ass. The apparition had been bizarre indeed, the gathered onlookers erupting in horrified cries. From a distance it had initially appeared that Terence Hughes was wagging an enormous chubby tail, but Bang Abbott’s Nikon quickly brought the gruesome tableau into focus. The stricken man had held out his arms and pleaded for assistance, but nobody—not even his wife—would venture near him.
Marine biologists later theorized that a top row of the shark’steeth had become snagged in the reinforced nylon waistband of Terence Hughes’s recently purchased and festively patterned board shorts. Once the stuck creature became suspended out of water, its bulk (combined with its manic exertions) had ripped the swimsuit from Terence Hughes, leaving him bleeding and exposed. The lemon shark had fallen back into the water and swum off with the torn swimsuit and a grapefruit-sized chunk of the Canadian’s left buttock.
Lifeguards had cleared the beach swiftly and marine patrol officers had arrived in fast boats, one of which snagged its propeller on the mangled remnants of a freshly soiled chum bag. By then, Bang Abbott was gone. It had never occurred to him that the elderly fellow who’d been illegally walking his Jack Russell on the beach at daybreak had taken a cell-phone snapshot of Bang Abbott dragging the sack of fish into the surf, or that the old fart would download the photo and e-mail it to the
St. Petersburg Times
after reading that Bang Abbott had won a Pulitzer Prize for the
Chilling Florida Shark Ambush
.
The ensuing controversy was fueled by indignant bloggers who wanted Bang Abbott prosecuted for instigating the fateful feeding frenzy. Ultimately, the dog walker’s cell-phone image was deemed too fuzzy to be conclusive, so the Pulitzer committee decided not to strip Bang Abbott of its coveted honor. Terence Hughes recovered from his wounds and went on to enjoy a brief spell of celebrity; he and his surgeon appeared on
Maury
and other popular interview shows, presenting graphic video of his butt-cheek reconstruction. Meanwhile Bang Abbott continued to insist that the disputed photo couldn’t have been staged because both victim and shark obviously weren’t faking it, and that furthermore there was no law against chumming up sea life near a public beach.
Glad to be free of the newspaper business and its stuffy ethics, Bang Abbott was soon thereafter thriving in his new career as a paparazzo. The provenance of his work product was never questioned, nor were his methods, which is why he was rattled to find himself being interrogated rather snippily by Peter Cartwill, managing editor of the
National Eye
.
“Claude, I must say, that’s quite an adventure. I mean, really.” Cartwill was smiling somewhat coldly.
“Well, it’s true. Every word,” Bang Abbott said.
“So, Cherry Pye brought you to Miami on a private jet.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“And fucked your brains out along the way.”
“Peter, would I make this up?”
Bang Abbott had gone to the
Eye’s
main newsroom in Boca Raton with a plan to sell his sex story for enough money to cover the cost of the lost cameras, now in Cherry’s possession. Bang Abbott had enjoyed a solid relationship with the
Eye
, which had published a dozen of his celebrity-in-disarray photographs. Bang Abbott figured this deal would be a no-brainer—he’d just talk into a tape recorder, then one of the hacks on the copy desk would write it up with Bang Abbott’s byline: “Seduced by Stoned Pop Star at 35,000 Feet!”
Or something like that.
“But you’ve no proof,” said Cartwill, “not a single picture.” He was one of those tough Aussies who’d learned the trade on Fleet Street and come to the United States during the post-Elvis tabloid boom.
“I told you, she swiped my goddamn Nikons!”
“Yes, Claude, it’s all quite fantastic.”
“And yours, for ten grand.”
Cartwill chuckled. “I’m afraid the answer is no. The whole thing is too
Marine biologists later theorized that a top row of the shark’steeth had become snagged in the reinforced nylon waistband of Terence Hughes’s recently purchased and festively patterned board shorts. Once the stuck creature became suspended out of water, its bulk (combined with its manic exertions) had ripped the swimsuit from Terence Hughes, leaving him bleeding and exposed. The lemon shark had fallen back into the water and swum off with the torn swimsuit and a grapefruit-sized chunk of the Canadian’s left buttock.
Lifeguards had cleared the beach swiftly and marine patrol officers had arrived in fast boats, one of which snagged its propeller on the mangled remnants of a freshly soiled chum bag. By then, Bang Abbott was gone. It had never occurred to him that the elderly fellow who’d been illegally walking his Jack Russell on the beach at daybreak had taken a cell-phone snapshot of Bang Abbott dragging the sack of fish into the surf, or that the old fart would download the photo and e-mail it to the
St. Petersburg Times
after reading that Bang Abbott had won a Pulitzer Prize for the
Chilling Florida Shark Ambush
.
The ensuing controversy was fueled by indignant bloggers who wanted Bang Abbott prosecuted for instigating the fateful feeding frenzy. Ultimately, the dog walker’s cell-phone image was deemed too fuzzy to be conclusive, so the Pulitzer committee decided not to strip Bang Abbott of its coveted honor. Terence Hughes recovered from his wounds and went on to enjoy a brief spell of celebrity; he and his surgeon appeared on
Maury
and other popular interview shows, presenting graphic video of his butt-cheek reconstruction. Meanwhile Bang Abbott continued to insist that the disputed photo couldn’t have been staged because both victim and shark obviously weren’t faking it, and that furthermore there was no law against chumming up sea life near a public beach.
Glad to be free of the newspaper business and its stuffy ethics, Bang Abbott was soon thereafter thriving in his new career as a paparazzo. The provenance of his work product was never questioned, nor were his methods, which is why he was rattled to find himself being interrogated rather snippily by Peter Cartwill, managing editor of the
National Eye
.
“Claude, I must say, that’s quite an adventure. I mean, really.” Cartwill was smiling somewhat coldly.
“Well, it’s true. Every word,” Bang Abbott said.
“So, Cherry Pye brought you to Miami on a private jet.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“And fucked your brains out along the way.”
“Peter, would I make this up?”
Bang Abbott had gone to the
Eye’s
main newsroom in Boca Raton with a plan to sell his sex story for enough money to cover the cost of the lost cameras, now in Cherry’s possession. Bang Abbott had enjoyed a solid relationship with the
Eye
, which had published a dozen of his celebrity-in-disarray photographs. Bang Abbott figured this deal would be a no-brainer—he’d just talk into a tape recorder, then one of the hacks on the copy desk would write it up with Bang Abbott’s byline: “Seduced by Stoned Pop Star at 35,000 Feet!”
Or something like that.
“But you’ve no proof,” said Cartwill, “not a single picture.” He was one of those tough Aussies who’d learned the trade on Fleet Street and come to the United States during the post-Elvis tabloid boom.
“I told you, she swiped my goddamn Nikons!”
“Yes, Claude, it’s all quite fantastic.”
“And yours, for ten grand.”
Cartwill chuckled. “I’m afraid the answer is no. The whole thing is too
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