When two dolphins surfaced and smiled at Ruby Arenas she laughed so hard she got a mouthful of salt water. A normal morning swim in the Gulf of Mexico turned even more joyous than usual as Ruby took long strokes, cutting through blue-white waves, propelling herself through warm water that refreshed her more than she could remember.  

Unbeknownst to her, though, the heart of her physical and mental discipline lay just below the water’s surface – in her face and close enough to taste. Training to fight felt wrong. Ruby loved peace, worked for peace, expected peace. But nowadays evil too often arose unexpectedly, baring sharpened teeth and jaws to hunt, kill and destroy. As good as Ruby felt, she knew her imminent duel to the death with demon Becky would soon begin.

Becky exuded evil. Bleeding psychic carnage into Kim Phillips’ mind, she poisoned everyone and everything she touched. As Ruby glided through the water’s warm embrace she wondered if she possessed the courage to successfully confront such hatred and bitter malice. Evil defines inhumanity. Becky oozed raw evil.

Becky had infested Kim’s spirit many years before, overtaking her mind, inhabiting her awareness as the worst of several split personalities. Born as protector, conjured as savior to help Kim cope and survive trauma, instead of protection Becky supplied retribution, turning kindly Kim into killer Kim, a vindictive beast instead of the beautiful person Ruby knew Kim to be.

As soon as the dolphins fled Ruby sensed trouble. Beware when dolphins stop smiling, she thought. Now she saw the thick gray-white fin moving her way. Protruding a foot from the water, the fin cut a swath through strong current as easily as a sharp blade moving through key lime pie. Turning her head to exert a stronger stroke, Ruby felt darkness overtake light as Santa Muerte’s face replaced the fiery oval of the sun.

“This is your final test,” the Mexican death saint told her goddaughter. “Your performance today determines whether you live to take my place.”

Breaking the surface with the power of a natural submarine, a 17-foot great white shark arose showing bloodstained teeth. A murderous mask mirroring Becky’s face replaced the shark’s face. Ruby almost stopped swimming. How do you fight a great white shark and a demon at the same time? A great white shark instilled with a savage split personality, a monstrous great white on the prowl, is bad enough. But a multiple personality great white sends sadistic shivers up the back of the devil himself.

Diving, Ruby surprised the shark by swimming beneath its belly. Coming up on the other side, the shark momentarily lost track of Ruby’s whereabouts. Rolling left the great mammal lowered its massive body enough for Ruby to grab its fin, pull herself up like a bucking bronco rider and hang on for dear life.

Becky’s voice cackled through the air bubbles.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Becky said.

This can’t possibly be real, Ruby thought, trying to convince herself the Becky-faced fiend had materialized as a horrible figment of her imagination, a hallucination brought on by intense water temperature, hyperventilation due to irregular breathing in rough water, a panic attack. Maybe Santa Muerte’s powerful mental presence that seemingly appeared on the wrong side of goodness for the first time in Ruby’s life would finally claim her. Maybe Ruby would fail the test.

Ruby focused on her breath and tried to stay calm.

“I am the light,” she told herself. “I am powerful. I am Santa Muerte only if I prevail.”

Now the gigantic frenzied fish dove deeper, twisting and turning as if she knew she had a rider on her back, an unwelcome visitor who appeared like an itch you just couldn’t reach to scratch. Curling, spinning, opening and closing her jaws, the shark did her best to shake Ruby who tightly clutched the fin with both hands. Again changing direction, the shark rose with great speed, allowing Ruby to catch her breath before the great white dove again, scattering schools of small fish that swam for cover.

“Ride ’em cowboy,” Ruby heard Becky yell.

Up and down and up and down they went in a seemingly endless nautical roller coaster ride. Ruby worried she couldn’t hang on much longer until she realized she wouldn’t have to.  Coming fast from the western horizon, a very gargantuan danger approached. In the distance Ruby saw the water spout – not the tornado type but the spout of water that erupts from a killer whale’s blowhole. Fast closing the distance, the great white shark’s only predator sped to the rescue.

“Thank you, Orca,” Ruby said.

Becky screamed, “Thar she blows!”

Ruby let go of the fin, swimming as fast as she could to escape the impending war between the titans. This massive marine mammal, a blood relative cousin to the two dolphins Ruby had earlier befriended, kept coming with all the power of a runaway train. Emerging and swimming excitedly in circles around Ruby, the two dolphins who had gone for help came through in a potentially deadly pinch.

The dolphins smiled.

One of them winked.

The great white couldn’t get away.

Ruby scanned the sky for Santa Muerte, but the bony lady had disappeared Craving peace even in what looked like a soon-to-come battle to the death, Ruby used the increasing power she felt to command a bloodless resolution to this unnatural natural dilemma. As the next Santa Muerte she expected nonviolence even from predators.

Ruby focused and transmitted to the beasts the vital life energy the Japanese call ki, the Chinese call chi and Indian mystics call prana. Ruby called the force her spirit.

Instead of slamming into the great white, the whale abruptly slowed, pulling alongside the smaller creature like an ocean cruise ship docking in a tropical paradise. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Not every killer whale must kill. Not every great white meat eater must either. Wild animals can make peace. The shark backed off, gliding safely to serenity, taking Becky with her.

Blasting one final gushing geyser, the Orca turned back to the vast seascape, joining her cousins for a final family dip in their earthly pool before parting. Ruby swore her sister dolphins blew her a kiss.

Treading water, trying to catch her breath and understand the magnitude of what just happened, Ruby allowed the current to carry her to shore where Kim stood holding out a beach towel decorated with images of surfing seagulls wearing Hawaiian shirts and baggie board shorts.

“It’s cool this morning,” Kim said. “I thought you might need this.”

“Did you see what happened out there?” Ruby asked, quickly noticing how Kim’s skin glistened through a sparkling aura that encircled her whole body, a blue hued resilience that Ruby felt fill her own body.

“It was like watching a horror movie with a happy ending,” Kim said. “I feel heavy mental chains breaking free from my brain. I feel like I ascended into the cosmos of no beginning and no end. My new psychiatrist, Dr. Carney, has been working with me. She gave me a new prescription and suggested I come to the beach, sit in the sand and meditate. So I did. For the first time in my life I followed the doctor’s orders.”

“Good for you,” said Ruby.

“RayRay hooked me up with her,” Kim said. “He’s the best big brother I could have.”

“Big brother?”

“It’s a long story,” Kim said.

“Don’t I know it,” Ruby said.

Kim’s facial expression showed a beatitude Ruby had never before witnessed.

“I thought I saw a whale hugging a great white shark out there,” Kim said. “I must have been daydreaming happy thoughts.”

“You deserve some happy thoughts,” Ruby said. ”We all do.”

Within swirling white clouds in a broad blue sky, Santa Muerte’s image now appeared brighter than usual, wearing a garland of fresh red roses around her neck and a rainbow-colored hood over her skull.

Santa Muerte winked.

Stinking of his favorite Jade East cologne, Florida Gov. Ronnie DeShifty screamed into the cell phone he held with one hand while combing his thick black hair with the other. DeShifty loved the spit-shined impression of himself he saw in the mirror. Dull, dapper, demented and short, even while preparing for a make-it-or-break-it public policy argument, he always got conservatively groomed. An American flag decorated with dollar signs replacing stars adorned the red, white and blue silk necktie he chose to wear at home that morning.

This confrontation was personal.

“I’m gonna be the next president of these United States!” the governor said with a bravado normally expressed by boot camp drill instructors. “On day one at the White House we invade Mexico.”

