I do not own Jaws.
I do not want to.
The Sound of the Screaming
The fear.
Every single damn time.
The fear.
The gnawing, tickling, jittering fear.
And the sound.
The sound of the splashing ocean water.
And the salt of it in his mouth, biting his tongue, gritting in his teeth.
And the sound of the men.
The sound of the screaming.
That was why he did it, ya know.
That was why he caught and killed and cut up and flayed and boiled the bones every single last one he could find.
To stop the screaming,
To stop the crying.
To stop the sounds of the dying men being eaten alive as they screamed for their mothers and God.
And the fear that he would be next.
Always, every second, the fear.
Oh, he never told any of them, no.
Not any of the ones who bothered to venture into his little gloomy floating dock hole for one reason or another.
The ones who asked for his help.
The ones who wanted it but were too proud or scared to ask for it.
He never told any of them any of it.
And he never would.
Not a single one.
Not if his life depended on it, would he.
Not ever.
And he would be goddamned if he would ever tell it to . . .
"- well and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies . . ."
. . . any of the sharks either.
Irritable mood made better by a viewing of Jaws.
Roy Scheider, sure. Richard Dreyfuss, classic.
But Robert Shaw. I mean, come on.
Dude.
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