyright © 2014 by Flying Starfish Press

Smashwords Edition

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Flying Starfish Press at flyingstarfishpress.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every attempt to provide accurate contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Table of Contents

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Other Books by Barton Grover Howe

Copyright Information

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To the staff of Taft High School,

Including the unreal Bruce Rasmussen:

It’s an honor working with all of you.

To my wife Allyson:

99.9 percent of the time,

I still love to see your name on my caller ID.

And to my daughter, Nola:

Please forgive me for having to finish this

on a day when you felt really, really icky.

I love you so very much.

SUNDAY

CHAPTER 1

Rip Rockford

I DON’T KNOW what’s more disturbing, Rip said, as another gust of wind shook the air. That an exploding dog at that altitude will likely poison the entire brewery, or that the only chance everyone has of avoiding mass-tetanus shots is clad completely in spandex.

CHAPTER 2

Bartholomew Josiah Daquerline

ONE HOUR BEFORE what would later be called The Microdog Microburst, one man and his dog were taking their daily walk, this time along the shores of Lenobar Bay.

As God is my witness, Aela, if you eat one more fish head, piece of seaweed or similarly dead thing, I’m going to pitch you into the bay myself…

Said with all the lawyer-like authority he could still muster, Bartholomew Josiah Daquerline knew the dog would respond to it as she always did: by doing it anyway.

Certainly, the dog owner in him would have preferred Aela not be constantly throwing up all over everything at the conclusion of their walks. But B.J., as he called himself here in Surfland, had to admit his life was a lot more relaxed now that he’d pretty much left the international world of corporate lawyering, and its high-strung attitude, behind.

Aela! Stop drinking from the bay! I swear… But just as Aela had before, she ignored him, and just as before, B.J. didn’t really care. Aela had been doing this since B.J. and his husband had adopted her in Reykjavik—Aela was Icelandic for vomit—and since the only casualty seemed to be nearby shoes and furniture if they didn’t keep her outside long enough, he’d kind of stopped worrying about it.

Eventually, however, Aela got her fill of drinking seawater, eating rotten tuna heads tossed from fishing boats and whatever other oceanic debris she could find. A Welsh corgi weighing about 25 pounds, she was waddling even more, her distended stomach barely clearing the ground. She’d remain this way until the vomiting and projectile diarrhea kicked in, by which time B.J. planned to be safely in his backyard. (Every time Aela heaved in public, passersby thought she was dying.)

Making his way off the shoreline of the bay and back to the parking lot, B.J. had to admit his decision to take Aela walking here might not have been the best one. Normally a quiet spot for their off-leash walk amidst the clouds of early March, the bay offered a sheltered beach even when the wind was howling on the Pacific shore. But not today, for a variety of reasons.

First, some of the bigger gusts seemed to be making their way over the small hills separating the bay from the ocean. More than once B.J. had been forced to pull the hood of his Columbia jacket back over his gray ponytail and onto his head. A not infrequent weather pattern on the central Oregon coast, even without late winter’s seemingly omnipresent rains it was not what most people would consider a normal outdoor recreation environment.

Thankfully, Surfland, Oregon was in no way normal.

Smiling at the thought, B.J. began to make his way back to the second reason: Orca Fest, a celebration created by the Surfland Aquarium of the Pacific. Also sited on the shores of Lenobar Bay, the aquarium had pulled out all the stops to celebrate what had been a major coup: they would soon be the host to a killer whale, or orca.

Despite the wind and occasional rain shower, every media outlet in Oregon was there, along with hundreds, maybe thousands of people gathered in and around the aquarium for the event. As B.J. made his way back through the crowd to the car, he found himself picking up the typical rhythms of an atypical town:

At a booth on the left, Raina Bowe, the town’s resident drag queen, was complaining to Aly Oliviera, the editor of the local Surfland Siren newspaper. I don’t know what the big deal was, Raina said, trying to keep her blowing feathers on her head, I was just trying to teach a little biology. Meanwhile, Aly tried to be sympathetic without really taking a side: I’m sure you were well intentioned, but I’m not sure a booth titled ‘Orca Orgy’ is really appropriate…

In the booth next to them was Capt. Link Stetson, owner of Poseidon Fishing and Charters, who was plying potential customers with his normal tagline—along with some new material. Well, no, technically the odds of seeing an actual orca on this tour are astronomically low. That’s why there’s that asterisk there… But you’ll see something! Something you’ll just flip for!

