So, you've come back for more, have you? And if you haven't, then delve into the exquisite archives of the new and improved on-line Corpse, and dig up cyber issue #3 where the odyssey begins. The odyssey of CHUM! The most horrid and despicable serial novel to ever disgrace the internet!
       In the last installment of CHUM, we met a pathetic island ravaged by an annual storm, where we saw the wreckage of a mysterious stranger's beautiful vessel, through the pitiful eyes of Nadine, the abused daughter of a rough-and-tumble sailor.
       Nadine: who is oppressed by Mother Kralik, Queen Hag of this incestful island! Nadine: who, along with the other plunderers, is pillaging now the ship of a slut! Nadine: whose life is about to radically change for the worst!
       So come, Tasteless Reader, shrug off your integrity, and enter the vulgar world of CHUM:

CHUM III

       Nadine looks up and sees some kid with an oversized Eric Clapton t-shirt standing on the rocks. Father O'Flugence is below him, with a purse on his shoulder.
       "There's another one over here!" the kid yells again.
       Immediately, the crowd drops what they're doing and makes for the rocks. Men crawl from the damaged bow, gripping bottles of wine and champagne. They take off after the women.
       Nadine follows, running like a girl. When she gets to the rocks she starts to climb. One Eye is there to offer her a hand (on her ass), but Nadine leaps away before he can touch her.
       When she gets to the top, her mother is there, a couple levels lower. In fact, everyone is there, except the men scrambling up behind her. It is quiet. They are looking at a ship. It's a fishing boat with winches and hooks, dashed on the rocks, dead black cod all over the place. Then Nadine sees the name of the boat: The Jezebel.
       A horrified scream rises from the rocks. It's her mother. The Jezebel is her father's boat. And then she sees him, caught in a web of nets, bloated, half-naked, and bound up like a ham. A gull is standing on his head and he is missing an eyeball.
       Nadine doesn't feel a thing. She knows, however, that all eyes are turning her way, so she looks at her mother who is clawing at her face. Grief is the socially correct response--but a bit too dramatic for what she feels--or doesn't feel. Nadine decides to wear a look of astonishment instead. She drops her jaw and stares at the man who used to force her into the pillow, backhand her so hard he'd split her lip, and call her a "No-Good Stinking Twat!" Nadine exhales a sigh of relief, disguised as disbelief.
       Below her, her mother is still screaming away, tearing at her eyes in agony. This is what they had both been hoping for, but couldn't admit. A widow who doesn't wail is an insult to the island, and the way they've been doing things ever since they can remember. It would be an insult to the town for her not to cry. So Nadine pretends to tremble at least, even though she's starting to realize she'll never have to smell his b.o. again. Or swallow his milky cum.
       But more than that, she is glad for her mom, screaming away beneath her. The way her father shook her the night before he left--that will never happen again. And those things her father said to her--they'd never be said again.
       "You fucking Bitch! You fucking Slut!" Nadine remembers her father yelling. "You've got the Devil in your cunt! In your Old Cow Cunt! Out with the Devil!"
       Her mother had begged like a wretch, repeating "Please, Please, Please" over and over again.
       "Fuck Please!" her father had exploded, "Please Fuck's more like it! You want it dontchya!? You want it in your Fat Fucking Cow Cunt, dontchya!? And so does your idiot daughter, the whore! You're both whores! Godless! Fucking! Sinning! Devil-whores! With Skanky! Stanky! Pussies! Just dripping to get fucked! And suck cock! You Cocksucking Whores!"
       Her father had tossed his bottle across the room and it had shattered on the paneling. Usually he just passed out when he got this drunk, but this time he was in rage, his face turning blue like a bruise.
       "Now look what you've done you Fat! Fucking! Cocksucking! Whores! Get down on your knees and pray! Both of you, Now! You filthy bitches! Pray for salvation! Repent! You Fucking Whores!"
