Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle, and there's that obligatory radio broadcast, the one that warns of inclement weather- rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha. You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky, the improbable tornado dropping great whites on the California shoreline. One arm curled around my waist, you tickle erratically until I squirm away, only to creep back again, and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger, wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish, but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far knowing how it would end. The extras scream and scatter, arms flailing, going through the motions of surprise, stumbling in their scripted attempts to flee the inevitable. Predictably, they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped in the hammerhead's belly has this peaceful expression, as if she can't quite remember why she ran away in the first place.