Carcharodon Carcharias

*”The Great White spends its’ entire life on the move. It never stops. An apex predator, its’ senses are keenly attuned, whether to detect a drop of blood in twenty million parts water, or the struggling of wounded prey (or recreational swimmers) up to a distance of twenty miles. As a non-territorial species, the Great White migrates from one target rich environment to the next, constantly assessing potential prey. Great White attacks are often unhurried, direct, and lethally damaging to the victim, owing to the frequently large bite radius and force exerted by its’ jaws. With the increase of beachgoing human incursion into its’ feeding grounds, the Great White Shark has developed a fearsome reputation in folklore, popular fiction, and often breathless news coverage, when in fact, Carcharadon Carcharias lives its’ entire life engaged in a few simple activities. In short, they swim, and eat, and make little sharks.”

- Matthew Hooper

- Dr. of Marine Biology

- Amity Island Oceanographic Institute*

He’d always liked that passage, adopting it as a metaphor to his personal narrative. Leo chose his clothing as a warrior his armor, girding himself for the conquest to come. He checked his reflection in the mirror. The open necked shirt and slacks were a cut above what passed for clothing aboard Lunar Veil. *Except for Adler,* he thought. The man dressed a little bit too pretty to project any power. His lilting drawl and twenty dollar vocabulary often caused Leo to ponder whether the doc might actually be sly. He had said as much about the mechanic on the night they met. Though Leo came to think that was some form of joke, Adler’s habit of carefully doling out information led him to think that perhaps his sexual orientation might be the dark secret at the root of all his careful deception. *After all,* he thought. *with so many women aboard, the medic had to be sly if he hadn’t tried to Lóngtóu a couple at least.*

Of the current hunting ground he’d ruled out a few targets. There was the unapproachable Riley Thorne. Though she’d first adopted him like a stray puppy, her stern resistance to his advances brought judgment that she was damaged goods, most likely popped by dear old dad, or gang raped by her comrades in arms. Either way, the Mach would do what it always did, and eventually take her down.

Last night’s encounter with the whore hadn’t gone quite as intended, but in the long haul he was glad to have saved the coin. *Definitely moon brained* he thought, an observation also read in the eyes of the other refugees who’d been packed into her shuttle. That insane riding crop response by her sacrificial virgin, coupled with her obvious hygienic deficiencies, struck her firmly off the target list.

The nun, on the other hand, looked like a sweet, low hanging peach. Always pleasant and smiling, always agreeable, and he conjured she’d be compliant as well. Sister Lyen had the trim, sleek body of most Asian girls, and owing to her faith most like the tightest little *Yīndào* on the boat. He’d heard that the whore had taken her out dildo shopping on Valentine, telegraphing a curiosity that read like blood in the water of his thinking. Mayhaps he’d show her the genuine article and give her a reason to smile.

The fragrance of cooking…real cooking…lured him up the steps to the galley. There he found Marisol, busying herself by setting a pot of beans out to soak. Seated at the long table was the widow, who divided her time between conversation and shoveling in some damned tempting looking food.

“I vas…how you say…traditional?” Yeva placed a hand over her mouth as she laughed. “Micah hated kosher food. He loved pig…pork…and even shellfish! “No *kashrut* in this house!” How we vould fight,” she shook her head.

“My family was traditional, too,” Marisol chuckled. *”Mi Madre*- my mother, had me in the kitchen when I was five. I taught my girls as well…oh, hi,” she caught sight of the man. “Leo, isn’t it?”

He put on his best courtship smile. “Yes, that’s right. Good morning, ladies. Marisol,” he nodded, “and you’re Mrs. Schnabel? My condolences.”

“Yes,” the widow nodded somewhat cautiously. “And thank you.”

Leo gestured to the coffee pot. “Could I trouble you for a cup of that?”

Marisol turned toward the cabinet, stretching upward to grab a fresh mug. She was wearing jeans this morning, instead of the usual coveralls. The mechanic wasn’t exactly blessed up top. Her blouse yielded to the mild push of smallish breasts. This was no problem for Leo, who subscribed to the old adage that “more than a mouthful was a waste.” His eyes pawed their way up her calves, lingering on the trim thighs before fixating upon her sweet little ass. *So perfect,* he thought of the flesh beneath the tight denim. He would have her in a minute, clutching that softness with both hands as he ground his…”Ooooh,” his groan was a pure revelation of lust, forcing a hasty recovery. “What is that I smell?”

“Tres leches cake,” the mechanic handed the coffee. “Not sure how that’ll turn out,” she glanced toward Yeva. “All we have aboard is powdered milk.”

“Fantastic,” Leo nodded with an ingratiating smile. “What else is on the menu?”

“Kind of molē poblano,” Marisol replied. “We didn’t have the right peppers and I faked some stuffing. Sort of tortillas…’sortatillas,” she giggled. “Refried beans, rice…”

*Leverage,* he thought as she rattled off the food substitutions. Marisol and Adler were playing it cool. They had something going, something neither would divulge. Something that started back on Santo. Something he might use to persuade her into his service, or into bed. Time to push some buttons.

“We had leftover pepper filling,” Marisol volunteered. I mixed it with rice and cheese for breakfast. Do you want a plate?”

“Oh yes,” Leo answered fervently. “I want it.”

The food was good. Downright delicious, in fact. *If she Luàn gǎo like she cooks,* he mused in private. “This,” Leo gestured, “is just amazing.”

“Gracias,” Marisol smiled.

“You said you taught your daughters?”

“That’s right.”

“How many children do you have?” he asked. Leo became aware of the widow, Yeva’s furtive gaze as she looked him up and down.

Marisol placed a baking pan into the refrigerator. “Three,” she replied. “Two girls and a boy. Have you got kids?”

Leo shook his head. “Never been so blessed.” He observed the ring finger of her left hand; the longterm indentation of a wedding band was unmistakable. “Where are they now?”

“Santo,” she answered. “With their father.”

“I’m sorry,” he attempted empathy.

“Are you married?” Yeva’s eyes were striking blue as they met his.

“Not yet,” Leo offered a good natured grin.

“How is this?” the widow asked. “How does such a….how you say…handsome? Handsome…man...not have a wife?”

She’d leaned toward him. Leo couldn’t help but notice the swell of her breasts and a long, slender thigh as they pressed the fabric of her mourning dress. But her eyes held their special welcome, confirmed by a slight quiver to her smile. As a vision of having this woman atop her husband’s coffin flitted across his mind, Leo offered a smile of his own.