On the other end of a bad connection Meester Beeg sat parboiling in a hot tub at his Shangri-Lago resort master bedroom, struggling to keep from dropping the phone, holding on with short, stubby fingers lathered with greasy double cheeseburger drippings. Cradling the gold-plated device in the thick crease of his soft shoulder and flabby neck, he gnawed around the edges of the bun looking for the last hunk of juicy meat in the gross sandwich he gripped with both hands.

“No, you soft spoiled grapefruit, you, I’m gonna be president,” he roared. “I’m gonna personally invade Mexico.”

“Your alien wife is a floozy communist,” the governor said. “With all her plastic parts she looks like Mrs. Potatoboob.”

Meester Beeg retaliated.

“Your wife is a bargain basement concubine and nude fake news centerfold,” said the former president.

“You dye your pubic hair orange,” the governor said.

“You’re a closet Mickey Mouse,” said the former commander-in-chief.

DeShifty sputtered.

“Listen to Mr. Trans Man – a neutered transactional free market fraud.”

“Yeah, well you’re a one-man drag show.”

“You are.”

“No, you are.”

The telephone call went on like this for 20 minutes. Two exasperated FBI agents monitoring the conversation, Michele Delany and Donnie Driscoll, hung up before the presidential debate ended. Both federal law enforcement officers continued to use plastic forks to dig into cartons of cold Chinese food.

“Do you believe these clowns?” Driscoll said, adjusting his black watch cap and scratching an unruly red beard.

“Have you seen the pee pee tapes yet?” asked Delany, slurping beef lo mein noodles and splashing sodium free soy sauce down the front of her body armor.

“No,” Driscoll said, “but I hear the tapes are hotter than this extra spicy moo goo gai pan. Does Meester Beeg really dance the watusi in an edible red licorice thong to that James Brown song ‘Sex Machine?’”

Delany wrinkled her nose like somebody put real poo in her pu pu plater.

“As a grand finale the Russian hookers eat the thong,” she said.

“Like a Black Sea shark frenzy,” Driscoll said.

“I’ll make you a copy,” Delany said. “I’m showing the tapes at my bachelorette party Saturday night and giving a thumb drive copy to each of my bridesmaids.”

“Where’d you get the tapes, anyway?” Driscoll asked.

Delany gloated.

“RayRay Gigliardi is an old guy who owns a bar in Clearwater Beach where I drink when I’m up there,” she said. “He plays drums in the house rock band, slams shot glasses into a corner net with a hockey stick and drinks cocktails with his pet parrot.”

“Sounds nuts,” Driscoll said.

“RayRay said he found a plastic bag washed up on the sand marked TOP SECRET,” Delany said. “Wild man but good citizen that he is, RayRay knew right away he had to turn his discovery in to the government. He said he never opened the bag he just called me.”

A flickering light about as big as a Bic lighter flame went off in Driscoll’s head.

“Will your bridesmaids keep the tapes secret?”

“They won’t have to,” Delany said. “I already sold them to HBO.”

“Pardon the pun, but that exposure will ruin him,” Driscoll said. “Nobody will ever take him seriously again.”

Reaching for a fortune cookie, Driscoll chuckled when he read the fortune out loud.

 “Confucius say man who keep feet on ground have trouble putting on his trousers.”

Delany laughed so hard she spit a mouthful of miso soup across the surveillance van.

“What does that even mean?” she snickered.

Driscoll waved a leftover egg roll in Delany’s face.

“It means Meester Beeg should keep his presidential pee pee in his pants before somebody chops it off.”

Stepping from behind heavy auditorium curtains on the high school stage, Randall Lark moved from the shadows as alert as the special operations soldier he once was. Nobody saw his raw nerves, felt his mounting anxiety or heard his heart pounding in his chest.

On the other side of the stage Marty Durkin stepped at the same time from behind crimson curtains. He, too, strode with heightened awareness across chipped varnished floorboards where bored teachers usually produced teenage talent shows or anti-drug assemblies.

One Black, one white, the men met in the middle beneath a blue spotlight. Staring into each other’s eyes for an uncomfortable 30 seconds, they turned to face the audience packed with a fairly even balance of Black, white, Asian, Latino and mixed race students.

Durkin spoke first.

“When I worked as a police officer in New Jersey I shot and killed an unarmed 15-year-old Black child,” he said.

Now Randall spoke.

“That dead child was my baby brother, Tyrone,” he said.

“I’m a white man,” Durkin said.

“I’m a Black man,” Randall said.

“We’re friends,” they said together.

Again the men stared at each other. At first the students sat in silence. Rustling movement and nervous laughter created an audible buzz that grew and swept the hall like an angry swarm of hornets.

“Black lives matter,” shouted a white girl in the front row.

Cheers erupted mostly among the Black students.

Jumping from a front row seat the white male student council president shouted, “Back the blue.”

More cheers flared mostly from white boys. Randall waited for silence while almost everyone quieted down. Five or six Black girls suddenly stood, lifted their arms into the air and began to chant.

“Hands up! Don’t shoot! Hands up! Don’t shoot!”

Again Randall and Durkin waited for quiet.

Each tense second ticked in Randall’s head, pumping adrenaline-fueled apprehension into his brain, provoking mini-flashbacks of terrified villagers in Afghanistan standing panic-stricken in bloodstained snow with their hands in the air.

When the girls went silent Randall pointed at Durkin and spoke.

“I forgive him,” he said.

Durkin looked like he might faint. The room exploded in a mixed cacophony of 12-letter profanity, other insults and some weak applause. Teachers looked at each other worried that a riot might break out. Marty Durkin gathered all the courage he could and prepared to atone.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a steady voice. “I am so very sorry I shot and killed Tyrone Lark.”

A few tears greeted his remorse.

Randall stepped to the lip of the stage.

“Now what?” he asked. “Where do we go from here?”

For whatever the reason, luck included, most of the students seemed intrigued, drawn by the surprising and stark revelations between two adult men born into an American Way that nurtures, supports and furthers racism. Randall saw the opening and took it. He told the students about his war in Afghanistan and at home. He talked about hating Durkin, admitting he thought about killing him the same way he once killed Taliban fighters and others in Kandahar province – pulling the trigger without any tugs of conscience.

When he finished speaking, Durkin stepped forward. But as he started telling the student body how he dreamed of becoming a police officer from the time he was a child, again damning curses erupted. Enraged, a Black senior boy with a full Afro and yardstick wide shoulders rushed the stage. A white football coach bodily stopped his charge. A full water bottle bounced off the podium and rolled across the stage.  

“Lock him up,” screamed a Black girl with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lock him up.”

Worried they were losing control, Randall sounded desperate.

“If I can forgive him so can you,” he said.

At the back of the room the principal stood wondering what he was thinking when he agreed to the assembly after talking to the two men who just walked into his office off the street offering to share their stories as a hopefully valuable lesson for the future. No way was he climbing the stairs and calling for order, the principal thought. No way.

With both hands at his side, Randall stood his ground. Durkin trembled. A 17-year-old undocumented Mexican boy and honor student raised his hand. When Randall pointed at him he looked directly at the tall Black combat veteran.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” the boy asked.

“I was tired of killing,” Randall said. “I was tired of hating.”

Durkin’s eyes welled up.

So did Randall’s.

More questions followed. Tension slowly lifted. The scene got better instead of worse. After an hour the men stopped sweating, thanked the students for listening and left without attending the coffee and cake reception scheduled for the faculty lounge.