       Nadine didn't say a thing, but got down on her knees next to her mother. She wished her dad would just molest her, and then they could all go to bed.
       "Jesus... Oh Lord," her mother's voice shook, "Please, please forgive us... for... for..."
       "For what, Douchebag!?"
       "For, for..."
       Nadine remembers waiting for the blow. One of them was going to get it.
       "For What!?" her father demanded again.
       "For Being What We Are!" her mother finally burst out.
       Nadine heard the sound of flesh on flesh, and cried out because it wasn't her. She should've been the one getting hit, not her mother. She deserved it, not her mother. She was the whore, the bitch, the cunt, the reason for his anger...
       Then something moves down in the boat. A plank falls over and Yann comes stumbling out covered with cuts and abrasions, a string of vomit streaming from his chin. There's a torn life jacket hanging on his shoulder.
       "Praise God," Father O'Flugence exclaims, "It's Yann!"
       "Fucking A right it is!" One Eye adds, standing next to him.
       Nadine watches as Yann falls to his knees and barfs. Then barfs again and wipes his chin. She can tell he is oblivious to the fact that half the town is watching him, and she feels a sense of power in observing him when his head is spinning.
       Yann is twenty-six with shoulders and biceps that won't last long. He's a little pudgy around the waist, but compared to the men she's known all her life, he's the closest thing to Brad Pitt. Not that Nadine has ever seen a movie or a movie-star, but she has seen People Magazine.
       Nadine watches as Yann goes through the dry heaves. She sees him turn around and look at the boat, and she sees the shock on his face when he discovers her father wrapped in the nets. She sees his jaw drop like she had pretended to do. Yann's expression, however, is genuine. He immediately presses his fists into his eyes, trying to smash the vision away.
       Nadine starts to smile, but catches herself. No doubt, people are still watching her to see if she's a slutty little bitch or not. She goes back to her astonished expression, watching Yann, but pretending her eyes are locked on her father. Yann takes his hands away, and looks at Nadine's father again. The gull is still pecking at his head. He picks up a shell and hurls it at the gull. The gull flies away, and Yann contracts into a ball. He grabs his knees and blubbers away, while Nadine, on the rocks, feels her nipples tingle. The best thing about him, she thinks, is he doesn't have a beard.
       Yann tries to make sense of what just happened. He knows he's not too bright, but he figures he can figure it out. The thing is, his head can't recall whatever it was in the order it happened, and it keeps insisting on the bar-room. Yann decides to relax, and let his head unscramble itself.
       He was at the Dirty Dawgfish... and everyone was smoking... except him. They were calling him a pussy for not smoking, but at least they couldn't call him nothing for not drinking. Everyone was drinking... especially the fishermen at the next table... burly fishermen... chugging whiskey as hard as they could... it was a drinking contest... there were at least fifty shot glasses lined up on the table... and only five men. One guy threw a shot down his throat and blacked-out. His chair fell over backwards and his head hit the floor with a thunk.
       Yann remembers the men standing over the guy and laughing at him. He remembers them whipping out their dicks and pissing on him. Everyone was laughing their asses off, but then... a fight broke out. Who knows why? It just did, the way it always does when the air pressure's like it is... because a front is coming in. He could feel it in his ears.
       Someone broke a bottle and the sound rang across the bar, followed by silence. Yann had to look. It was going to happen and he could either look or not look. If he didn't look then he'd be a guy who didn't know how bloody it could be, and would therefore be a guy who could only imagine how bloody it could be--so he figured he might as well know the sight exactly rather than being a wuss about it.
       This was different than not smoking or not shaving, or even playing the accordion. Yann knew he didn't have to be like them, with big fat guts and little mushroom dicks, fucking their kids and beating their wives. Yann had been to the movies. In Canada. He had seen other lives. Not everyone lived like people here, putting bullets through their heads. Like his father had done to his mother, and then himself. He'd go away before that happened to him. He'd go away before he knocked someone up... then ended up like the men around him. He'd knock someone up somewhere else, then start his family there. His wife would be pretty and nice, and his kids would be innocent and protected. They would never see what he was about to see.
