Mermaids in Paradise: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

rapidly, even as a random hipster guy tried to persuade her to go with him to a glow-in-the-dark tap dance show.
    “It’s a critique of Bush v. Gore,” she said.
    And then I saw Chip, though at first I barely recognized him. I’d promised him to snap a cell phone pic, a photo of him completing the mud marathon, and so that’s what I did. I raised my phone. He was beaming with joy through the mud plastered over his eyebrows, cheeks and chin, a Stevie Wonder look. But as he ran toward the finish line, right through the final obstacle, his arms raised to greet me, just beaming like a child, he got an electric shock. I think the wires hit him across the lip; maybe the tongue. His mouth was open for the smile. I saw him jerk back like a spastic.
    Then he crossed the line and was with me: he shrugged off the shock, hugged me and lifted me off the ground, making me filthy. Soon he collapsed in a heap, and when he recovered it was time to celebrate.
    In the end I was able to prevent him from getting a tattoo, but only by the skin of my teeth. As I’d predicted, he ultimately declared he wanted one—not a head tattoo, he knew he couldn’t shave his head before the wedding, but maybe a back-of-the-neck adornment. He saw the other extreme athletes taking swigs of whiskey and going under the needle; with a few beers to his credit Chip turns into a joiner, that’s his way, and soon he longed to top off his own effort with a marking ritual too. He joined the tattoo line and requested that I catch his branding on my phone’s video.
    Instead of debating the merits, I had to distract him. I lured him out of the line, then led him into a dark stand of trees and had my way with him. That’s how it works with Chip: you have to skip the preliminaries and bring out the big guns. You don’t waste your time, and his, with words and sentences.
    Argument’s a dull blade, when it comes down to it, and I like to be efficient. We both left the party satisfied, me because I’d pulled out a last-minute win on the inking crisis, Chip because he was drunk, certified tough and newly laid. There’s not much more a man like Chip asks for.
    Or any man, possibly.

    THE NEXT DAY he was pretty achy; he had a long bath, popped some muscle relaxants and did the couch potato thing, gaming. By the time I left for my Ball-and-Chain Party, as Gina was calling it, he had a bowl of popcorn at his elbow, a console on his lap and was gazing wide-eyed at the large screen, where one of his many avatars flew into a fanciful moonrise/sunset on a steampunk zeppelin, pulled by a team of elegant purple dragons.

    Gina had found the perfect venue for the festivities—perfect for her, at any rate. The rest of us were just along for the ride.She had us meet her at a generic wine bar, probably so that no one would instantly bail; then we trooped over to the nightspot, Gina in the lead. It was instantly obvious I hadn’t gotten clear of the sex industry after all: this was some kind of Goth, medieval-bloody S&M fetish club with the tag line “The Decadent Seduction of a Horrific World.” I was glad I hadn’t invited members of the older generation, though it did give me a bit of pleasure to ideate Chip’s mother entering the place.
    There was a band playing dirge-like atonal music whose singer had multiple studs sticking out of his cheeks Chia Pet-style; in cages hanging from the ceiling, ghoulishly clad people danced in zombie-style slow motion. Holes were strategically cut in the dark, shining costumes they wore, which made them resemble enormous spiders, albeit with hanging or popping characteristics. On the walls played grainy, obscure movies of what seemed to be morgue attendants plying their trade; and then, of course, there were your basic whip scenarios, masks and black latex.
    “At seven we have the Ravage Room booked,” said Gina. “A private show. Just for us .” The prospect filled me with creeping dread—at that point I would have welcomed a few