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There was an early bird senior happy hour at the Blue Dolphin, only a buck fifty a drink. Grundy and Philch sipped on well vodka. Grundy favored synthetic materials. His herringbone pants were a loose tan weave of meltable fibers, and his shirts, which he usually wore unbuttoned--exposing two cow patties of disappointed American know-how--were made of recycled carpet remnants. But he knew how to handle a metal detector. Both men did, really. Their rigs leaned up against the bar, headphones draped around the handles. "New guy was burning it up out there s'afternoon," Grundy remarked, staring out over the Gulf. The horizon sucked that day. "Who, Hendricks?" said Philch. "Guy's a burnout. I hear he lost it up in Myrtle. Something with seagulls." "Well," said Grundy, fucking a cheap olive with his pinky, "Seventy-five cents is seventy-five cents." When would Philch fuckin learn? The best hunters were consistently on top, year after year. "He's pulling enough cash out of the sand to buy a lottery ticket every other day," Grundy continued. "Every. Other. Day." "Bullshit!" Philch said, finishing the rest of his vodka. He slammed his glass down and shoved it across the light gray formica counter. It disappeared over the edge and shattered behind the register. "Goddamn it, Philch!" Paula shouted, waddling over. "You don't buy enough booze to break my fucking glasses." She grabbed the dustpan and hand broom and bent over to clean it up. Philch stood up to get a better view. He'd always had a thing for girls with fat cunts, and Paula looked like she had a mackerel between her legs. "Fart," Philch muttered, his tongue darting over a canker he was cultivating on his hard palate. "Fart, you magnificent cow." He ground his dormant testicles against the counter's tin edge. Grundy turned his head toward the picture window, partly out of discretion, partly because he liked to keep his eye on the Gulf. The dead zone was bigger than ever this year. The fish were fucking suffocating.

Date Written: September 09, 2007
Author: qualcomm
Average Vote: 4.5625

09/10/2007 Ewan Snow (4): Hey, look! A fresh short. And while not all that great, it had a few good moments. The mackerel made me chuckle. Extra half point for bothering to write it.
09/10/2007 TheBuyer (4): grundy.
09/10/2007 Mr. Pony (4.5): Destined to become a regular classic.
09/10/2007 Mr. Pony: By that, I mean that this is a very good example of this author's work.
09/12/2007 Ewan Snow: Hi Mr. Pony! How's Easter Island, or wherever you moved? Don't those big stone heads get annoying?
09/19/2007 scoop (5): That pentultimate graf is most enjoyable. As was the that 3rd graf. I've got a thing with these guys, these dreary, soul depleted metal detector guys -- natures stooper. I've actually had nightmares about them. I thank QC for peeking into their inner lives and demystifying them a bit. Loved it. The best of the shorts to drip and drop into existence in recent years.
09/19/2007 cuntry (5): Wow. I'm still not sure if their rigs are walkers or wheelchairs, but it doesn't really matter.
09/23/2007 Mr. Pony: Because of global warming, they are now stone foreheads. Thanks a lot, jerks.
10/6/2007 Mr. Joshua (4.5): Shy of perfection, but better than 4. It's like half-star increments were fucking invented for shorts just like this.
10/10/2007 Dylan Danko (5):
10/14/2007 Litcube (4.5): How did I miss this?