       "Kill The Fucker! Kill The Fucker!" a fisherman yelled. It was One Eye's voice. "Stab the Sonuvabitch!"
       Yann looked, knowing that what he was about to see would add to his impulse to get out. The bottle went up: sharp jagged glass. The bottle came down. Right in the neck. The guy tried to scream but his vocal chords were cut. All that came out were gurgles of blood.
       What this has to do with the wreck, though, Yann doesn't know. But he knows his head is clearing, and that he had landed on the island, and for this he owes something to God. He is alive and Bubba is dead. He doesn't even need to check on that. Bubba had died at sea, practically in his arms.
       Yann looks over at Bubba again, and the vision makes him wretch. He opens his mouth to puke again, but nothing comes out except acids and salt. Closing his eyes, he sees the overcast. It's the washed-out sky from the day before.
       They'd hit a good spot six miles out, and had been laying long-lines for cod. Or, rather, Yann was laying the lines while Bubba, up front, was getting drunk. And vicious. Yann figured Bubba hadn't gotten any action off his daughter. Too drunk to get it up most likely.
       It was just the two of them. The rest of the crew had refused to go out, even One Eye. Yann, however, was saving up. He needed all the money he could get. Crabbing down in Northern California was his goal, and he intended on making it happen. He'd get his own boat and live in the Redwoods. He'd crab and fish and walk through the trees. He'd play his accordion and forget what he'd seen.
       Yann dreamed on. He made plans for another couple hours like he always did when he fished with Bubba. And then they hauled up.
       It was an incredible catch, with a big ugly cod every six feet, and sometimes a halibut. They were going crazy down there. But the pressure was getting lower and the foam was getting greener--and it wasn't a familiar green. Yann started getting ready to haul ass out of there.
       "What the fuck you think you doing dumbshit!?" Bubba demanded.
       "Getting outta here," Yann answered, readying the crucifixer, the machine which lays the long-lines out then hauls them back in ripping the fish from the hooks. It was obvious: the darkness, the wind, the speed of the waves... a storm was coming. The Storm was coming.
       "Bait Up!" Bubba ordered. "We'll leave if we see it, but right now we've hit pay-dirt. We're gonna fill this motherfucker up and bring her back with more fish than a whorehouse down in Ketchican! After this, you're gonna have pussy coming outta your asshole!"
       Yann did what he was told. Bubba was the boss. He laid the long-lines out again. And then he saw it, blacker than fuck and coming their way, from one end of the horizon to the other. But still, Bubba wouldn't give the order to haul up. In fact, he wouldn't even look at it. All he'd do was look at his almost empty fifth of whiskey.
       Yann knew they were in for it. He fired up the winch and started hauling up. The crucifixer whined, screeched, and came to a halt. Yann immediately cut the gas, as Bubba came stumbling around the cabin, his face flushed with blood.
       "You Fucking Dumbshit!" Bubba roared, "Did I tell you to haul up!?"
       "That doesn't matter now," Yann told him, "it's stuck."
       Bubba looked at the crucifixer's arc, and the tautness of the line. They knew it was snagged, and they could feel the pressure coming closer.
       "You Fucking Dumbshit!" Bubba yelled, "If we get caught in those fucking thunderheads I'll fucking kill you! Fire them engines up!"
       Now they'd have to back up and haul in the lines until they got to whatever they were snagged on, passed over it, and hopefully came free. It was either that, or lose all that cable and tackle. Hundreds of dollars down the shitter.
       Yann hit the ignition. Nothing. The battery was dead.
       "You Fucking Idiot!" Bubba screamed. His face had gone from crimson to purple. He pulled out his gun and leveled it between Yann's eyes, but Yann just stared back. If Bubba put a bullet through his head, then there'd be one less fisherman on their crummy little island. No big deal. Yann stared back.
