Some short, some tall, including a Mexican little people tag team wearing rubber masks that covered their heads and a trans woman who billed herself as the “Amazon Zombie,” a dozen hungover professional wrestlers, some clothed in mismatched torn tights, multicolored capes, scuffed black combat boots, fedoras with feathers and worse, jumped from four Dodge muscle cars that pulled slowly into the Clearwater Beach parking lot beside the rubble of Borys Popov’s imploded beachfront condominium tower.

Mrs. X, Mr. Big’s absconder wife, smiled a mouth full of capped teeth pearly as a white power rally in a Buffalo, New York, snow squall as she perched in a silk semi-see-through muumuu on the back seat of a jet black custom built Charger convertible. Slinky Florida First Lady Jenna DeShifty modeled herself in a leopard print thong bikini perched in a blood red Challenger ragtop, her Medusa-like locks blowing above two inflated body parts she advertised on full display. The well-known duo posed like pretty poisonous vipers about to sink sharpened fangs into soft human flesh.

“I’m so happy Hulk Hogan wasn’t home,” Mrs. X said.

“Even happier we found his hangout bar downtown to flirt and hook up with these hunky chunky rasslers,” Jenna DeShifty said.

“Our new security team,” said Mrs. X. “I buy them with fat checks. Mr. Big won’t get us back without a riot bigger than January 6. I called loser president on phone last night to tell him I buy new house here and high-powered divorce lawyer, too.”

Jenna’s squealy high-pitched laugh sounded like a chipmunk mating ritual.

“I called the governor, too,” Jenna said, “and ordered him to keep his goon cops away from Sam Bennett until he pardons him of all crimes. If it weren’t for our husbands we wouldn’t be getting shit on all the time.”

“Especially you,” Mrs. X said. “With real shit.”

“It took three days to get the gull poop out of my hair,” Jenna said. “Exploding golf ball shit was the worst.”

“Newspapers say Florida country clubs are taking big hit,” Mrs. X said. “White male executives and rich retirees afraid of getting shit on. Stock market says terrorist shit-storm bad for corporate business brand.”

A customized muscle van equipped with hellfire flames painted on the sides and chrome pipes belching red and purple smoke loaded with more wrestlers screamed into the lot, dislodging enough muscle heads to body slam the entire governor’s staff as well as any overweight State Police security detail.

When the van doors opened Sam Bennett appeared raising his hands over his head like the Hulkster after winning another championship bout. When the eccentric nature lover stepped onto the macadam scores of gulls flying around his head went crazy when he flapped his arms in his trademark takeoff imitation.

“Free Sam Bennett!” Mrs. X yelled in the throaty Slovenian accent that swam in her mouth thick as veal and buckwheat gravy at a dirty dictator’s formal dinner party.

“Free Sam Bennett!” Jenna DeShifty yelled in tones tempting as key lime pie.

Neanderthal has-been, would-be and wannabe pro wrestlers, some still on parole for a variety of violent felonies, picked up on the cheer while Borys Popov stood in the shade of a palm tree looking at the autopsy report on his late brother Ivan. Cause of death? Blood loss. Manner of death? Birds pecked out his eyes – likely frenzied seagulls judging from feather fragments impacted deep in the eye sockets of the deceased.

Birds?

Birds.

Just like the 1963 Alfred Hitchcock thriller that struck more fear into the hearts of bird watchers than the day Borys walked into the KGB locker room showers and saw Soviet Union Premier Nikita Khrushchev’s shriveled private part dangling like a dead goose neck at a Red Square market.

Ivan Popov was for the birds all right.

As ominous gulls now swarmed above Borys’ head, Mrs. X got snide. Looking Jenna DeShifty in the eye she asked, “I watched your husband’s campaign ad on TV. Do you really believe God sent dorky governor to save world?”

Jenna got teary-eyed.

“I am so embarrassed,” she said of the political re-election ad that ran throughout Florida.

The ad said, “God looked down on His planned paradise and said, ‘I need a protector.’ So God made a fighter.”

Jenna wept.

“My husband believes he’s Jesus’ brother,” she said.

“Not fighter, though,” Mrs. X said. “Despite super riches, both husbands lack a pair of family jewels.”

Pointing to Sam Bennett, she said, “That guy is fighter.”

Jenna nodded.

”Sam Bennett will save us and Florida’s environment before Mr. Big and governor put together,” she said.

“Are we crazy?” Mrs. X asked.

“Crazy as loons,” Jenna said. “Look who we married.”

Both women began chanting.

“Free Sam Bennett,” they bawled. “Free Sam Bennett.”

Two wrestlers with biceps as big as their heads hoisted Sam Bennett onto their shoulders. Wearing his gull mask, he raised a bony clenched fist like he had just won a WrestleMania match or the karaoke contest at Hulk Hogan’s beach bar. Adoring gulls circled his head like a halo. Sunshine beamed down on his bald pate. Two beautiful VIPs egged him on. Life was looking up for Clearwater Beach’s unlikeliest hero.

If only the optimistic crowd gathered on the pristine sand knew what Borys Popov planned for the future.

Nuke kooks make the world go boom.