Dardanelle has cruel features. It doesn't surprise me when he tells the boys to dip their razors in bleach before cutting the beast. Its legs are small, stumpy almost, but they are strong enough to knock a man off his feet. Dardanelle severs the sail-like fin with his hunting knife. He likes to keep trophies, but the beast looks too big to shift without a flatbed truck.
Dardanelle has the carcass of a goblin shark preserved in formaldehyde in his kitchenette. It looks as ugly as sin. It is small, no bigger than an average-sized man, but it looks fucking disgusting. Dardanelle paid a fisherman in French Guiana $1,000 for the fish. I was there when they caught it. The locals chained it to a palm tree and left it to rot in the sun. It took three hours to die.
The beast's breathing becomes ragged, and Dardanelle slit its flabby throat. Before walking away he wedges a hand grenade in its mouth. Malice glints in his good eye. It blows the lower jaw and the crocodile-like snout clean off.
Tonight Dardanelle will retire to his rooming-house with a small, snub-nosed prostitute. He likes to celebrate in style.
Crimes In Southern Indiana