 It was cold for a late summer evening, chilly enough that I slipped on a wool sweater, considering starting a fire, instead putting on the kettle. I sat back in my worn leather chair, watching the ripples of endless waves through the picture window. I couldn't afford a new TV when the old one broke. And while it's not the same as watching my mariners get the shit beat out of them every year, I make do. There's a knock at the door, sharp and loud. I open it to find Sheriff Wilson. Hey, Joe, you got a minute? Sure, sure, I say, letting him inside. He's dripping everywhere, but I don't mention it, on account of not wanting to be rude. Take a seat, I tell him. He settles in on a maple wood dining chair, something I picked up ages ago at Goodwill. It creaks under his weight. He's a large man, the kind that plays Santa Claus for the village kids every year, getting into that stinking red suit, letting those wet-nosed kids slobber and sneeze on him while they tell him what they want. Plastic shit from China, no doubt. Wilson's good for that, though. He's got what I would consider a cheery disposition. Is this business or pleasure? I say, even though I already know. Wilson and I are friendly, but not chummy enough for him to come by unannounced. Business, I'm afraid. Say, he got some coffee. It's instant, tastes like dirt, but gets the job done. You want a cup? I don't have cream. Yeah, yeah, I don't mind black. Wilson says, and I go to the kitchen before handing him a mug. He takes a sip. Not bad, not bad. Hits the spot. His cheeks turn red, and he makes a loud smack and ah sound, as if it's the best thing he's ever tasted. His eyes scan the cabin, as if he's looking for something. There's all sorts of shit on the walls, stuff Diane put up before she left. She liked crap. There's a sign hung over the window that says, if you're lucky to live on the ocean, you're lucky enough. That was one of the little treasures she found. I hate the freaking thing, but I haven't taken it down yet. I see what his eyes fall on. Go on, you can touch it if you want. Her name is Skull Crusher, in case you forgot. He gets up, goes over, and picks it up. It looks like a club of sorts, with a sharp hook. It's a weapon. This one is made of whale bone, and serves a very specific purpose. Wilson tenderly touches its sides, gliding his fingers across the surface. He places it down again. He runs his hands across his bald head. There are two tufts of curly hair on either side, that cover the lower portion near the ears, streaked with flecks of silver and white. I got a call yesterday toward South Bend Beach. Some tourists were picnicking with their two kids, both of them under five. Mom says she looked away for just a moment, when something came right out of that water, and swallowed them up. You mind if I smoke? I ask. Wilson shakes his head, and I pull out a cigarette from the container, lighting it. I let out an exhale. She see anything? Yeah, but hell if she knows what. He looks at me. Give it here, will ya? Wilson extends his hand, and I pass him the sig, waving it off when he tries to return it. They're getting more aggressive, huh? This is the fifth attack in what, six months? I cross my arms. I remember when this sort of thing was unheard of, must be getting desperate. Notting his head, Wilson sighs, sure, I mean, their numbers are hurting. There's no dispute in that. Can't blame him, but can't condone it either. He knocks back his mug, and holds it up, tilting it slightly. Mind if I have another cup? Help yourself. Going to the kitchenette, Wilson starts making another coffee. He looks tired, and I'm sure all of this is taking a toll on him. Nothing worse than a mother who lost her offspring. His skin has an unhealthy pale green tint to it, like what you'd see on someone with Maldamar. Stop eyeing me, Joe. I know I look like shit. Wilson says, cracking a grin. Say, tell me about the time you, well, you know, he trails off, lost my hand. He gives me a grateful nod that he doesn't need to say it. It makes most people uncomfortable. I was working on Seth Troy Baker's boat. We were crab fishing off Alaska. Well, Seth had this dog named Tinsley, the sweetest bitch you ever met. We were docked, and Tinsley jumped into the water. It was just me on board at the time, but she started crying something awful. It was the type of screams I pause, well, you know, I light up another smoke, stupid me. I jump in after that dumb dog. I was lucky I had skull crush around me at the time. After I beat it off Tinsley, I noticed four little teeth marks in my hand. First, I thought maybe it was the dog. Maybe I had it before trying to justify it and all, but I knew. I got back on the boat, made a tourniquet, and I chopped my left hand clean off, prayed straight through for the next 24 hours. I got lucky, real lucky. What would you have done? You know, if you changed, Wilson says, his eyes fixated on me. I told Seth to put a bullet in my head if that was the case. It's the truth. Better to be dead than one of those soulless water bastards, don't you think? The late afternoon sun bounces off of Wilson's head, shimmering, yeah, better to be dead. He says, taking a long sip from his mug. Better to be dead. I get up moving to the window to open it. The room is starting to smell sharp, fishy, almost like ammonia. A cool breeze touches my face. Why didn't you call me, Wilson? I say finally. His face is turned away from me, so I just see that big old head. The skin has turned a darker green, like emeralds. Didn't want to bother you, I suppose, thought I could handle it on my own. Went out to the cove like we did that one time, hoping maybe I'd find those kids. Instead, I just found trouble. Got you on the leg, didn't it? My hand moves to Skull Crusher, gripping the handle. Those little puffs of hair have fallen off. His skull is as smooth as an eight ball now. How'd you know? Wilson says, his voice sounds different, like he's talking underwater. I know it's almost time. The blood. When you came in, you got some on the floor. It's black, just like theirs. Do me a favor, will you, Joe? When this is done, you go out there and you settle the score for me. Save those kids if they're not eaten or changed yet. And you get those bastards real good. Do it for me, Joe. Okay? Wilson's body begins to convulse, shaking violently. Anything you say, buddy. I take a step closer. The smell of the ocean fills my nostrils. It's gonna be okay, Wilson. You hear me? He says nothing back and I hold my breath. For what used to be Wilson turns around, bulbous yellow-tinged eyes, round and horrible, stare back at me. The skin now, sleek, shiny with crescent moon-shaped scales. He opens his mouth and from slimy, rubbery lips emerges the thing of nightmares. Several rows of long, jagged teeth, like knives. He lunges towards me. And Skull Crusher lives up to her name and I bring it down hard on Wilson's head. There's a sickening shriek as I do and a crunch. Black blood splatters across the room, covering me. The window and even that stupid sign Diane bought, all that's legible, is you're lucky. When it's done, I take a step back, breathing heavily. I hate mermaids.