TV recliner.
Harvey was about to call it another uneventful day when all of a sudden he heard the flapping of wings. Big wings! Then two, twenty pound Turkey buzzards dropped down in front of him 'Swoosh' ten feet from his chair. "Good grief!" he exclaimed. "You two are a coupla big, ugly-lookin' dudes." They just blinked in response. A bald eagle and three Black vultures joined them. "At least I have one pretty one in the batch," referring to the eagle. Next, a Broad-winged hawk landed on each of his knees. "Whoa, careful, big claws here now." Ospreys and cormorants circled immediately overhead. Harvey was happy but a little wary. "Looks what I'm giving up in quantity is being replaced in poundage." A nervous laugh, then, "Got some big suckers here. This'll take some getting used to." These birds made no cooing noises nor attempts at snuggling for affection. They just glared. "Must be because I don't have the proper food. Sorry, next time guys." More arrived.
Harvey felt a tightening from his knees to ankle and from his forearm to his wrists. He stared down to his horror and found there were black garter snakes entwined around his arms and legs - binding him to his chair! He tugged against their grasp to no avail. "I thought I got rid of you vermin!" he yelled. A Red-tailed hawk landed on Harvey's head, knocking his hat off and took a stance. Harvey shook his head, "Get off me!" The bird dug his claws into his skull so he wouldn't be dislodged. Blood flowed down both sides of Harvey's head. "Arrugh! That hurts! I said, get off!" The hawk pecked the top of his head. The skin ripped; the blood flowed freely as the bird peeled it from his skull and ate. The other predators anxiously watched and decided it was 'chow time' for them also. The two hawks on his knees eyed the tasty morsel inside Harvey's open mouth as he screamed and took turns ripping his tongue out to consume it. Harvey wasn't so loud then. His nose, lips and ears (soft and tasty) came next for the trio. It was a win-win situation for the ravenous predators which hadn't eaten since the day before. The rest of the assemblage swarmed from the ground as the airborne aviaries swooped down and joined their voracious fellows. They viciously rent and tore him to shreds. The efficient, flesh-eating killers were quickly satisfied with their evening meal.
"I thought I heard a noise coming from the field outside a few minutes ago," remarked his neighbor, Sophie.
"That fat, moron probably stepped on his own foot," reasoned Jack. The Wheel of Fortune jingle was playing, then followed by, '...and Vanna White.' "She sure looks good for an old lady," as he rubbed his crotch.
Sophie caught his motion, "Jack, what are you doing?"
"Huh?" as he pulled his hand away. "Just a little bit of rash, Dear. You know, caused by sweat from working in the yard. Nothing else."
She drew back her curtains just in time to see the snakes slithering away and the birds taking flight. They were finished, very finished. Sophie stared at the bloody skeleton slumped in the lawn chair. "Oh dear, I think Mister Weinstein is going to miss 'Wheel' tonight."
The Bloody End
The Southernmost Ghost
Saturday morning, July the fourth
It was hot - damn hot. The relentless heat, coupled with a few other noxious irritants, had made our home in south Florida a very uncomfortable place to be at the moment. Definitely not Chamber of Commerce weather - it never was during the brutal summer months.
I was reading aloud from the newspaper and commenting about various tidbits in the weather section. "Geez, the forecasts are bad." Then, something caught my eye I thought was interesting. "Ah, ha! Joyce, (my wife) you know that brown halo we've been seeing around the sun?"
"Yesss ... it's ugly. What about it?"
"You're not gonna believe this. It's African dust."
"What?"
"Yep, African dust."
"Somewhere around eight hundred billion, zillion tons of dust from the African deserts has drifted across the Atlantic Ocean and stopped right over the south Florida mainland."
"That's all we need," she replied. "but I question your numbers."
"Yeah, whatever," I dismissed. "But not only that, the westerly winds from the Gulf of Mexico are holding it in place. And, because of the drought, there's no rain to dissipate it."
"Great. Is that why my eyes are tearing, my nostrils burn and the air stinks?" she complained.
"No, that's from the everglades fires. Over twenty thousand acres have burned so far."
"Why doesn't someone put them out?" she asked.
"Too many fires and they're too remote. The counties can't get their fire-fighting equipment to them and chemical aerial bombardment is ineffective because they are so scattered. We're at the mercy of Mother Nature ... and the pyromaniacs, who, according to the Wildlife officers, are having a grand old time."
