“Suck it, you lousy screws!” the young fit man on the parasailing board shouted, offering a questionable hand signal to the two men standing on the end of the dock. The parasailor wore a harness that was attached to a bar by a single cable. The bar was connected to the parasail wing, which was a customized canopy wing that was easily mistaken for a parachute. The three lines from the bar to the wing gave the parasailor some rudimentary control over the wing, which was attached to the back of a speed boat.

“Did he shout something at us?” the man in the black jumpsuit asked. The name JOHNSON was sewn into his black jumpsuit and he held the clipboard, while the short man standing next to him labeled SMITH watched the parasailor with large binoculars.

“He thinks we’re prison guards,” Smith chuckled. “I guess he can’t see our uniforms say ‘Blackwater’ from over there.”

“This is wrong,” Johnson droned.

“He a convicted murderer,” Smith said. “He works in the prison factory making twenty cents an hour. It took him three years to buy the equipment from the prison commissary and so he earned his day out on the water.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Johnson responded.

“It’s not our place to judge him or what he is doing,” Smith insisted. “We have our own job to do. Remember, our contract with the Navy?”

“Yeah,” Johnson muttered.

“Ok then, looks like the weaponized shark isn’t biting today,” Smith remarked.

Johnson flipped through some pages on the clipboard, and poked the sheet of paper. “Shark ate yesterday,” he indicated. “Probably not hungry.”

“That doesn’t make it much of a weapon,” Smith suggested, putting the binoculars down and tilting his head onto the radio receiver snapped onto his uniform’s epilates. He pressed down the button and said, “Charlie, shark test is a bust. Drag him over the giant cyborg octopus tank next.”

***

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