Sharks & Killers

January, 1938
A dark Santa Cruz night isn't quite complete without the sound of the black sea and its cloak of fog crashing violently on the cliffs of the California coast.  The wind never howls in pain here, it just roars, trying to drown out the faint screams from the boardwalk nearby.  The lights from the rides dance in the lapping shore and the coaster creaks with the tickle of laughter going up, and then shakes with panic on the way down the first drop.
    A black '32 Ford three window coupe pulls up to the cliffs edge.  The ocean smell overtakes him as soon as he opens the driver's side door, and he decides then to leave the engine running for a quick escape if needed.  The sound of Bob Miller's old hit the "Rich Man and the Poor Man" seeps out the open window on the Motorola.  He flicks a cinnamon toothpick at the full moon and watches it fall to the ground before stepping with a limp around to the rear of the car.  When he opens the trunk, he looks around, before lifting the lid completely revealing an old beat up steamers trunk inside.  He tries to take it out before the weight of it takes it right out of his hands, falling to the ground with a heavy thud that no one will hear because no one is there to listen.
    He puts the trunk right side up.  Adjusts a dismembered arm that is tied with a dirty old rope to the trunks handle.  A crude tattoo on the forearm is hard to make out in the night, even with the full moon.  He drags the trunk to the edge of the cliff, struggling with his bum knee.  Loose dirt and rocks sprinkle off the edge.  He waits for a wave to come in, and as the water reaches its highest, he pushes the trunk over the edge and into the ocean.  It splashes and floats around like a bobber atop a constantly swirling sea.
    "Thattaboy tomato can," he says quietly to himself.  He wipes his hands on his pants and closes the car trunk.  He steps back into the coupe and pulls away.