       Bubba's eyes were glassy and unsteady. He was sweating like a pig, his lips were quivering. The rain began to patter on the deck. Bubba cocked the hammer, muttered something, then swung the barrel away from Yann, pulled the trigger, and the gun went off blasting through the long-line.
       Then Bubba shot the other one just for dramatic effect. They could've brought that one in. Bubba turned around, and Yann was gone.
       "Where the fuck are you!" Bubba bellowed, and went stumbling toward the stern. Yann had pulled up the trap-door covering the engine and had climbed down in the hold. He was prying at the top of the battery with a screw-driver. It was a big marine battery, stolen from a Russian wreck. He got the top off.
       "These cells are dry," Yann said, looking up at him. Bubba put his gun away.
       "Get out of the way!" Bubba ordered.
       Yann climbed out and Bubba went down and unzipped his pants. He started taking a leak into the battery, slopping piss all over the place.
       "Ain't there another battery on board?" Yann asked.
       "You think I got money coming outta my asshole?" Bubba barked. "Get up there and fire up the engine, dumbshit!"
       And that's when the sheet-rain hit. Bubba was still pissing when Yann hit the switch. There was too much water on the battery, in contact with both terminals. A bright yellow arc leapt up, followed Bubba's piss, and went right into his dick.
       "FUCK!!" Bubba yelled, and lurched back, smacking his head on the door. He was instantly knocked out, so fell forward. His fat chest flopped on top of the battery and his mass jerked gelatinously. His heart stopped and the smell of burnt flesh rose from the hold.
       Yann spun, saw this, and leapt from the controls. He pulled Bubba off the block and saw where the terminals had burned him a new pair of nipples. Bubba was dead.
       The rain fell harder. In the thirty seconds Yann held Bubba, they both became totally soaked--while the battery, still exposed, began shorting out. Yann could feel the amps running through them both. Wherever there was water, there was current. A popcorn sound started going off in the fusebox. Yann kicked the positive cable and ripped the clamp off. This didn't do much, but it really didn't matter. The Jezebel was a sitting duck.
       Yann pulled Bubba out of the hold and closed the cover. He stepped back, then looked out to sea. It was enormous, rushing toward him, rising above him, almost upon him. A dead gull thunked against the hull. Then another. Yann could see hundreds of them, all around him. They were passing him, and the waves were getting choppier, reflecting the flashes blasting above. "God save me," Yann said, making the sign of the cross on his chest. He strapped a life-jacket on, picked up Bubba's bottle of whiskey, took a good slug, then dropped to his knees and prayed to God, asking to get washed up on the island.
       When the big waves hit, the starboard side was to the wind. Yann had just finished securing Bubba in some nets when a ten-foot wave knocked the boat off balance, and a twenty-foot one lifted the keel right out of the ocean. Yann yelled, and the next wave broadsided the ship, flipping it over. He was thrown into the hold with the cod, all of them slamming and slapping against each other. He could feel the wave on top of the boat, forcing it down. Everything was black and crashing around him.
       Yann opened his mouth to gulp some air, but sucked saltwater in instead. The next thing he knew, he didn't know nothing. The frigid blackness of the storm, the oily blackness of the hold, and the blackness in his head became one.
       But now that blackness is gone, and Yann is thanking God. Not that he believes in God, but because he's been trained to thank God, as if the Lord is some guy who saved his lily ass.
       Looking up to the heavens, however, he sees something he never expected. It's Nadine, standing on the rocks above him, staring strangely down at him.
       Last time Yann had seen Nadine, it was in some nudie pictures Bubba had shown him. Yann had looked at those photographs for the same reason he had looked at the guy getting stabbed in the neck--which he also had trouble looking away from. The wreck of the ship and the death of Bubba instantly disappear. Now, all he can see is Nadine, with a weird, queer look in her eyes. Why is she looking at him like that?