More booths lined the other side. At the far end, the journalism program from the local high school was selling photos with the aquarium mascot for $5. Posing their subjects in the wind, B.J. could hear one of the kids yell, Awesome! as he caught a photo of the mascot’s tail frozen parallel to the ground in another gust.

Next to them was another nonprofit, The Triple L Foundation, whose latest project was nearing completion: The repainting of the Lenobar Bay Bridge. An expensive project that the Oregon Department of Transportation had opted to delay, local citizens had taken it upon themselves to raise the money, even if that meant embellishing history a little: While it is true she did not actually leap from the Lenobar Bay Bridge, we do know she was a lesbian, the volunteer told a potential donor. So, if you think about it, two of the ‘Ls’ are in fact historically accurate.

Smiling, B.J. turned to look over his right shoulder at the bridge. The painting project basically complete, all that remained of the work crews was a now-empty plywood shed for sheltering the paint and workers, and a truck with a crane and bucket that was being used for some final touch-up work on the upper reaches of the arches. One of B.J. and his husband’s first charitable donations upon arriving in town a few months ago, their five-digit check had been enough to push the project through to an early conclusion.

Once again bracing his hood against a gust of wind, B.J. heard Aela start barking furiously, seemingly at the same bridge. Quickly, however, he saw the true object of her interest: a circling news chopper. Likely shooting aerials of the festival, B.J. just hoped it wouldn’t get her so agitated that she started vomiting here at the aquarium. It was only last month when she’d accidentally vomited up a starfish on a group of third-graders from a Portland elementary school. Setting some of them back years in terms of their understanding of the food chain, aquarium staff told him that while they appreciated his earlier donation, it would be nice if his dog not vomit on the visitors.

Calling to her, B.J. once again wondered if it might have been wise to have her on a leash. But as she ran to him, the smile returned to his face. Whatever else she was, she was a good dog when it came to anything but eating.

B.J.’s next view tempered his smile somewhat. Noticing for the first time a booth for Bite Me Ocean Gear, he was glad to see the booth was being staffed by someone he did not recognize. Its owner was nowhere to be seen, B.J. was perfectly happy not to have to deal with that part of his life today. Fortunately, his sour mood was a fleeting one, once he saw who was down the way from the Bite Me booth. Grinning at the sight of perhaps his most ridiculous donation yet, B.J. made his way towards his friends.

Once again, however, B.J. was distracted by Aela, whose attention was now drawn to a giant helium blimp of an orca tethered to the ground. Simply floating about 100 feet in the air, it moved only when the wind gusted, leaving Aela more curious than agitated. Letting her go sniff around the rope where it met the ground in the bushes, he hoped that if she were to start erupting ahead of schedule she would at least do it out of view of—

You! This is your fault! yelled a man, his bright red finger pointed directly at B.J. Why couldn’t you just save the whales like every other damn lunatic with a bank account?

The man was Jackson Poe, Surfland resident, writer and well-known lover of coffee and cheesy sticks. Clad head-to-toe in red Spandex, neither of these passions was doing him any service in the tightly pressed costume. The giant red wings on his back and the laurel of roses about his head didn’t help either.

Watch it; I could sue you for defamation of character. I have witnesses, B.J. said, gesturing at Poe’s friends Rip Rockford and Pete Polanski. Clearly having the time of their lives, it was all both could do not to laugh openly at Poe’s misery.

More like definition of character, Poe shot back, now cracking a smile. It’s a good thing this was for the fire department, otherwise you’d find me using their very real bow and arrow on your very real ass. Running his finger around the clearly barbed arrow tip, Poe smiled as Rip actually stepped back a few feet.

Pete, tell me again why you let him use a real bow and arrow? Rip asked.

It was the only way to get him in the suit, Pete said, now taking a slight step back himself. That and the $5,000…

***

It had begun last month at Surfland Fire and Rescue’s annual awards dinner, where the department acknowledged the contributions of the volunteers and other community members who did the majority of the work in the department. A charity auction part of the evening’s festivities, Pete was hoping to raise enough money to put them over the top in their drive to buy a new piece of equipment: The Jaws of Life.

The casual term for a hydraulic rescue tool, the tool could cut, spread, bust and ram just about anything into any position, a particularly useful device in a town where tourists were regularly wrapping their cars around signs, fences and rock piles at the top and bottom of cliffs. (The top definitely being the better place to be at high tide.) With a cost in excess of $10,000, however, Pete knew the device would be a stretch for the department’s resources.

