Roger Burns always loved the ocean and as he drifted peacefully off the coast of Ocracoke. North Carolina it always brought a sense of peace and wonder to know he was sailing the very same waters that Blackbeard himself had once called his home.
Although it was far from sailing some huge old wooden ship it was more like piloting his and his wife's Hillary's old cabin cruiser.
As the salt air and total bliss that was being out on the ocean was momentarily interrupted by the yapping little bastard chihuahua that sat opposite of him, baring its teeth.
“Shut the fuck up, you little cocksucker!” Roger shouted over the hum of the engine and the music of the ocean.
“You're lucky you're not even worth chopping up for a chum bucket, little ankle biting sack of shit!” Roger shouted laughing widely as he pretended as he was gonna hit the small little agitated dog with his hat.
It only further enraged the dog and slightly amused his owner.
Roger cracked another beer as he set out into that endless horizon that was the ocean. Not a single worry to trouble his thoughts, just him and his continually yapping companion.
Hours seemingly passed with ease as at last Roger killed the engine and let her drift, cracking yet another beer.
“Fuck, this is heaven. Screw all that streets of gold and flying winged fruitcakes playing harps bullshit! This is it! No wonder men left their wives and their bedwetting little bastards behind for years at a time. It wasn't to chase treasure or their so-called fucking destiny. It was to escape all the nagging and the goddamned mouth breathers right, Tobey?”
The little dog, who had, at last, laid down, worn out from trying to appear ferocious, remained curled up in his co-pilot's seat and slightly shook as he emitted a low growl to let his owner know, in case he had forgotten, they weren't going to be friends anytime soon.
Roger just shook his head as he opened a bag of chips, tossing Tobey one for the hell of it. The small dog inhaled it like a vacuum.
“There ya go princess, you may be a sad excuse for a dog but at least you still act like one.”
Roger said tossing the remaining chips in the bag to the still agitated but at least a little less pissed off dog.
As Roger turned on the radio and took another sip of his beer. He drifted like a cork on the ocean as Until I Die played on the oldies station out of Kitty Hawk called oddly enough The Shark.
It was some freak warm weather for December. Damn near seventy degrees. That and being out here alone was about the only good thing about this day Roger thought to himself. His marriage was on the rocks along with his business.
Hillary had always been a bitch. She was a looker in her time but now her face resembled her personality. Shitty with a side of fucking turn off the lights before you change your mind.
His father tried to warn him, but he was young and stupid. Now he was middle aged and soon to be possibly bankrupt.
Roger thought about his father and how the garage was his everything, along with his family. His father was everything he wasn't and, although gone, his senile old bat of a mother never shut up about him.
But that was a different time.
Roger thought to himself about a far better time when people honestly loved each other because there wasn't any other choices and people also weren't tethered to a fucking cellphone twenty four seven.
The world had gone to shit long before social media but the pansy ass yuppies and absolute shit-for-brains millennials hadn't helped either. Where the so-called influencers could ruin your very existence with one bad review. Because you didn't feel like explaining to them yeah, they treat their car like shit because they learned to drive from playing Grand Theft Auto.
You were a mechanic, not a goddamn miracle worker.
He heard his wife's phone vibrate as he pulled it from his pocket to quickly see it was his next door neighbor, Dan.
“Hey baby, I'm at the Falcon, where are you?”
The message was quickly followed with a dick pic. Because apparently when concerned about one's mistresses location a pic of a small slightly crooked cock would lift their spirits.
Roger just got up and sat outside the cabin watching the ever too quickly approaching sunset. He didn't trouble himself over his wife's affair, anything they held for one another that resembled that bastard of a word love had long since died with Roger's hopes of happiness.
And as for Danny Boy sitting with his little dick in his hand presumably rubbing one out in a dingy room in Hatteras well who gave a shit. The guy was as mundane as his name and his equally pathetic life.
He was just providing the proverbial icing on the cake. Well, okay, Roger thought to himself, that probably wasn't icing.