       Yann stares back at Nadine, up there with her tits and her ass that Bubba had shown him, and he feels sorry for her. She is no pathetic whore, she is just a kid. With something between her legs. Something he has seen.
       Then Yann sees the rest of them, also staring down at him. Father O'Flugence is up there too. Even One Eye.
       "Fucking A!" the voice of a child suddenly rings out. "There's another stiff over here!"
       All heads turn toward the kid with the Clapton shirt. He's a little further down the rocks, standing above a cave, pointing into it.
       Yann immediately jumps up and tears his lifejacket off. He doesn't even know he's climbing the rocks until he finds himself scrambling past the starfish and anemones. It isn't that he really cares who it is that got washed up, but he doesn't like being the center of attention, especially when he has just been in the fetal position, crying like a little baby.
       Yann tops the rock, and looks where the kid is pointing. What he sees stops him dead in his tracks. In the mouth of the cave, washed up on the sand, are a set of breasts so amazing, so exquisite, so magnificent, that Yann can hardly fathom it. Nothing like this has ever been seen on the island before.

       CHUM IV

       
       Even before Yann hears her heart beat, he knows she is alive. He is also conscious that she is bra-less beneath her see-through shirt, and it is cold in the cave. He can feel her nipple against his cheek.
       And then she moans, and her eyelids twitch. She moans again, and parts her lips. And the way they separate from each other, revealing the moist pink-red of her tongue inside, immediately conjures other visions--which Yann, disgusted at himself, shakes from his head. This person is hurt, she needs help.
       The town arrives behind Yann, pressing into the cavern to see the stunning stranger wearing nothing but a tight T-shirt and a pair of panties. There is silence. From twenty or thirty steps away, all the men and women stare, regardless of whether she is dead or alive. Since no one on the island has ever seen such mammaries before, they are dumbstruck. All of them.
       Eventually though, the kid who discovered her breaks the silence, yelling, "Hey, it's that bitch from Baywatch!"
       "No it's not!" Yann says, and stands up. He shoots the kid a glance which immediately shuts him up. Besides, none of these people even have a TV, since there's no reception on the island. If this kid knows about Baywatch, it's from People Magazine.
       Yann looks over at One Eye, surprised to see him so tranquil. A guy like him would be expected to shout out obscenities at a time like this, but he has a dreamy look on his face instead, and is weirdly serene--as are all the men. Some of them even have their hats off.
       "She's breathing," Yann tells the crowd, "I think she's just knocked out."
       Then Yann sees Nadine again and quickly looks away. She'd been watching him a bit too closely. Before, her expression had intrigued him, but now it does the opposite. She is pissed at him--even though they don't even know each other. Danger, Yann thinks.
       Mother Kralik comes elbowing through the crowd, still wielding the crucifix. She sees the stranger on the sand and immediately jerks, shocked at the form lying before her with a sopping "I © MY SHIP" emblazoned across her wet chest. The vessel in her liver-spotted forehead instantly rushes with blood, and swells to bursting proportions.
       "Well, Well, Well!" Mother Kralik snaps, loud enough for everyone to hear, "If it isn't that rich bitch from the ship!"
       She spins and faces the faces she knows, which have always been too pale and meek to question her. She's yanked half of them from the womb, and has earned her power over them by scaring them shitless during sickness. Some doctors use placebos, she uses fear--and it works.
       Mother Kralik scans the islanders, then points the cross at the stranger. "Do you know what we have here? I'll tell you what it is! It's the Devil come up from Hell to Fuck with us!"
       Eyes lower. People look down at the sand.
       "Oh yes!" Mother Kralik goes on, her voice rising, "Lemme tell you, there's two types of rats in this shithole, people! There's the whore, and there's the whorer. And the whorer whores the whore, which is the horror or whoring! You're either a slut or a pimp in this shithole, you're either licking someone's ass or someone's licking yours!"