Outside Durkin leaned hard against the black 1965 Mustang fastback he bought when he was still a cop and drove straight through all the way to Florida.

“You want to do that again?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Randall said. “But first I need to catch my breath.”

Durkin reached out and the men shook hands.

“I can dig that,” Durkin said.

Randall Lark rolled his eyes.

“Whose idea was this anyway?” he asked.

“Ruby’s, if I remember correctly,” Durkin said.

“If I didn’t know better I’d swear she put a spell on us to get us to do what we just did,” Randall said.

“Ruby is something else, all right,” Durkin said.

“And then some,” said Randall.

Out of nowhere a gust of wind caught the American flag flying from the flag pole in the parking lot, popping the red, white and blue fabric so loudly the noise sounded like a gunshot. Both men flinched and looked up. Neither spoke as they stood beneath a faded Old Glory feeling sweat again begin to build in the hot and humid Florida afternoon, yet feeling good that they tried and would keep on trying to keep the peace.

Heed my words.

Santa Muerte does not repeat herself.

I’m talking to you.

Pay attention.

My hood is fashioned from human flesh. My eyes bleed from red stones set deep in hollow sockets of white bone that gleam pure as lost souls wandering a blistering Mexican desert. The handle of the scythe I carry is long enough to slay you wherever you try to hide. The globe I carry is your tomb. My skeletal fingers hold the fate of the world.

You cannot run from me, your worst nightmare that feeds on your brain cells. You are helpless before me, your personal Mexican death saint. No one stops my almighty power. Light your white candles. Light your black candles. Flame ignites my dominance. C’mon, baby, light my fire.

No matter how smart you think you are, your small minds have no idea how skillful I have become over centuries of death humanity brought on through greed, jealousy, hatred and ego. Those of you who respect my energy are wise. You desire safety, health, money, success.

Sí, muy bien.

You deserve love, good luck, well-being. You also crave justice and seek revenge. I’m listening, so talk to me. Peace and healing remain my preference, but I empathize with your need to get even. I embrace your suffering, your sickness, even your Covid virus.

This bony lady hears you.

Holy death will help you in your journey. But first you must ask for my guidance. I invite you to petition my assistance. Please. Because I decide who breathes, who lives. I decide who gasps for breath and who dies. Are you worthy of my touch? Only I decide. In exchange for my protection I expect devotion. Betray me and whither like bad grapes on the vine, shrinking, shriveling, dropping to mix with ancient soil and the sweet mysteries of existence.

I dare you to laugh at me. Break your promise and your children and grandchildren will one day twist in pain as I inflict torture and claim their lives. Their spirits already belong to me. Do you want them servile and naked, groveling in the foul underworld where my spells turn them into serpents that crawl fetid floors of feces and flame. Go ahead. Break your promise.

Santa Muerte always gets her way. Santa Muerte always gets her wish. Santa Muerte always wins.

Mother Death eventually claims all her children and takes them home.

Today I must offer an American sacrifice to teach humans a lesson and show my first cousin Mother Nature that humans deserve to continue evolving despite doing your worst to kill the planet. You pollute the environment and endanger majestic animals and other species. You poison the land, water, air and all the bountiful life that makes Earth the magnificent miracle she is.

Florida is special to Mother Nature and to me. We dig Clearwater Beach. If we were human we’d drink at RayRay’s Elbow Room.

So today I must decide whom to save, whom to condemn, whom to spare, whom to immolate. Today I choose the one to sacrifice, the one whose time has come. Whom shall I select?

Randall Lark wants to understand the dark puzzle of his existence, to make amends yet still get even.

Marty Durkin is a damaged man who retains only a thread of his pathetic composure.

RayRay is a good guardian of the light, a soldier fighting for fairness. He comprehends cold vengeance and adapts to the emptiness of the void.

Kim Phillips exhibits tenderness, has a big heart but is too easily led.

Ruby Arenas is my mirror image when I was a similar young seeker, a great feminist spirit upon whom so much depends.

Sam Bennett is my favorite.

But Becky presents my main concern. Her madness destroyed twin Irish demons and can kill the others. Becky drills their minds, blurring reality that washes the beach like a monster tidal wave turning homicidal. Becky is the obvious choice to die so we can make life easier for everybody.

But Randall and Marty might also welcome the quiet comfort of forever sleep.

RayRay will stoically accept whatever comes.

Poor Kim wouldn’t know what hit her if I put her out of her misery.

I laugh to envision Sam just raising his arms and flying away.

Or shall I make the ultimate offering of my dear goddaughter Ruby?  

Maybe even that savage parrot Dillon.

Whom shall I cast into the abyss, the chosen one to join me in the boneyard? What magic colors will guide their fate?

Look into my eyes, my children, while I select a sacrifice.

You Randall Lark radiate shades of deep forest green that shine like blazing emerald gemstones. Green is the color of justice, ethics and law. Guilty about killing civilians as an American soldier in Afghanistan, you pine for the loss of a child you named Boss, a boy you loved, a baby really, the enemy Taliban killed to punish you. You must restore your balance.

Marty Durkin? Blue for you. Young Tyrone Lark lives with you forever. You shot and killed him as a fearful white cop firing in the line of duty. Now he lives in your conscience. You see his face every time you face his brother. You need to gain new energy to continue to live and breathe freely.

RayRay Gigliardi, I see your bright white light shrouding the sacred purification of your spirit, healing amid chaos and confusion as you try to hide all emotion. I am pleased you completed your Russian project, by the way. I know you succeeded because I talked with the gators in the swamp.

Aztec gods who own underworld gold mines have asked me to ask you Kim Phillips to help them recover the precious metal wealthy mine owners stole. The gods sense pure gold love beating in your heart. The gods respect your 24-karat pulse.

Only purple suits you, my dear Ruby Arenas, goddess of witchcraft, as you continue to assist in casting my most powerful spells. You will succeed me as Santa Muerte. Purple becomes you. You become purple. Purple power to the people! You, Ruby Arenas, gatekeeper of the celestial realm, are destined to rule my kingdom.

And, you, Dillon, I have not forgotten you who embodies the red hot chili pepper aspect of Santa Muerte. You carry yourself with an almost human dignity unless you’re drunk. You, Dillon, fancy yourself as a superhero. We shall see. Avian flu is epidemic, you know.

Black for the old man sounds good, don’t you think, old man? You, Sam Bennett, insult yourself with this sad slur on natural aging. You yearn for flight and practice for the day when you will soar. But you now occasionally doubt yourself. You wonder if you are too old to fly. I sense gloom in your spirit, self-doubt I refuse to accept. Maybe you should just disappear. Or reject all fear of failing. I have faith, old man. You might one day soon surprise us all.

Becky, Becky, Becky.

Your insanity represents color and shade run amok. You are blessed but must be controlled. Your mad spirit threatens to forever fill creation with chaos in the vast beyond that has no beginning or end. Your insanity imperils time and space. Your lunacy sometimes scares even me.

Very well, I have said too much already.

The time has come for me to name my gift to our natural world.

One of you must die.

Who among you will perish?

With the hard knocks power of a knuckle sandwich delivered by a silverback lowlands gorilla, the rap on the door startled the Russian assassin, distracting him from the steely focus required to kill his targets.

Dropping his sniper rifle to the floor Igor rushed to the door. Expecting to see backup Russian hitman and comrade Lev whom Igor ordered to stay in the getaway car, Igor stiffened when he flung open the door. RayRay stood chewing gum like a stone-faced undertaker on the scene to pick up a body.

“You boys are late for our meeting,” RayRay said.

“How you know where to find us?”

