Tingle - Slammed In The Butt By The Prehistoric Megaladon Shark Amid Accusations Of Jumping Over Him

SLAMMED IN THE BUTT BY THE PREHISTORIC MEGALODON SHARK AMID ACCUSATIONS OF JUMPING OVER HIM

By Chuck Tingle

A havent talked with Cort in ages, and its certainly good to see his face against as we stare at one another across the table in this fancy, bustling restaurant on the waterfront, but after all this time I cant help but be amazed by how little this guy has changed. Dont get me wrong, Cort is a true bud and was always there for me back in college whenever I needed a shoulder to cry on or a friend to kick back with, but the sad truth of the matter is that Cort can be a real bummer.

So you dont like any new shows at all? I ask. Not even Buttworld?

Cort shakes his head and then shrugs. I mean, TV aint as good as it used to be.

I stare at him blankly, hardly believing my ears. I think its pretty clear that TV has gotten better over time. Were basically in the golden age.

Cort leans back into his chair and shrugs reluctantly. I dont know, I guess so.

I quickly grab the attention of a waiter walking by. Excuse me, Im going to need more chocolate milks please, I tell him exasperated.

The waiter nods and then walks away to add this to our order.

Am I driving you to drink? questions Cort with a laugh.

I smirk a little, but decline to answer. Ive already had three cups of milk tonight and Im definitely feeling a buzz, but if Im going to stomach Corts negativity then I feel like a few more drinks are in order. I can handle it.

So what about books? I question, Are you reading anything good lately.

Cort grimaces. I mean, nobodys doing anything special with their writing are they? Whens the last time you read like a really, really good book?

I should be shocked by my friends dire take on the publishing industry, but this is pretty much the answer I expected out of Cort.

My order of two additional chocolate milks arrives and I take a long sip, savoring the cool, sweet beverage as it rushes down my throat and illuminates my senses even more than before. Now flooded with liquid courage, I find myself driven to confront my friends bad attitude head on.

Alright, whats the deal, man? I demand to know. Were sitting here in this beautiful restaurant, looking out over the bay, eating an amazing meal, and youve still gotta be negative!

Cort looks shocked and a little offended by my statement, something that I wasnt expecting. Im not negative, counters Cort. Im just realistic. We cant all be like you and just blindly believe that everything is great. Things are getting worse. Love is not real.

I almost choke on the chocolate milk that Im sipping and struggle to collect myself. What? I stammer. Now youre definitely full of it. Love is real.

Love is not real, Cort repeats. You think that love is just some kind of physical force that can protect you from the harsh truths of the world? If you swim out in that cold bay right now, is love going to protect you and keep you warm just because you believe in it?

In a moment of frustration I down the rest of my chocolate milk with one enormous gulp, slamming the cup onto the table and standing up abruptly. Im sufficiently intoxicated now, but I still manage to throw down some cash on the table before turning and stumbling for the door.

Where are you going? Cort stammers, chasing after me.

To prove love is real, I tell him. Im going for a swim!

I burst out through the doors of the restaurant and immediately start stumbling towards the waterfront, chocolate milk surging through my system.

Pain; throbbing pain. I feel as though Ive been hit by a truck, and yet somehow the exact location of my physical body escapes me. I can hear talking in the background, but the words dont make any sense, droning on and on in a language that sounds only vaguely similar to my own. I try desperately to focus on the sounds, but they continue to evade me thanks to the splitting headache that clouds my thoughts with a potent ache.

Eventually, however, the words begin to make sense, stringing together into sentence fragments and then eventually entire paragraphs. I begin to recognize the difference between up and down, the location of my being in this seemingly endless black space.

Police still do not have a suspect, but several eye witness reports have stated that the man was in his mid twenties to early thirties, with short dark hair and wearing a leather jacket, the voice announces.

My eyes fly open as the events of last night come flooding back to me, everything up until the point that I took off belligerently stumbling towards the waterfront. I must have blacked out after that fifth chocolate milk, and who knows what happened next.

I can see now that Im lying sprawled out on the couch in my living room, the television set before me glowing with an overwhelming brightness. Based on the light that streams through a nearby window, its sometime in the mid afternoon.

I sit up on the couch, holding my head in my hands as I struggle to collect myself.

On television, one of the witnesses is now shown; a stout man with a long curled mustache. I couldnt believe what I was seeing, the man says angrily. We all love that handsome prehistoric shark that lives in the bay, and this man, this awful man, just decided to jump right over it. He had a jet ski and at first he was just riding around in circles, and that was pretty funny, I actually liked that part, but jumping the shark was just too much.

And what do you think of the man on the jet ski now? asks a reporter off camera.

Now I think hes pretty dumb. I think he should go to jail for what hes done, jumping that handsome Carcharodon Megalodon like that. That ancient shark measuring up to fifty nine feet in length never hurt nobody!

The television flashes back at a scene of two anchors sitting at their news desk side-by-side. Behind them is a picture of an utterly enormous prehistoric shark who is smiling at the camera and waving.

Police are asking that if you have any information on the perpetrator of this terribly disrespectful jet skit jump, dial the number at the bottom of the screen, one of the anchors says stoically.

The other anchor nods as well, glancing over at her partner with grave concern. You know I thought it was funny at first, but its just the same jump over and over again!

A pang of fear suddenly strikes me deep, hit hard by the realization that the man theyre looking for is very likely me. Could I have really been trying to prove love so hard that I jumped the shark?

Its not possible, I assure myself. They must be talking about someone else.

The second that I think this, however, I reach down and pat my shirt to realize that its still damp from the night before. My skin feels salty and I can pick up on the faint smell of ocean water wafting off of me.

Oh no, I say to myself aloud. Oh no, oh no.

I jump up from my place on the couch and rush over to my laptop on the nearby table, quickly hopping online and typing a frantic Bing search.

What is the punishment for jumping sharks? I ask, then slap the enter key.

The results are immediate. The punishment for jump ing sharks, prehistoric or otherwise, is complete and utter exile from all civilization, banished to a life of wandering meaninglessly through the desert wasteland.

I can feel the panic that swells within me rushing to a terrifying boil, just about ready to spill over as I grip the edge of the table before me. I remind myself to breathe deep, to focus on things that are in my control.

What do I do? I ask myself aloud. What can I do to fix this?

I suddenly realize that there is only one person I can talk to now, only one piece to the puzzle that can actually do anything to change the inevitable outcome I am suddenly hurtling towards. I need to talk to that Carcharodon Megalodon and apologize.