       Yann turns away from Mother Kralik's ridiculous blather, and kneels down to see if the stranger has suffered any neck or head injuries. She'll have to be moved, he figures.
       Meanwhile, Mother Kralik keeps on ranting: "Whores, I tell you, get rotten crotch infections, but whorers, they get back-rubs and body massages! Whores, they smear dogshit in their hair, but whorers, they get shampoos and fancy conditioners! What do you get? I'll tell you what you get! You get dogshit! Because all of you, you're all whores! But this bitch, she ain't got dogshit in her hair, oh no! She's the owner of that shmancy yacht. Oh yes! She sails around and wiggles her fanny, that's what she does! What she's got in her hair costs more than you make in a week, yanking guts and clobbering fish! Do you see what I'm saying? Whores get turds, but whorers... they get ice cream with sprinkles on top!"
       Yann ignores Mother Kralik. Nadine, however, can't help but listen, as well as be a bit impressed. She knows Mother Kralik is full of shit, but she does have a couple of points.
       "You!" Mother Kralik snaps, and points the cross at the crowd, "You all sleep in shit! Like pigs! You sleep in shit! But this bitch, this rich bitch sleeps in silk! Oh yes, and when she wakes up, she's gonna want her nice, pretty, silk sheets back! And she's gonna want you to go back to sleeping in shit! Just think! Just think what you've got in your bags. She's gonna want it all back! She ain't dead like those Canadians last year! Or the rest of them who would've wanted their shit back too! But we took care of them, now didn't we!? And it was nothing! So are you gonna have the balls to tell her to go to hell when she comes knocking at your door? Are you!? This stuff is rightfully ours! It washed up on our shore, God gave it to us! God gave her to us! To do with her what we will!"
       Some mumblings of agreement arise from the crowd, mostly from the older women. Mother Kralik continues.
       "Look! She's practically dead. I'm not suggesting nothing, but you know how it is when you gotta flopping flounder on the slime-line. There it is making a ruckus, it's in pain, it's suffering, it's gonna die anyway. That's why we got fish clubs! It's nothing, and you know it. It's nothing to just--Whap! And the thing is, she'd do the same to us if the situation were reversed, and you know it! The whore and the whorer are naturally opposed!"
       Mother Kralik turns from the crowd and takes a step toward Yann and the stranger. Some hags from the crowd start moving forward, getting ready. Mother Kralik is their leader. This is their island, dammit! Majority rules!
       Mother Kralik raises the cross above her head, and speaks to it as if it's some two-bit tart: "So... you thought the world was your playground, huh? But now you ain't so sure about that! Cuz maybe you found out that life isn't just skipping through the daisies with a sweet smelling cunt, now is it? Cuz around here, we are all whores, honey! All of us! But you, you're the whorer, and you washed up on the wrong shore baby! Sailing on in with your Visa cards and French perfumes! For what!? For Fucking What!?"
       Yann is aware that something is amiss. He looks up and sees the women advancing. Some of them are even picking up rocks. His eyes go wide.
       "Well I'll tell you what for," Mother Kralik sneers, "to find out that the whorer gets fucked! Fucked in the head! Fucked Dead! Finito! That's it! And it matters about as much as bonking some stupid flounder on the head! Come on Whores, it's time for Justice!"
       Yann can't believe it. Mother Kralik has actually rallied the hags, and now they're coming at him with rocks.
       But does Yann get up and run? Nope. He throws himself across the stranger.
       "God Damn You!..." Father O'Flugence suddenly declares, and Yann looks up, surprised to hear such words from the priest. Father O'Flugence has come between Yann and the mob. There's a purse hanging off his shoulder.
       "God damn you all to hell!..." Father O'Flugence goes on, "if you go through with this! Have all of you lost your sanity?"
       Mother Kralik stops in front of the priest. How easy it would be, she thinks, to knock the old fart down. She could use the cross. What a statement that would be! She grips it tighter and locks her eyes on the side of his head, right above the ear.