“A little birdie told me,” RayRay said, catching a glimpse of Dillon sitting on the outside windowsill looking drunk and smug as the cat that ate the canary.

Frustrated, Igor asked if RayRay had the real estate contracts ready to sign.

“Change of plans,” RayRay said. “You and your partner meet me at the Spyglass Apartments in 15 minutes. I decided to turn over everything cheap to your new boss in Miami.”

Igor smirked, not knowing RayRay was carrying out his own contract – a double assassination pact he made with himself meant to settle a very personal score. Anybody who even thought about hurting his sister Kim died.

“When I heard you two professional killers threatened to whack that wonderful, I mean whacky, woman real estate agent you scared me half to death,” RayRay said. “Just you two guys threatened to murder her, right?”

“Just us,” said Igor. “We one deadly two-man show.”

“Double trouble,” RayRay said.

Igor showed gold front teeth – one emblazoned with a tiny red beryl gem in the shape of a five-pointed star.

“Old billionaire boss Borys is dead as smoked mackerel,” he said. “New boss of Russian Mafia is Meester Beeg. You promise to keep secret, though, because Meester Beeg is running for American president.”

“I promise,” RayRay said.

Now RayRay threw Igor a curve.

“I have a surprise for you boys,” he said. “A copy of the pee pee tape. The world will go wild.”

Hearing the words “pee pee tape” launched Igor into a jubilant Cossack dance, bending at the knees and kicking out his legs. Most Russians had heard about the notorious presidential pee pee tape showing an excited Meester Beeg showering in a Moscow prostitutes’ pee pee production, but few had ever seen the actual hinky kinky prostitutes participating in the perverted pee pee presentation. Leaking the pee pee tape would be BEEG! A leaked pee pee tape would help Igor and Lev take over their hometown mob.

RayRay had Igor by the red beets.

“When we show pee pee tape on Russian TV Meester Beeg will lose all power,” Igor said. “Lev and me become new Meester Beegs in Russian Mafia. Spend weekends soaking naked in mineral springs with Meesus Beeg and her hot friend Jenna.”

“You win,” RayRay said. “I’m afraid of the Russian Mafia. You big bad hitmen hold all the cards.”

“Glad you see writing on Kremlin wall, American dog,” Igor said.

“See you at the Spyglass in 15 minutes,” RayRay said.

Down on the beach where an excited crowd milled in the aftermath of the rescue spectacle, Ruby Arenas deftly maneuvered her way through a throng of people to reach Kim and Sam.

“That was a trip,” Sam told a local newspaper reporter.

Kim Phillips rubbed her eyes, tying to clear the high-flying fog of fear and madness from her head.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You’re OK,” Ruby said taking her hands.

“To hear you tell it, wench,” said Kim’s dangerous split personality. “I mean witch.”

“You and I need to talk,” said Ruby.

Becky sneered.

“Like a date? You asking me out on a date?”

“Tonight,” said Ruby. “At your place at the Paradise.”

“See you at eight,” Becky said. “Don’t be late.”

Randall Lark and Marty Durkin jogged up at the same time.

“That was close,” Randall said to Ruby.

“Too close,” Durkin said.

Ruby and Kim seemed deep in their quiet interaction so the men let them continue to talk.

“Where you been, by the way?” Durkin asked Randall.

“Packing,” Randall said. “I’m splitting.”

“Me, too.”

“Where you going?” Randall asked.

“Home. You?”

“Back to Africa,” Randall said.

Durkin looked at him like he was kidding.

“You realize how ridiculous that sounds?”

“As ridiculous as you going home,” Randall said. “Except for white supremacists everybody from Stone Harbor, New Jersey, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, hates you.”

Both men stared hard at each other.

“Maybe we should both give Florida one last chance,” Durkin said.

“For old time’s sake?” Randall said.

“You want to team up?” Durkin asked.

“As what, Ebony and Ivory?” Randall asked.

“I hate Michael Jackson,” Durkin said.

“Same goes for Sir Paul,” said Randall.

“I’ll you know as soon as I figure out what we can do together,” Durkin said.

“You mean like work together?” Randall asked.

“With all we have in common we ought to be able to figure something out,” Durkin said.

“Real funny, Batman,” Randall said.

High in the sky Margot flew in circles, rising and falling on silky wind currents that lifted and dropped her among spongy bulbous clouds. Dillon flew by her side although she ignored the unkempt parrot. Beer on his beak turned her off. If he ever expected her to one day coast with him he’d have to straighten up and fly right.

Out of nowhere Sam Bennett started singing an old Frank Sinatra song.

“Fly me to the moon,” he crooned off-key. “Let me play among the stars.”

Not far from the beach RayRay mopped up pools of blood in Apt. 6 at the old Spyglass. Those three hungry Glades gators had made short work of the two Russians, leaving only a few body parts and meaty chunks for the pythons to swallow.

When the beasts had finished their meals, RayRay coaxed the Florida creatures into the back of a U-Haul truck and paid Rocco and Ricco to drive the creatures to the Everglades and release them. Their stomachs full, the reptiles slept the whole way home. Except for a booming burp here and there that echoed off both sides of the truck, they didn’t make a sound.

City officials would likely claim the Spyglass property for unpaid taxes. Nobody had cared for years about how dilapidated the complex had become. They would eventually demolish the structure.

After Sam Bennett moved out he had easily settled into comfy creature habits at RayRay’s Paradise. Everyone there clicked more and more each day, harmonizing with the vibes of their new apartments the way a jigsaw puzzle piece fit into the big picture. Over time, Ruby, Randall, Durkin, Kim, Rocco, Ricco, even Dillon and, of course, RayRay would all protect each other.

Only Becky posed a danger to everybody’s sanity.

Peace of mind at the Paradise seemed close at hand.

Churning from the west, a waterspout funnel cloud would have received less attention.

Wide eyes followed the enormous parasail decorated with a smiley face as its canopy flailed from side to side in the darkening sky, spinning out of control above horrified crowds standing on Pier 60 and scattered up and down the rice white beach. No way could this tragedy in the making end well.

Randall Lark stopped in mid-lick of a double-decker pistachio ice cream cone. All that morning he had pondered leaving Florida and America for good. Heading back to Africa, like so many cracker white folks had suggested to his kind since the end of the Civil War, was looking better every day. People skills other than killing techniques he learned in the Army and put to work in Afghanistan might serve him well. He could work with kids and help villagers with health care, education or other economic empowerment projects – a one man Peace Corps.

Randall could turn the damning racist order around, make going back to Africa his own idea, claiming the slur the way some of the young brothers claimed ownership of the word “nigger.” Randall hated that word no matter who used it, but if anybody owned the epithet his people did. Blacks earned ownership with slavery, lost lives, chains, modern day-to-day oppression and perennial white-hot bigotry.

Go back to Africa, nigger.

OK, motherfucker, I’ll do just that.

Randall hated that crude word as well, insulting motherhood with a vicious smear he never understood. Who came up with the m-bomb as a password to brotherhood? He doubted Muhammed Ali ever used the word. But sometimes it just felt good to let loose with a bombshell profanity that made white people cringe.

Down the beach Marty Durkin abruptly ended his daily run and looked skyward. Just that morning he had decided to move back to New Jersey. He didn’t fit in Florida, missed good pizza and felt lonely. People were nice to him, but he carried too much mental baggage to relax and move forward. He’d go home, rent a small apartment near Stone Harbor, maybe in Ocean City. Durkin had failed to escape himself. Life would never be good again. He’d atone for his sins, visit his parents’ graves and grow old alone. If he gathered the courage, he’d visit Tyrone Lark’s grave as well. The boy he shot and killed in the line of duty deserved as much.