"That's a damn shame, John. Actually, it's quite horrible. They're killing all those helpless animals."
"I agree. If they ever catch one of those bastards, I'd vote to throw their ass into the flames."
"I don't know if I agree with your manly punishment and not to beat my own girlish drum, but you know my breathing isn't so good," she continued. "I'm not a jogger with the big, athletic lungs like you. I'm suffocating. Does the paper say when we're going to get some relief?"
"Sorry, dear, it doesn't. It looks as if we're in for the long, hot haul. Unless...," I flashed a smile. "You know, we really need a break. I say it's time to get outta Dodge City and get some fresh air! Let's go to Key West!"
It didn't take long before we had loaded the SUV and were headed south to the Conch Republic which was below the smog bank. I had read in the sports section there was scheduled a small, low-key, five kilometer road race on Sunday morning. But then, all activities in Key West were low-key. Everything they did down there was so easygoing it made the heralded, laid-back California lifestyle look like a Chinese fire drill in comparison.
Oddities occur, even in Paradise and the first one you'd notice in Key West is there seemed to be a dire shortage of non-tourists. You couldn't find a home-grown native or an actual resident, who call themselves Conchs, anywhere other than the select few who work in their own novelty shops. And after finishing their gig , they'd disappear like a puff of smoke - as if they had never existed. Another strange thing down there is no one walks the virtually crime-free streets outside of the established tourist section, Mallory Square. There are nothing but empty sidewalks on the whole eastside of the island. Why do you suppose that was? I had pointed out several times to Joyce that Key West was the island of the phantom resident. Were they hiding? And, if so, from what?
Soon, on our venture after passing Homestead, Florida, we merged into the usual, endless stream of cars, campers and towed boats trekking down the only route heading south - good old U.S.1. The scenery was postcard beautiful and the two and a half hour journey passed quickly. As we crested the Seven Mile Bridge, sixty-five feet above the azure gulf, I posed the inevitable question. "Where would you like to stay? Have any suggestions?"
"How about one of those nice motels downtown?" she responded.
"On Duval Street? I think there's only one hotel left and it could be rather pricey."
"Maybe not, it's the summer," she countered. "However, we rushed out and you didn't give me time to call for prices."
"Sorry 'bout that," I conceded. "We'll see what goes." 'We'll see,' was my stock answer. It covered everything from the Bubonic plague to the Immaculate Conception.
"A hundred dollars a night! ... per person!" My mouth hung open. "That's outrageous! It's usually half that price for the both of us. Less!" I argued.
"I'm sorry. It's the holiday weekend," the pretty, young receptionist returned defensively. "It's the same everywhere, sir."
"I think not!" and stormed out. "Gouging, outright gouging! That's what it is. Two days from now we could get the same room for a song. Let me tell you right now I'm not paying that kind of money." I ranted on, "I'm a working man ..."
"Enough, John!" interrupting me. "The girl's right, it'll be the same everywhere. Besides, we should have called."
More pain. I crossed
my arms and stewed. Finally, I said, "Let's stop and think about this. There must be somewhere." I searched my memory banks and out of the murky mist came a revelation, "The Las Palmas Motel!"
"Where?" knitting her brow.
"You remember, Joyce; we stayed there a few years ago."
"Vaguely. Was that the cheap one on the other side of the island ... the deserted part ... five years ago?" She shook her head, "All those buildings and roads and no people. There?" with a shrill in her voice.
"Hey, I saw some people, I think ... in the daytime. Humm, I'm not sure now. They may have been some lost tourists. But so what, let's go check it out. We've got nothing to lose. Right?"
We hopped in our car. Joyce said, "I don't recall where it is."
"I do," feeling better already. "It's just one block on this side of the southernmost point in the United States. Remember the marker? It's a classic."
"Yes, I do. It's a huge block of concrete shaped like a bell and painted similar to a deep sea buoy."
"Atta girl! Right where U.S.1 dead-ends." I was impressed she recalled the particulars. "And, how about the guy who looked like a bum and tried to sell us conch shells?" I added.
"Yes, him and the old Cuban fisherman who came over and told us not to buy them. He said the shells had been drilled and the conchs inside had been pulled out alive with a hook. He said they were cursed because the conch souls had been ripped from their