Pondering this, Pete barely noticed as one the high school cheerleaders came bouncing into the room in a cupid costume. Clearly enjoying the fact that Valentine’s Day was just a few days away, she and other members of the squad were offering to deliver valentines in the costume in exchange for a $30 donation, to be split equally between the cheer squad and the fire department.

You couldn’t pay me $1,000 to get into that thing, Poe said to Rip as they both sipped a beer.

I’ve seen your ass, Rip said evenly. I’d pay $2,000 not to.

Laughing, Poe knew Rip actually had the money to back that up: I’ve seen the stupid crap you buy at these auctions. I wouldn’t put it past you.

And with that, Pete had an idea: Poe, how much would it cost you to get in that suit?

A helluva lot more than $1,000, he said, still more interested in his beer than the conversation.

How much? And remember, it’s for the children, Pete said, now clearly egging Poe on.

The children? You want it for a tool, which is rather fitting, as you are one for thinking I’d ever wrap put myself in spandex.

Come on! How much? Two thousand? Three thousand?

Fine, fine: $5,000, Poe said to Pete’s face, which was now beginning to light up. With two conditions: You can’t get the money from Rip, and I get to use a real bow and arrow. Now go away.

Disturbingly undaunted, Pete left the table, and Poe didn’t see him for nearly an hour. Only at the end of the night did Poe finally notice Pete beginning to make his way back across the room with someone in tow. As always, Poe and Rip were discussing the finer things in life as Pete approached.

…I’m telling you, Poe said, You can have the top down in all but a driving rainstorm, and as long as you don’t drop below 50, even your finest shirt will never really get wet.

Rip had had this conversation with Poe before: Look, your definition of ‘really wet’ and mine are as different as our definition of ‘finest shirt.’ I get my Aloha shirts at Tommy Bahama. You shop at Goodwill.

Proudly, which is why I have 72 of them and I’ve spent less than $300, Poe said, proudly thrusting his parrot-covered chest out front. You, on the other hand—

Poe! Pete yelled as he got within a few feet of the table. Meet B.J.! He’s my new best friend! And your worst enemy!

And what would the reason for that be?

I can give you 5,000 of them…

Shit.

***

Looking at Poe decked out all in red, B.J. had to admit that among all the friendships he’d begun over the decades, this one had begun the strangest. But just as Pete had promised, Poe had been a good sport about it, kept his promise, and only held it against B.J. the length of time it took to get to a nearby bar.

Not that Poe seemed to be remembering that at the moment.

You know, B.J., I’ve gotten pretty good with this bow this afternoon, Poe said, pointing to a nearby tree that had clearly borne the brunt of his frustrations this afternoon. Care to pose with an apple on your head?

You were supposed to pose for pictures with the people, B.J. said, now laughing. Not shoot at them.

Oh, I’m in plenty of pictures, believe me, Poe said, resigned to the truth. And since I’m a volunteer at the high school, I can’t even make obscene gestures in them.

What Poe did next B.J. missed as another gust of wind—the biggest yet—pushed his hood across his face. But he had a good idea, and as he pulled his hood away B.J. was about to return the favor—until something bouncing and vomiting across the ground caught his eye.

CHAPTER 3

Shiloh Summers

FOR THE ENTIRE afternoon, the kids from the Harrison High School journalism program had been having problems with the wind. Until, that is, they decided to make it their ally.

Posing the aquarium mascot, U. Otter B, outside the tent full into the wind, his tail was now pointed straight out whenever the wind blew.

Awesome! said Ryan Nordin, as he clicked the button at the perfect moment. It looks like he’s got a, you know, a…

You are a pervert, said Cayden Lee, only half as dismissive as he sounded.

No, I just know how to sell photos to teenagers, Ryan said, as he hustled another prospective teen pervert into the range of his camera. Besides, I figure if the teacher’s cool with it, how bad can it be?

Leave me out of this, laughed Shiloh Summers, their journalism teacher. You’ve only got the mascot for your photos for another 20 minutes. So keep shooting, collect the money, and don’t do anything that’s going to get me fired or be posted inappropriately on Facebook.