When RayRay spotted the parasail he stood calmly clipping his nails in a Pier 60 parking lot, wearing a black t-shirt, gangster Italian loafers with silk socks and a black pinstriped suit that drew every degree of 85-degree heat. He removed mirror-lensed wraparound Ray-Ban sunglasses as he stared at the accident waiting to happen. The two Russians who had threatened his sister Kim on the phone had agreed to meet him at the pier to discuss a real estate deal but hadn’t shown up yet. Kim’s crazed alter ego Becky had directed RayRay to the two Moscow hitmen as part of her forever unpredictable wheeling and dealing. RayRay planned for the mobsters to follow him to Sam Bennett’s old empty room at the Spyglass Apartments where RayRay had locked three hungry alligators and two Burmese pythons he bought special for this occasion from a redneck trapper husband and wife who lived in a cabin in the Everglades. RayRay befriended the young lovebirds at the Elbow Room when they stayed one weekend in Clearwater Beach on vacation. They never asked what he intended to do with his new pets. RayRay never told.

Even Rocco and Ricco, “The Terrible Tag Team from Hell,” stopped practicing their professional wrestling chokeholds on each other in the Pier 60 children’s playground to watch the drama unfold in the sky and prepare for the worst.

None of them knew Sam Bennett and Kim Phillips, let alone crazy Becky, hung and swung in the balance of the runaway parasail.

Only Dillon the Elbow Room’s drunken parrot mascot stopped slurping warm puddles of beer from overturned cans he found in the Dumpster long enough to scramble and take off like an F-15 fighter jet racing to Margot’s side as soon as he spotted his gull friend trailing the uncontrolled parasail that snared her friend Sam.

From where Ruby Arenas stood in the sand the apprentice sorceress knew exactly what was going down – actually going up, down and all around. Mexican death spirit Santa Muerte who infused Ruby with the power of the ancients also read the reality of the fierce sky. As she guided warrior women over the centuries in their secret battle against sexism and evil – the same offense – Santa Muerte empowered Ruby with a superhuman will to persevere.

In the parasail the battle to survive continued.

“Let’s crash, Sam,” Becky said. “Just like Romeo and Juliet. We’ll go to heaven together.”

“I don’t believe in heaven,” Sam said. “When we’re dead, we’re dead. We just disappear.”

“So let’s disappear,” Becky said.

“Nope,” said Sam. “I’m almost ready to fly, to solo like a bird.”

Becky’s insane cackle sounded like a truck full of chickens going over a cliff.

“You’re one strange bird all right,” she said.

Wind flared, gusting, blustery and primitive, twirling and swirling the parasail almost upside down as Becky menacingly waved her hook knife in Sam’s face. Calm as a gray stone garden Buddha, Sam continued to enjoy the view.

“Let’s cut the strings that bind us to this rotten life,” Becky said. “C’mon, cutie, let me cut our harnesses and drop free as your birds.”

“You’ve lost it, Kim,” Sam said. “Your split personality controls your life – even going so far as to advocate double suicide. You need help. I’ll help. We’ll all help.”

“Not me,” said Becky. “Not me.”

Becky’s babble picked up as did the wind, her shrieks building to a terrifying wail. Seconds later the wind stopped. Stillness filled the air. The parasail’s momentum slowed as the hulking smiley face descended gently into the water where lifeguards swimming and in boats prepared to haul the two passengers to safety.

Few people on the shore had noticed Ruby standing with tanned toes touching and her long arms extended, reaching, extending energy into the cosmos. Breathing slowly, mindfully, she had exhaled and directed with her mind each moment of the parasail’s surprising landing in the calm salt water.

Santa Muerte watched Ruby navigate the rescue all by herself.

“Continue to do good things,” Santa Muerte said.

“I promise,” Ruby said. “I only have one more enemy to kill.”

Santa Muerte’s eyes blazed.

“Who?”

“Becky,” Ruby said.

Santa Muerte showed a mouth full of polished teeth in the shape of skulls. Perplexed but knowing never to question her teacher, Ruby waited for the answer she knew would come. The skull teeth scared her. Sometimes Santa Muerte flashed fangs like a shadowy vampire ready to bite into the throat of another human sacrifice. Sometimes her teeth glistened like perfect precious pearls hanging from the neck of a movie star posing on the red carpet at a Hollywood premier.

“You might not have to kill one more,” Santa Muerte said.

Pointing a long bony finger tipped with a sharpened red fingernail, she gestured to the grandiose pastel pink hotel and condominium complex that stood like a palace on the road opposite the beach.

“He might do it for you,” she said.

A glint of sunshine flashed off the barrel of a rifle protruding from the penthouse window and caught Ruby’s eye. A former Russian special forces captain wearing a Yankees baseball cap and a cheap Hawaiian shirt decorated with hula girls dancing in a conga line squinted behind the sight of a 6S8 sniper rifle he pointed at the parasail. Intent on engaging what his orders called “two high priority targets” using powerful 12.7x108mm ammunition, the KGB assassin prepared to squeeze the trigger.

Santa Muerte showed her teeth.

“Now what, Ruby?” she asked.

All Margo could think to do was spin in circles.

That’s right.

Think.

Humans reject the notion that gulls like Margot think or feel or do anything but scarf french fries and crap ketchup. Humans scarf fries and crap ketchup too. But Margot thought deeper philosophical thoughts than most Florida tourists, residents or the sitting tyrant governor and his airhead wife.

Sam Bennett’s favorite gull spotted her friend flying high as soon as she drifted toward the beach and saw the speedboat pulling a massive yellow parasail imprinted with a smiley face climbing into the sky. Two passengers sitting side-by-side rose like souls ascending into heaven on Judgment Day, lifted above brilliant blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico beneath a billowing nylon canopy.

Becky hugged Sam Bennett’s arm like a child clutching a stuffed bear to help keep the monsters away.

“I’m so afraid,” she said, doing her best to stifle a laugh.

Kicking stumpy almost hairless bare legs the way he did as a disheveled little kid on a playground swing wearing the same kind of madras patterned Bermuda shorts he wore today, Sam felt his heart thump in his chest. He looked around excitedly, craning his neck left and right. Other than flying in Navy airplanes while in the military, he had never before soared this high, the connection between body and sky filling him with wonder.

“Fear not,” Sam said. “We are one with wind.”

 “You’re so strong, Sam,” Becky said. “This is the best first date ever.”

“We’re friends, Kim,” Sam said. “I only agreed to parasail when you invited me because I hoped you might come to your senses.”

Good-natured Sam worried Kim might have gone over the edge, that this grating unpredictable personality that called herself Becky might forever control Kim. Sam had never before parasailed, but the thought of flying in a harness provoked giggles. Obsession, training, dreaming and preparation to take off would soon culminate in a one-man maiden flight sans harness, parasail or parachute. In the meantime Sam craved anything even close to the hoped-for freedom of what he now called “the trip.”

Gliding past the fully inflated parasail Margot squawked to get Sam’s attention. But he ignored her for the first time ever, signaling an issue or problem and not a snub between allies. Turning and banking to the left, Margot flew past the frazzled passenger she didn’t know, a wild woman whose hair reminded Margot of the ratty abandoned nests mother gulls leave behind after sending their growing chicks on their way and into lives of their own. Missing her mother terribly, Margot had all the more reason to embrace Sam’s friendship. In turn she sensed his mission to one day join her in flight and ride the breeze side by side. Rooting for this unkempt human to succeed winging it made Margot feel a little human herself.