       The old shrews wait to see it happen. Yann waits, Nadine waits, One Eye waits. Even Father O'Flugence waits, not even praying. And everybody knows, the old guy doesn't have a chance. He's dead meat.
       But then, out of nowhere, Nadine suddenly comes up behind Mother Kralik, grabs the cross out of her hand, and throws it in the sand. Mother Kralik spins around to see who the fool with the deathwish is, and receives a slap to the side of the face that knocks her to the ground shrieking with a bloody nose.
       "What are you gonna do!?" Nadine yells at the mob. "You're gonna attack Father O'Flugence, stone Yann to death, and kill someone you don't even know!? What the fuck kinda people are you!? You should be ashamed of yourselves! We got bodies to bury, we gotta town to rebuild! You've all gone whacko!"
       "Here, here!" One Eye puts in.
       "Yeah," the kid with the Clapton shirt adds, "what sort of an example are you setting for the youth of America?"
       "This isn't America, you little shit!" Mother Kralik spits, focusing her wrath on the most defenseless person in the crowd. He immediately retreats.
       Nadine stands next to Father O'Flugence, feeling her knees begin to shake. The old women are lowering their rocks. For a while, the only sound in the cave is that of Mother Kralik wheezing. Then:
       "You'll pay for this you Little Shit-Smear!" Mother Kralik tells Nadine, wiping the blood from a nostril. She gets up and looks at her pack of crones standing behind her like a bunch of dolts. They never should've stopped to think!
       Mother Kralik picks up the crucifix, snags a bloody gob in the sand, and turns and walks away. The hags follow.
       "Thank you my child," Father O'Flugence tells Nadine, "that was very brave of you."
       Nadine doesn't even hear him. Her heart is beating out-of-control. She has never stood up to anyone in her life. If she ever did, her father would've had her ass in a sling. It's evil for the young to defy the old. But maybe that's why she did it--to defy his hairy ass which can't do jackshit now!
       Nadine spins around to run to Yann. To throw her arms around him. She feels that she can do this now--that it would be appropriate. She protected him, she saved him! She has the right to cover him with kisses--because of that look they shared, when she was on the rocks and he was on the sand.
       But Yann has something else in his arms: that stinking rich bitch! That rich bitch she should've let Mother Kralik smear to death!
       "Take her up to the church," the old priest says, wiping his brow, "we'll see what we can do for her."
       Yann leaves. Everybody leaves. And nobody says a thing to Nadine.
       She follows One Eye out of the cave, and he doesn't even try to cop a feel. This insults her even more. She looks out at the gray shitty sea and hates it even more than herself. That should've been her in Yann's arms!
       But then she sees her mother on the rock, still staring down at The Jezebel. Nadine climbs up to her.
       "Mother," she says, and rushes to her breast. She tries to hug her, but her mother jabs an elbow in her gut. Nadine coughs and tries to breathe. She can't comprehend why her mother would do such a thing. Doesn't she know that she's her kid?
       "Mother!" Nadine cries, "What's wrong?"
       Her mother says nothing, and refuses to even look at her.
       "Mother!" Nadine cries again, "Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you even look at me?"
       Tears stream down Nadine's cheeks. She tries to get in front of her mother, to make her mother look at her--but every time she does, her mother looks in another direction, refusing to speak.
       "Please, mother," Nadine pleads, "please, please, please!"
       Her mother gets up and walks away.
       Nadine looks down at her father. One Eye is cutting the nets away, and a couple men are hanging around, waiting to lug the body up the beach.
       It's all my fault, Nadine thinks. She opens her mouth to scream, but just as she is about to let loose, it hits her that there is somebody else she can blame--and by God she will! And not only that, she will get that rich bitch! Oh yes, that rich bitch will pay. She'll pay with her slutty life!
       
       

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Collected Poems of Georges Bataille
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