Turning her attention back to the crowd, Shiloh took it all in. It was good to see so many people out supporting the aquarium. More, she was happy to see Aly Oliviera had moved on from talking to the drag queen. Shiloh had been hoping to get Aly to come talk again to her journalism class, and seeing the opportunity to get her attention, Shiloh began walking her way. Shiloh had been unable to reach her lately, largely because of the Orca Orgy had swept the city. (She’d never say it out loud, but she loved that expression.) Just as quickly, however, Shiloh’s hopes were dashed, as Aly got quickly corralled by Callista Walker, aquarist and temporary assistant pubic relations coordinator for the Surfland Aquarium of the Pacific.

Crap, Shiloh said to no one in particular, although when she thought about it, she was happy that the aquarium’s PR department actually wanted to talk to the media again. After all the crazy stuff WETForce had put the aquarium staff through earlier in the year, it was nice to see the people of SAP able to demonstrate how much they cared, instead of watching the aquarium nearly go belly up as the result of a small group of environmental extremists.

Turning to walk back to the tent, she was nearly run over by a Parcel Express deliveryman. Dressed head to toe in gray, she never saw him coming, and as quickly as he left, she barely saw him at all. They were everywhere these days, delivering the literal tons of goods needed to prepare for an orca, even if no one really knew the exact arrival date yet. Still, he could have at least said, Sorry… Not that he’d cornered the market on rudeness, as she was once again about to discover.

Mrs. Summers! Mrs. Summers!

Crap… said Shiloh, for the second time in 60 seconds. Honestly, knowing what was about to come, there were other words she would have preferred to use. But she was a teacher in a small town, and knowing that, she reflexively kept her vocabulary clean. Mrs. Phelps, Shiloh said. How nice to see you…

Mrs. Summers, I was wondering if you’d had a chance to read that pamphlet on increasing fertility I sent with Becky to school.

Well, no, actually, Shiloh said, still amazed that being young, married and childless was somehow everyone’s business. I’ve been rather busy, Mrs. Phelps.

I’m sure you have, dear. Having your husband gone must be a terrible burden, she said, sounding like Shiloh’s husband was dead instead of just with the Navy’s Pacific Fleet.

I get by… Shiloh said, once again knowing where the conversation was headed.

"I’m sure you do, and that’s why I sent you the pamphlet: So when he gets back, you two can get to work right away! You do want kids?" Mrs. Phelps said, the question very much intended as a statement.

Oh, yes, Shiloh said without enthusiasm, Very much; as a teacher they’re my life, you know…

How wonderful! Well, you keep me posted when you two get to work!

Watching her wander back into the crowd, Shiloh was still pondering how bizarre the conversation was when Cayden interrupted her thoughts: So let me get this straight: Your husband’s home, like, what a few weeks a year? And you’re both supposed to work when he does?

Huh? Shiloh said, wondering when Cayden had started hearing their conversation.

What, are your painting the living room or something? God, some people can be rude.

While relieved Cayden seemingly hadn’t heard the subject, Shiloh looked to change it nonetheless: Speaking of rude, you ever hear anything back from Mr. Prilk?

Shiloh, you can call him ‘prick.’ Everyone else does, Cayden said.

Look, just because you’re casual enough to use my first name, doesn’t mean you can be that casual with everyone, she said. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the word ‘prick.’ It’s Mr. Prilk, or ‘Pounder,’ as he seems so adamant about being addressed.

No, nothing from him yet, Cayden said, But we’re doing what you said: ‘Checking him out.’ So we got some old tapes from the history museum that he’s been tagged in, and Ryan and I are converting them to digital tonight at my house. I don’t think they’ve ever been watched, from all the dust on them.

Well, it’s probably nothing, so don’t spend too much time digging through them, Shiloh said. You two have a habit of getting buried in your work, as Mr. MacReavens reminded me on Friday. You two aren’t behind in his science class again, are you?

Are you kidding, Shiloh? That guy’s nuts! Cayden said, exasperated. You know he doesn’t even have a first name? He’s like Cher or Madonna, but with smaller boobs.

Cayden! Shiloh said, this time genuinely upset. What did I say about being rude?

OK, ok… Ryan and I will make sure to stay caught up in science class, Cayden said, the embarrassment evident in his voice. But we still want to watch those videos; you should see the wild stuff people did with their hair in those days…

With that, Shiloh watched as Cayden went back to helping Ryan with the photos. The wind was starting to pick up again and the teenagers were once again lining up for what Ryan was describing as a fully enthusiastic tail.