Gulls can and do think deep philosophical thoughts – whether humans know it or not. Sam knew. So when he ignored Margot she understood he faced a deep dilemma and needed help. But what’s a gull to do?

Leaning into Sam’s shoulder, nuzzling against the pineapple pattern of his faded polyester Hawaiian shirt, Becky patted his hand.

“How high are we, honey?” she asked.

“About 500 feet,” said Sam.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, tugging on Sam’s harness straps she had sliced three quarters of the way through with a new hook knife when the boat was docked in the middle of the night. Cutting into the seat, back and leg straps she gambled that the harness would hold until they reached cruising altitude. Then she could whip out her sharp-edged blade and sever the rest, sending her enemy crashing into a watery grave. Who did this bum think he was trying to rescue Kim?

Becky had also cut partially through the tow line attached to the boat just in case she made up her mind to join Sam in plunging to their deaths. Tiring of living in an asylum for the terminally inane, maybe enough finally was enough. Maybe the time had come for her and Kim to find someplace else in the cosmos to hang out. She hated to admit it, but she missed those twin Irish devil spirits she already dispatched to Hell and hoped she could reconnect with Tara and Shannon in the afterlife. Those girls sure knew how to party.

But Becky couldn’t make up her mind – indecision shaping one of the main pitfalls of a split personality.

“This is great,” Sam said. “I want to go eight miles high.”

“Like the Byrds song?” Becky asked.

“Whoa, the Byrds,” Sam said. “I always dug the Byrds.”

Just as Becky started secretly sawing Sam’s harness the tow rope broke.

Up, up, up they went, gaining altitude on building wind gusts, climbing higher and higher.

Sam readily entered the moment.

“Fly!” he said. “Fly!”

“We’re going down,” Becky said.

“No, we’re going up,” Sam said.

“Down,” said Becky.

“Up,” said Sam.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Circling in a mad frenzy, all Margot could do was stay out of the way of the smiley-faced parasail that now surged sideways, picking up speed as it raced across the gray-streaked sky, blowing unrestrainedly toward Pier 60 crowded with senior citizens pointing to the sky.

Down.

Up.

Sideways.

Down.

Up.

Sideways.

Down.

“I miss Kim,” Sam Bennett said.

Tiny sparkling tears forming in the corners of Sam’s eyes reminded Ruby Arenas of little diamonds unearthed from an underground mine.

“We’ll get her back, Sam,” Ruby said.

“Where did she go?”

“Deep inside herself,” Ruby said.

  “So who is Becky?”

“Becky is a figment of Kim’s imagination who protects Kim from harm,” Ruby said. “Becky goes too far. She doesn’t know when to stop.”

Sam wiped his eyes with the backs of big hands covered in skin dry as sun-baked beach sand.

“Kim is always nice to me,” he said.

Ruby watched a rising black and purple cloud appear on the otherwise bright horizon in the morning sky over Clearwater Beach. Foggy darkness swirled like a waterspout, spinning until Ruby saw the face of her own protector appear in the smoky haze – Santa Muerte, the Mexican death saint who now loomed at the zenith of a pastel sky. Santa Muerte spoke to Ruby in a silky murmur so subtle and sharp her tone could cut your throat without pain, draining you of breath and being before you knew what sliced you.

“How might I help you, child?” Santa Muerte asked.

“Help me bring Kim home,” Ruby said.

“You’ll owe me if I do,” Santa Muerte said.

“I already owe you,” Ruby said. “For guiding me since we first met.”

A tender look passed over Santa Muerte’s normally somber features. Beneath the hood of her scarlet robe her eyes flared like burning coal fire embers on a frosty night. Santa Muerte remained calm. An abrupt haunting wind piped like an organ in a funeral dirge.

“I’ve been with you since before your first breath,” Santa Muerte said. “As I was to your mother and to her mother before her, I am your eternal godmother.”

 “I cherish the lessons you taught me,” Ruby said. “I’m learning control and discipline. I lost it when I killed that college boy. I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore.”

“You helped that boy disappear from a life of cruelty,” Santa Muerte said. “You witnessed him purposely kill a gentle dolphin. You saw him laugh about it. You merely helped Mother Nature even the score. We all die anyway, Ruby. One day. One way or the other.”

Now Sam spoke.

“Who are you whispering to?” he asked.

“My spiritual guide,” Ruby said.

“Is Becky Kim’s spiritual guide?”

“In a way,” Ruby said. “The wrong way.”

Afraid of what might come, Sam trembled.

“Will you talk with Becky?” he asked. “Will you ask her to leave Kim alone?”

“I will,” Ruby said.

“That’s good,” Sam said. “Because here she comes.”

Wearing an orange, green and yellow rhinestone bikini top and matching bottom that looked like fruit-flavored hard candy sparkling in a fragile glass dish, Becky strolled the beach like a model strutting the runway during Fashion Week in Milan. Flaming red framed sunglasses with blood orange-colored lenses glittered. A gold cross flashy and bright enough to make Jesus squint dangled from a thick braided chain around her neck. Gold hoop earrings big enough to tempt a seal to jump swung from tanned earlobes. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes –really – shimmered like a tropical oasis mirage in sweltering sun.

“She scares me,” said Sam as he fled flapping his arms until he disappeared down the beach.

“Scares me, too,” Ruby said.

“Well, well, well, look who’s here,” Becky said. “Want to get high?”

“I’m already high, Kim,” Ruby said. “High on life.”

“Listen to Miss High and Mighty riding around on her rainbow-colored unicorn like she’s better than the rest of us,” Becky said. “And stop calling me Kim. Kim’s dead. Becky rules.”

“Becky doesn’t exist, Kim,” Ruby said. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Becky stepped in with a roundhouse haymaker, swiveling her hips behind the power blow. Leaning back out of range, Ruby easily slipped the punch. Becky went face-forward into the sand. Extending her hand, Ruby said, “Let me help you up.”

Grasping both of Ruby’s wrists, Becky came up with an awkward front kick. Easily turning her torso, Ruby deftly reached across her chest with her right hand and firmly grasped the edge of Becky’s right hand. Turning that hand toward her, Ruby gently controlled Becky’s arm and body. Becky dropped to her knees.

“It’s nice to be nice,” Ruby said.

“Says Little Miss Priss,” Becky said.

“Sticks and stones and all that, Becky,” said Ruby as she turned to leave. Within seconds lightning flashed, striking the empty lifeguard stand beside Becky’s head, splintering wood and scattering embers on Becky’s hair as she screamed.

“I’m burning! I’m burning.”

“You sound like the wicked witch in the movie,” Ruby said. “You remember where meanness got her.”

“Kim is mine,” Becky said.

“And you are mine,” Ruby said, feeling the awesome power of Santa Muerte energize her more than ever.

“By the way, Wonder Woman,” said Becky. “Where’s that he-man who rescued me from that sinking ship of fools?”

“I suggest you leave Sam alone,” Ruby said.

“Not until I personally thank that handsome birdman hunk for saving my life,” Becky said.

Sam Bennett watched from behind a rock a distance up the beach. Again he flapped his arms. For a split second he sensed he might lift off. Progress, he thought, is like peeing in the ocean. Every little bit helps.

Sam Bennett felt ready to fly.

When Becky answered Kim’s cell phone on the first ring the Russian accent on the line surprised her. The only two Russians she knew no longer existed. The world breathed easier in their absence. Rest in pieces, comrades, she thought.

