The Dying Art of Sewer Scuba
By Joshua Dobson
It takes a special kind of maniac to strap on scuba gear and hunt albino sewer alligators with a four foot steel spear tipped with a bang stick powerhead. It’s dangerous, disgusting work, but the rush is incomparable.
As he slowly swam through the bloody red sewage beneath the meat packing district, tingles of excitement bloomed in his belly and it occurred to him that he had probably spent more time underwater than he had on land. He’d been swimming the sewers for eleven years and before that he’d spent fifteen years as a whale whacker for a major cosmetics company, smacking whales on the belly with a sledge hammer so they puked up the ambergris needed to make fancy perfume.
Visibility was atrocious. He could barely see his hand a foot in front of his face. His good hand, the one which still had most of its fingers attached, tightly clutched his bang stick. The powerhead was chambered for a 12 gauge deer slug, which had to be waterproofed with a coat of varnish and a condom stuck over the crimped end.
There it was again, something nipping at his fins. It wasn’t a gator, they don’t nip, and the holes in the grate that sealed off the tunnel behind him were too small to allow a gator through, unless it was a baby.
He drew his gator-skinning knife as he wheeled around to face the fin nipper. Instead of the sewer rat he was expecting, he found himself face to face with a baby doll. Actually it looked more like a fetus than a baby. It was incredibly realistic, even down to the six nipples plastered across its cyanotic chest.
Who would make such a morbid doll only to flush it down the toilet? Then again, one sees the damnedest things down here. Once, not far from here, he’d found the rotting carcass of a donkey.
As he marveled at the resemblance a larval human bears to an aquatic creature, the eyes of the morbid doll which had inspired this musing slowly rolled open.
Without thinking, he touched his bang stick to the fetus’ head, which exploded, staining the sludge around him even redder.
Then the others bobbed into view, at least a dozen rotting fetuses, some with rusted bits of coat hanger sticking out of their heads and eye sockets.
Even dazed with shock as he was, instinct kicked in and he began to flee, but the undead sewer fetuses were much better adapted to moving through the sludge than he. They set upon him, tiny rotten teeth ripping chunks of wetsuit and flesh from his body.
Thus the art of sewer scuba, like it’s last practitioner, was devoured by undead sewer fetuses.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
By Joshua Dobson
It takes a special kind of maniac to strap on scuba gear and hunt albino sewer alligators with a four foot steel spear tipped with a bang stick powerhead. It’s dangerous, disgusting work, but the rush is incomparable.
As he slowly swam through the bloody red sewage beneath the meat packing district, tingles of excitement bloomed in his belly and it occurred to him that he had probably spent more time underwater than he had on land. He’d been swimming the sewers for eleven years and before that he’d spent fifteen years as a whale whacker for a major cosmetics company, smacking whales on the belly with a sledge hammer so they puked up the ambergris needed to make fancy perfume.
Visibility was atrocious. He could barely see his hand a foot in front of his face. His good hand, the one which still had most of its fingers attached, tightly clutched his bang stick. The powerhead was chambered for a 12 gauge deer slug, which had to be waterproofed with a coat of varnish and a condom stuck over the crimped end.
There it was again, something nipping at his fins. It wasn’t a gator, they don’t nip, and the holes in the grate that sealed off the tunnel behind him were too small to allow a gator through, unless it was a baby.
He drew his gator-skinning knife as he wheeled around to face the fin nipper. Instead of the sewer rat he was expecting, he found himself face to face with a baby doll. Actually it looked more like a fetus than a baby. It was incredibly realistic, even down to the six nipples plastered across its cyanotic chest.
Who would make such a morbid doll only to flush it down the toilet? Then again, one sees the damnedest things down here. Once, not far from here, he’d found the rotting carcass of a donkey.
As he marveled at the resemblance a larval human bears to an aquatic creature, the eyes of the morbid doll which had inspired this musing slowly rolled open.
Without thinking, he touched his bang stick to the fetus’ head, which exploded, staining the sludge around him even redder.
Then the others bobbed into view, at least a dozen rotting fetuses, some with rusted bits of coat hanger sticking out of their heads and eye sockets.
Even dazed with shock as he was, instinct kicked in and he began to flee, but the undead sewer fetuses were much better adapted to moving through the sludge than he. They set upon him, tiny rotten teeth ripping chunks of wetsuit and flesh from his body.
Thus the art of sewer scuba, like it’s last practitioner, was devoured by undead sewer fetuses.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
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