Smiling inwardly despite herself at their never-ending volunteer spirit, she knew as a teacher she probably shouldn’t be encouraging their minor propensity for perversion. But as someone who was barely a decade removed from being a teenager herself, she recognized it for the harmless fun it was. And when they stepped over the line—as teenagers did from time to time—she’d be sure to let them know.

Too bad not everyone adhered to that, she thought as she considered the Parcel Express deliveryman, Mrs. Phelps and her pamphlets, and the owner of the booth next to them: Steiger Pounder Prilk, He was the worst of all.

When her class had heard that the aquarium would soon be home to an orca, Shiloh thought it was excellent opportunity to do a special series on the people who had made Surfland the wonderful and weird place it had come to be. Calling the series, Oceans of History, she hoped it would be good way to get her kids researching and talking to local people. (That, and when the Surfland Siren printed a 20-page special edition with 38 ads amidst just nine stories and 26 photos of the whale downloaded from a NOAA website, she decided she wasn’t above having her program get in on the orca orgy as well.)

For the most part, everyone they’d talked to had been incredibly supportive. The CEO of the Athabascan Seas Casino, the founder of the Anorexic Dreams Fat Camp on Nelta Lake, the centenarian leader of the Circling Death Biker Club, the head chef at Bo’s Crab and Anvil, the proctologist who’d helped fund Bendovren Coffee, even Mrs. Margaret Tandy, who until nine months ago hadn’t even spoken a word in years: All of them had been more than willing to talk about what made Surfland, Oregon the wonderful town it was.

Only two people had managed to elude them. First was a man named Fuzznut, who like Cher and Madonna went by just one name. (Shiloh did not know the status of his boobs; depending on the costume he was wearing, anything was entirely possible.) Second was Steiger Pounder Prilk, founder of Bite Me Ocean Gear.

Ryan and Cayden had stopped him one afternoon after Pounder had completed his regular surfing ride on Dacker Reef. Even taking the time to address him as Mr. Prilk, they couldn’t even finish explaining why they were writing the story before Pounder exploded at them. As he stomped off, it took them five full minutes just to process all the threats he’d made. Naturally, this stirred their interest even more, thus their trip to the history museum.

Shiloh was proud of their enthusiasm, though she still had to admit the time they were spending on the project was a headache she didn’t need, whether from MacReavens or Pounder. Honestly, she was glad the volatile surfer wasn’t around today. Truth be told, if they never even got him in the paper that would be just fine with her, though she would never tell her students or her late father that.

The mascot, however, was another story. He was literally right here in front of them, and with the weather taking a semi-break from its normal rains, she knew it might be the last chance she’d see him for a while. Waiting for Ryan to finish taking a picture in the once-again gusting wind, she started to approach U. Otter B, or Fuzznut, or whatever his name was.

Just as before, however, her conversation was not to be, but this time for a very different reason, as she saw both Ryan and Cayden begin to gesture wildly at the sky: It’s a bird! Ryan said, followed immediately by Cayden: It’s a plane!

Pausing for moment to be sure, Shiloh corrected them both: It’s... holy shit, it’s spewing from both ends all over the brewery.

CHAPTER 4

Pete Polanski

JUST ABOUT FIFTEEN minutes before Shiloh Summers realized Superman was not in Surfland, Pete Polanski was watching B.J. and his dog start their walk up from the bay. For more than one reason, a giant smile spread across Pete’s face.

First, the laid-back attorney’s philanthropy had put his fundraising drive over the top; a brand new Jaws of Life was now the property of Surfland Fire & Rescue. Second, the normally cocky Jackson Poe was as red as Pete had ever seen him, and it had nothing to do with the color in his costume.

I’m freezing to death, Poe said to Pete. You were supposed to bring me one of those red fire coats.

I watched the weather forecast a week ago, Pete said honestly. It was supposed to be in the 50s today.

A week ago? Poe asked, incredulously. Only an idiot believes a forecast more than three days out. I think you did all of this on purpose.

Yes, Pete said, as he bit into a $5 Orca Oreo sandwich. And I scheduled this whole Orca Fest just to embarrass you.

Shut up, Poe grumbled. And give me a bite of your sandwich. I can’t believe you paid five bucks for that thing just because someone wrote ‘orca’ on the wrapper with a Sharpie.

It’s for the children; the kids from the fat camp are selling them as some kind of aversion therapy, Pete said, taking another bite. And, no, you may not have a bite; I promised the cheerleaders they’d get their costume back clean. They’re already going to be pissed when they see how much you stretched it out.