“We have problem,” said the man with a tone colder than a vodka bottle in the freezer.

“Spit it out, honey,” Becky said.

“Is this Kim Phillips the fake beneficiary of Borys Popov’s will?”

“You have the wrong number,” Becky said. “Nobody by that name lives here.”

“Tell Kim Phillips we’re on way to cancel check,” the man said. “Permanently.”

Becky knew all about the phony will Borys’ late brother Ivan concocted so Kim would receive a windfall and Ivan would get the rest of his Russian mobster oligarch brother’s billion-dollar estate after Ivan killed Borys. Becky knew because Becky was Kim and Kim was Becky and like the old song says about love and marriage, you can’t have one without the other.

First Ivan called the document an insurance policy. Then he called the document a will. At no time did he call the document counterfeit – which, of course, it was.

The sham will promised Kim a two-million-dollar payday. Ivan forged Borys’ name on the bestowal and signed his own name as a witness so he could testify if need be that everything was copacetic which, of course, it was not. In another fake statement, Ivan wrote an addendum to the will swearing Borys loved Kim as a secret admirer ever since he saw her picture in a real estate brochure, wanting her to be financially sound and set for life in the event of his untimely death. Borys considered Kim his soul mate according to the bequest. Ivan forged his and Borys’ name to that narrative too.

Gullible Kim Phillips believed evil Ivan when he informed her of Borys’ wishes. Now, with both Ivan and Borys out of the way, Kim believed she truly stood to benefit. All she had to do was sit back and get rich quick, which in troubled times is always easier said than done –especially when a brutal band of Russian bruisers find themselves flailing for a new leader and falling over each other to cash in on their dead boss’ dreadful deeds.

“Like I said, lady, we have problem,” said the Russian on the telephone. “Beeg money belong to us.”

“Go suck a fish pie, Rasputin,” Becky said as she hung up.

So the mob wanted their two million in cash of which Kim had not yet taken possession. And the gangsters wanted anything else they could get their grubby paws on. Mocking the Russian Mafia caller in her own stilted Russian accent, Becky started talking to herself – which could get complicated.

“Wait till Rooskies hear about new English word I type into will,” Becky said. “Two million sounds beeg. Two hundred million sounds beeger.”

That’s just what Becky did shortly after taking total control of Kim’s mind. She squeezed the word “hundred” into the forged handwritten official record making Kim’s payout two hundred million dollars instead of a measly two million dollars.

Kim remained in a stupor, breathing softly like an infant unafraid and secure knowing her protectors would keep the big bad world at bay. Silent, really gone, absent from the chaos, Kim hibernated maybe forever. Perhaps Becky would simply stay on the job as Kim’s best bodyguard. But now Becky was starting to doubt herself. She wasn’t the best and knew it. Sometimes even guardians need help. Peace of mind is elusive even for a psychotic split personality. So who was the best?

Big brother RayRay ruled.

After mixing a White Russian with soy milk, vodka, coffee liqueur and ice in an old-fashioned glass, Becky opened the balcony door to her new Paradise Apartments home and watched the rippling water on the bay. On the dock below she saw Ruby Arenas cooling down from a run or a swim or some other body, mind and spirit exercise, a mindset that offended Becky.

Who did Ruby think she was? Everybody’s friend? All-American woman? Amazon queen? Mexican witch? Cuban hoodoo princess? All of the above? None of the above? A vision. An image. A dream of what should be in a better world? Becky feared Ruby’s power and worried the gentle college student who wielded wizardry might not let Kim sleep forever as easily as Becky had put Kim down.

That girl spells trouble, Becky thought.

Ruby Arenas has to go.

On the wall behind Becky the television news reported the continuing law enforcement investigation into the death of the missing South Florida Russian mob boss officials figured disappeared (in pieces) in the explosion that destroyed his yacht off the coast of Clearwater Beach.

The Russians were coming.

Maybe the cops too.

Maybe something worse.

For the first time in Becky’s shelf life of the mind, she felt afraid. She’d tell, that’s what she’d do. She’d tell on the Russians. Feeling like a child ready to run to mommy, Becky felt close to panic. She’d tell. Yes, she would. She’d tell RayRay. He’d know what to do. And so she did. She called RayRay and told. Becky told on the Russians.

“They threatened Kim,” she said. “They want to hurt her.”

RayRay took a long slow breath.

“Stay calm,” he said. “I’ll be over in about an hour.”

Standing before the mirror as he shaved, RayRay looked deep into the eyes of a master, not a thug or hockey enforcer, a master who once fixed a piece of the world that still and always needed fixed. Splashing on the fragrant Old Spice cologne he loved but never used anymore, the scent of another time, RayRay strode to his bedroom to dress.

Opening the closet door he slid hangars down the rod until he reached the end where his favorite special suit hung in a plastic bag. Black with white pinstripes and cuffs at the bottoms of the pants legs, the points on the double-breasted lapels looked sharp as a new stiletto, dark as death on a citrus sour sunny day. Black hand-tooled Italian loafers still fit like buttery slippers. The red and purple silk tie felt soft to his touch, the knot wide, perfectly tied and tight against his throat. A crisp white hankie protruded like a three-pronged claw from his breast pocket. Designer shades he purchased in Florence during one of his last hits helped cut the glare of what was to come.

Within minutes RayRay had slipped into that comfortable place where his mind hummed and his pulse beat steadily, a familiar feeling of confidence and purpose as he planned personal retribution, the fatal act of doing what was right even if it was wrong, of rectifying evil in the hearts and minds of bad men – bad women, too, if they chose the other side and hurt people without legitimate reason.

RayRay justified doing great harm if he erased a greater harm, a theory he learned in church as an altar boy among bad men who hurt children. A sin is not a sin if it erases a greater sin. You could kill a priest if you had good reason. The Pope himself called that the just war theory. Thou shalt not kill, my arse. God killed countless people every day – men, women and the most innocent children. God killed them with the pain of horrible disease. He killed them in wars. Killed them with famine. Crucifixion amounted to a summer walk compared to the grisly means of execution God thought up. What kind of God does that? How could he live with himself?

RayRay would get those God missed, the ones who really deserved to die, the beasts of our burden who weighed on goodness and righteousness and decency. If God’s boy, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, whatever kind of ghost that was, couldn’t even get the job done, RayRay was up to the challenge.

Societal self-defense mattered.

America, an alleged nation of law, once depended on RayRay, then known as Kevin Leary, to do some of its dirtiest work. The job hitting Mafia hit men ended after he executed the top 12 La Cosa Nostra contract killers in 12 months. The mob died and backed off. With a new identity the U.S. government provided “RayRay Gigliardi” for assisting the clandestine and corrupt FBI war against the mob and keeping his mouth shut, America’s master exterminator and scourge of Mafia mobsters everywhere retired to Clearwater Beach, taking his vulnerable baby sister Kate with him.

Kate was nobody to push into a corner, either, having once dispatched Deirdre, a backstabbing bully from the old neighborhood. True to her Boston Irish environment, Kate knew how to get even. She didn’t even break a sweat terminating her former teenage best friend forever with the help of her first split personality, an alter ego as her big brother called the tough maniac personality that lived inside his baby sister’s head.

Once Kate hit the white sand on the beach, though, voila!

Kim Phillips felt right at home.

That same loving little sister now needed big brother’s help.

RayRay thought his dark life had ended. He thought he could live in harmony with the universe. He thought wrong. Rule number one: Nobody threatened his sister. Poor Kate Leary had enough problems. Nobody threatened Kate or Kim or whatever name you wanted to call her.

