Wait. There’s something familiar about this place.
I almost feel like I’ve been here before.
Whoah. Serious deja vu, man. Or else that silver tequila I had last night is, like, totally fucking with my head.
— Which, wouldn’t be the first time. Back in ’86, while I was living in Ocean City, MD (and too young to drink, but, well, you know), I thought I’d bagged a Sasquatch.
Turns out I shot a tourist with a particularly hairy back who had gotten up at dusk to look for buried nicknacks. Guess in retrospect the metal detector and the flip flops should have given it away, but what are you gonna do, right? When confronted by a potential cryptozoological specimen able to put up a spirited fight against the Six Million Dollar Man, you plug it with a shark spear first and ask questions later.
Fortunately, the dude’s hirsute trunk was so thick with wiry fur that the thing glanced off and left nothing but a fairly substantial — though non-life-threatening — gash, just below his rib cage. And though he was pissed about it at first, when I told him about the tequila and the Sasquatch thing, he was cool, and didn’t call beach patrol or the local cops.
Though I did have to convince one of the girls who was staying with us to flash him her tits.
Man, was I ever lost back in those days. But I will say this: sometimes being off the beaten path yields some pretty spectacular stories, goatheads stuck to the bottom of your Crocs or no.
But then, I digress.