Just buy ‘em a new one, Poe said. God knows you seem to have no problem finding people to write you a check.

Only for a good cause. And that, my friend, is not you in spandex, Pete said, starting to wave at B.J. Besides, you should thank me for getting to be part of such a whale of an event. Just think, if there was no whale, you’d still doing this at the All-Star Joan of Arc Memorial Horse Race and Bonfire this summer. You got done earlier, and without all that sand in your crack.

Poe wasn’t mollified one bit: Doesn’t change the fact that this whale is a complete pain in the ass…

***

The whale, as most people in Surfland called it, did not have a name, not that anyone knew, anyway. They simply knew it was big, in trouble, and coming to Surfland for help. And in doing so, it was going to help the people of Surfland.

It had begun a bit more than a month ago, when personnel from the United States Navy began making discreet inquiries to aquariums along the Pacific coast about their facilities and the capacities of their seawater tanks. Saying merely they were doing research, rumors began to spread among more paranoid aquarium personnel about experiments, government take-overs and the inevitable probes that always result when the government and conspiracy theorists come together.

Starting with facilities all the way from Seattle to San Diego, personnel at each began to receive terse phone calls saying simply that their facility fell short of government requirements. Only personnel at SeaWorld and the Surfland Aquarium of the Pacific did not receive such a call, although SAP staff were told via email they shouldn’t expect to hear anything else. Whatever it was about, it was all over in Surfland, anyway. Having just been through a public relations nightmare with WETForce, SAP staff were actually relieved to not be of special interest to anyone.

A few days later, however, naval personnel opened discussions again, this time very clear on what they wanted: A place to house and nurse back to health an injured orca. SeaWorld, for all its size, had no facility where a wild whale could be kept from those native to the theme park. Surfland did, and in a delightful twist of fate, even had a local attorney who’d worked in Iceland and helped process all the legal work that had preceded Keiko’s journey there in 2002. For an aquarium badly in need of an economic shot in the arm, it was a Godsend, and within hours of completing the paperwork, the PR staff of SAP began broadcasting to the world what was coming.

She was a 22-foot whale, weighing approximately three-and-a-half tons and nearing 60 years in age. Having frequently been tagged by scientists over the years, she was one of the longest-lived whales ever tracked, and while nature could easily take its course with her at any time, her injuries were anything but natural. She had been injured in U.S. Navy training exercises off the coast of Alaska, and although details were still vague, it had been decided at the highest levels of the United States Navy to try and repair the puncture wounds she’d suffered, lest they get infected and she die.

Details were still to come, of course, including the actual arrival date of the whale. But merchants, hoteliers, restaurateurs and every other form of capitalist in Surfland heard all they needed to: A whale was coming, and hopefully the wallets of everyone in Oregon and the entire Pacific Northwest would come with her.

From almost the first minute after the news broke, most everyone in town started making plans to capitalize on the whale. Oddly, not knowing when the whale was arriving made it even better. Everyone wanted to be in Surfland when it happened, so area businesses were booming nearly all the time.

The aquarium being no different than anyone else staged an entire festival: Orca Fest.

It was replete with all things orca: balloons and blimps, mascots and merchandise, and even hastily arranged experts loaned from SeaWorld, seeing as there weren’t too many orca authorities in Surfland—yet. Indeed, everyone in town was invited to set up a booth and take advantage of the opportunity being offered, even if it was a potentially rainy and windy one. Only WETForce was turned down for a space, both because they’d put the aquarium through hell, and because thanks to them Orcal Probing was now making the rounds on Facebook.

***

How do you suppose an orcal probe would look in the dining room at The Seabuscuit? Rip asked Poe and Pete. Do that think that would be a little much while people were eating? I mean, female whales are smaller than males, so maybe it would fit in the bar…

Rip, shut up, Poe said, very much not in the mood to talk about his friend’s endless love of kitsch. And know the only thing that’s keeping me from killing you right now is that green-eyed bastard with the distended dog coming this way.

You’re not a very nice person when you’re cranky, Rip said, feigning hurt.

I’m never a very nice person, Poe said, only partially joking. You’re just not the one usually on the other end of it…. You! This is your fault! Poe yelled at B.J., Poe’s bright red finger pointed directly at his newest friend. Why couldn’t you just save the whales like every other damn lunatic with a bank account?

Laughing, all of them