Slamming the apartment door behind him, Kevin Leary aka RayRay Gigliardi looked skyward and sneered at God as he spoke an oath to the heavens.

“Nobody,” he said. “And I mean nobody.”

Stretched out on a blue-and-white striped cushioned lounge chair on the top deck of Borys Popov’s Sunseeker 75 Yacht, Kim Phillips stared at the glistening Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil spread thick on her thighs. With the cold gaze of a fresh corpse, she stared through catatonic green eyes that recognized nothing and heard no one.

The billionaire oligarch and Russian Mafia boss recently bought the boat for a million cash from a coke dealer who needed cash before showing up for a 10-year federal prison sentence. After KGB training and years of spy missions and other nefarious operations Borys capably handled  yachts, T-90 Russian tanks and MIG fighter planes.

The thought that anybody would or could hold him prisoner on his own 75-foot yacht never crossed his mind. But there he was in the hands of Kim Phillips, a mental case real estate agent with whom he once thought he could share the wonders of the world.

Now she was a wonder of the world, a maniac saddled with three multiple personalities that controlled her and him – Shannon and Tara, mad Irish twins, and Becky who scared him more than anybody he ever met.

Agitated, Shannon spoke up.

“I’ll have another one of these mojitos like Che Guevara used to drink,” Shannon screamed over the powerful roar of Twin MAN V12 engines.

“Make mine a triple rum runner without the runner,” Tara shouted.

Gritting his teeth, Borys Popov stepped to the portable bar to mix the drinks. With his luxury yacht on automatic pilot, he moved freely about the deck. With this kind of endless crackhead chatter, these two lunatic devils would drive Borys out of his mind if he didn’t find some way to escape.

He already felt like he was slipping since he started seeing them as real people, individual human persons rather than manifestations of Kim’s psychosis, two personality disorders that had kidnapped her mind and his body, evil demon spirits that controlled his destiny.

Then there was Becky.

Dissociative identity number three held the loaded gun that always seemed pointed at his head or chest. Becky was the worst because she exhibited the most rational behavior. With Kim mentally comatose, if he died, Becky would kill him. So Borys had to figure out a way to kill her first. A counterattack would be best during the day, not after they tied him to the railing for the night. If he was going to make a move he better jump while he could, attacking with distraction of some kind to give him an opening to get the gun. Becky seemed sharp, though.

Borys pointed to the horizon,

“Look at sky,” he said. “Big seagull blocking out sun.”

“You really think I’m stupid enough to fall for that dumb stunt?” Becky asked.

With that the sun disappeared.

A black and gray cloud that resembled a coming storm blocked sunlight overhead as Borys craned his neck to look skyward. Not one gull but two dozen gulls flew in formation that would give the U.S. Navy Blue Angels flight demonstration squadron cause for alarm. Climbing higher into the wild blue yonder the birds banked in unison. Now they swooped lower. And lower. And lower. Again they climbed as if revving up speed for some spectacular maneuver. The birds drew closer and closer to the yacht.

Tara expressed deep disorientation.

“Why aren’t those geese honking?” she asked.

“They’re not geese,” Shannon said.

“Why so many gulls?” Borys asked as the first bird broke formation and headed right at them.

“They’re not gulls,” Shannon said.

Borys sensed danger from above.

“What then are big birds flying in sky?”

“Drones,” Shannon said. “Kamikazi killer drones.”

The first high-tech gull drone slammed headfirst into the bow exploding on impact as the dynamite-laden flying bomb tore through the front of the yacht. Following on its tail, a second explosive gull drone crashed through the smoke and flames blowing another hole the size of an open beach umbrella in the bow. A team of five gull drones circled the craft before diving at once before separating to fly parallel to the water. With lightning speed each drone tore through the air and shot through five separate portholes in the yacht’s stern, shattering glass as five explosions tore apart the head, the galley and three cabins, sending toilet paper, pots and pans and tropical print bedspreads soaring into the air.

“No gull poo this time,” Tara said.

“No shit,” Shannon said.

“That’s what I just said,” Tara said.

Over the past several months Sam Bennett carefully crafted dozens of perfect gull drones, hand carved birds he used in the original dirty dozen drone attack on Borys Popov’s ribbon-cutting ceremony when the drones dropped feces-loaded bombs that scored bullseyes on Florida Gov. Ronnie DeShifty and his First Lady Jenna. Then, using the dynamite cache he stole from Borys’ luxury beach condo construction site, Sam built gull feces-filled exploding golf balls to rain poop on Jenna’s parade of beautiful people in what Sam declared an act of societal self-defense. But the drones stood as his masterpiece – especially when he packed them with real explosives rather than crap and decided to terminate Borys Popov.

After talking about the benefits of peace and love with Ruby Arenas, Sam Bennett decided to sacrifice his sacred drones and cancel his plan to send them on endless search and destroy missions against developers and environmental polluters throughout Florida. Sam Bennett would relinquish his drones in one fell swoop.

The world would be better off without Borys Popov.

Sam watched his well-tuned attack from his position on the water in the little boat he salvaged from his last sortie against the evil Popov brothers, the wooden rowboat that sat moored and abandoned in the same weed-covered dune for two years until Sam duct taped Borys’ dearly departed brother Ivan to the mast and set him adrift naked and covered with fish guts pasted to his body. Always ravenous gulls ate well that day as one after another the birds attacked, scraping, pulling and pecking morsel after morsel from fat Ivan’s body, a meal that made Ivan feel part of the buffet. Thinking he was home free after a Coast Guard rescue, Ivan never thought he’d get his eyes pecked out by some of the same gulls that dined on fishy delicacies smeared and stuck to his thick, hairy torso.

Sam had rebuilt the washed-up hull and now rowed out whenever he could to harass and interfere with local fishing boats headed daily into the Gulf. In addition to the gulls, Sam had decided to help protect the dolphins, too. So sure enough, there sat Sam in the little boat, bobbing up and down in the water, watching his well-planned air assault unfold on the yacht. Mistaken that Borys would cruise alone, he knew he had to save Kim as soon as he spotted her standing on the boat that now burned in a brilliant patchwork of color as time ran out.

By the time Sam rowed to the wreck, it was over.

Kim calmly tread water in her life jacket. Throwing a waterproof bag containing her phone to Sam she climbed into the boat. The yacht had exploded the way you might see a yacht explode in a James Bond movie.

“Badaboomski!” said Sam.

Sitting quietly watching the yacht sink and bidding bittersweet goodbye to his drone friends, Sam said, “Peace is the answer. Really, it is.”

Kim Phillips nodded a robotic nod.

After she got home and showered she made herself a nice frozen margarita. Sitting cross-legged on the floor she listened to the recording she made on her cellphone before diving overboard as the boat blew billionaire oligarch and Russian Mafia boss Borys Popov into french fry-sized chunks real gulls snatched from the waves and swallowed.

The first voice on the recording panicked.

“I am not leaving my man, my billionaire, my love,” Shannon said in her thick Irish brogue.

Now Tara howled in her wild Celtic accent.

“Borys Popov loves me and I love him.”

Shannon bellowed.

“You shrew, Borys Popov and his money are mine.”

When the final explosion destroyed the yacht, the captain and his two maniacal mates, powerful Borys Popov and hellish Shannon and Tara, went down with the ship. When the smoke cleared, the last voice on the audio recording was that of a haunting voice – a wonder woman who survived.

“I am Becky,” the woman said. “Hear me roar.”

Of course Kim Phillips listened.