“Goddammit Tobey, here's to better times.” Roger said, saluting the sunset over the horizon as poured some beer for the little ankle biter who lapped it up and began sneezing. “Damn asshole, what kind of dog can't drink beer? I sent that dumb bitch to pick up a Golden Retriever pup from the pet store. She brings me a river rat on acid instead.”
Roger busted laughing as he looked through the cooler for another beer, only to be met by the hard realization he was out of his beer and all that was left was Hillary's yuppie IPA microbrew bullshit. All that crap was overpriced and overrated and Roger honestly wasn't in the mood to sample some crap with an equally stupid name so he would have to pass on the IPA Wintergreen Pussy Ale and just go fetch a bottle of the hard stuff.
Tobey watched Roger and nipped at his heels as he went by, and Roger quickly returned with a half gone bottle of Johnny Walker Black.
He kicked back the bottle, trying to kill it with one swig. When he finished he tossed the bottle into the ocean as Tobey, now back to his bubbly personality, stared, baring his teeth.
“I know something that will change your tone there, you mean little bastard.” Roger said as he quickly produced a ball Hillary always threw for this little turd of a dog. It squeaked slightly, startling Roger, and making the little dog's ears instantly perk up.
“Goddamn, can't you even have one thing that's not vomit-provoking, princess? Fuck it, go fetch, you mean little fuck!” Roger snapped as he threw the ball. No sooner had he done so Tobey leaped into the water after it.
Roger didn't bother keeping an eye on the little dog. He just simply returned to the helm, fired up the engine, and took off.
Little Tobey paddled and whimpered as the boat left him to be nothing more than an hors d'oeuvre for some lucky shark. Roger didn't feel bad for the dog. In fact, Roger was beyond the point of feeling anything anymore as he let the boat simply guide itself into the ever approaching night.
He later made his way below deck and almost let a tear escape his eyes as he unloaded his Magnum into the haul of his beloved boat.
“You deserved better, sweetheart,” he said to himself. Roger didn't bother to view the aftermath of the water slowly seeping in as his ears were ringing from the blasts of his pistol.
As he made his way to bed, he laid down beside a bound and gagged Hillary. Her muffled cries were all but wasted on Roger.
As she cried Roger finally responded. “Oh hi, honey. I'm sorry, did I disturb you? You have to excuse me. I am a little deaf from firing holes in this vessel in an attempt to sink her.”
Hillary realized her husband had totally lost his mind and was struggling to breathe as she sobbed helplessly to Roger's wrath.
Roger opened the cylinder removing all but one bullet.
“Sugar, I almost forgot. Dan is waiting at the Falcon for you. I mean, you probably won't make it, hmm, so sad, my darling, I know, but you can always look at the bright side of things.”
Roger paused as he pointed the gun at Hillary as his eyes looked around the small cabin.
“Okay, there is none. Bye, you fucking heartless bitch!” Roger yelled as he quickly turned the gun on himself, pulling the trigger and nearly taking a good part of his head off with a deafening explosion.
Hillary screamed although muffled and fought to free herself from her restraints as the smell of gunsmoke and the scene itself made her want to vomit. She fought the urge to do so.
As she laid there, the boat creaked as her belly let in saltwater. Hillary cried as she waited to be engulfed by the ocean while Roger had taken the seemingly more humane way out.
The boat slowly sank. The cold dark waters engulfed Hillary as her heart beat so fast she prayed for a heart attack. It seemed a far less harsh end than drowning, bound and gagged, in this fucking boat she always hated along with Roger, who she felt equally the same about.
The Coast Guard, days later, would search for them, looking for that proverbial needle in the haystack over the ever-so-dark waters of the coast of Carolina.
Roger Burns always loved the sea as Hillary loved nothing but herself. They now shared space for eternity, as cold and distant in death as they were once in this life.
The End.
JPR, is a southern gothic writer his work has been published by. Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Medusa' Kitchen, The Dope Fiend Daily, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine and Disturb The Universe.
