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Sharktopus: In His Own Words

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I didn’t ask for any of this.

I was just a shark, y’know, minding my own damn business; and suddenly I’m in this net. Then I’m in this lab, and there’s some sick shit going on there. I mean, Island of Doctor Moreau levels of sick.

What? I read.

Anyway, so I don’t remember a whole lot about it, between the drugs and the shock and the fucking electrodes in my brain, but it wasn’t nice, let me tell you. When I woke up, I was… well, look at me.

Project Overfiend, they called it. As in “Legend of the.” Don’t Google that with safe search off, trust me. Scientists are sick bastards, like I said. My codename was S-11. I don’t know what happened to one through ten, but I’m sure it was nothing good.

The S stands for, are you ready for this? It stands for “shark.” Hope I didn’t just blow your mind.

Fast forward through a lot of really unpleasant shit I don’t want to get into and you do not want to hear about; and long story short, the Navy caps the project’s funding and the whole thing is off. Just like that. Said it wasn’t getting “results.”

No results? I am a shark with friggin’ tentacles! Seems like a pretty concrete result from where I’m sitting. But no, no, apparently that wasn’t good enough. So the whitecoats packed up their shit and I was scheduled to be “neutralized.”

Nice, right? Real discreet, from the people who grafted half an octopus to half a shark. Subtle, guys. You’re awesome.

Then the phone rang.

Now, I don’t need to tell you that this shit was classified all to hell. If Johnny Taxpayer found out Big Brother was using his hard earned dollars to make genetic freaks like me, it’d be a shitstorm of epic proportions. PETA would probably get all up in here, and nobody needs that. So no one was supposed to know about this, and yet… ring ring, ring ring.

And I’m thinking, who’s gonna be calling me? Who even knows I have a phone? I didn’t know I had a phone! But I picked it up anyway.

“Hello,” the man said to me. “My name is Roger Corman, and I want to tell your story.”

Smarmy fuck. If I’d’ve known then what I know now… But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So I said yeah, hey, why not; it beats getting murdered after all. And worse comes to worse, I get a few weeks to hang out in Puerto Vallarta, relax in some real nice waters while we make a documentary that never even sees the light of day.

Yeah, I said it. Documentary. I thought this thing was a biopic, y’know? I want to tell your story, he said.

I should’ve known from the first day on set. I should’ve fuckin’ known.

That team of scientists that played Frankenstein and made yours truly? They got distilled down to two people. Two. And what two people! Drunk-ass Eric Roberts and a hot chick who barely looked legal. I know that all hot chicks want to be marine biologists, right, but that shit was ridiculous.

I’m not saying anything bad about Roberts, though; that man’s a fuckin’ prince. And the chick… Sara, I think? She was all right, I guess. I just don’t buy it.

“It’ll simplify the narrative,” Corman told me. “The science isn’t important, Sharky-baby, it’s the story.”

Sharky-baby?” I’ve bitten heads off for less, but whatever, he was telling my story here. I let him get away with some shit. Oh, the shit I let him get away with.

Right off, I couldn’t help noticing that I wasn’t getting much camera time. What the hell, right? I thought this was about me. But Dec said they were building the human interest, that it’s gonna add levels and make the story more accessible and blah blah blah. I know a party line when I hear it.

Dec’s the director, by the way. Declan O’Brien. Corman’s puppet, more like. And word must’ve come down from the big man, because a couple days later I was called to set for a long ass day. We were shooting the bulk of the beach scenes all in one go, apparently.

That fuckin’ day.

I was told it had been cleared with the Mexican government. That there was some kind of loophole, I dunno, they all were convicts or something. I didn’t ask questions. They told me to eat those people, and hey, you don’t have to twist my… uh, tentacle. Fuck.

Yeah, I ate them. Chomped ‘em in half. And I loved it. I’m a monster shark, for fuck’s sake; it’s what I was made to do.

Now I’ve got all kinds of lawsuits pending, and a huge fucking headache, and Roger fucking Corman to thank for it. And you know what? I still didn’t get any goddamn screentime. No, it was all that dumb reporter bitch and Poor Man’s Bruce Campbell, and then they started playing up the sexual tension between hottie scientist and Biff Abs McTequilaPecs or whatever the fuck his name was.

Documentary my happy ass, Corman. My happy, eight-tentacled ass.

Roberts talked me down with the help of a couple bottles of Glenmorangie. He’s been through that kind of shit before. The scenes getting cut part, not the multiple homicide charges. That I know of.

Point is, I was fine for a while. I mean, sure, I was a horrible genetic freak with half an octopus where my genitals used to be, and I’d just been taken advantage of by a sleazy producer out to make a buck off my misery; but that’s like, the classic Hollywood story, right? Happens every day.

But Corman, oh… He took that shit one further. It wasn’t enough that he lied to me, got me in dutch with the Mexican authorities, spent his entire CGI budget to make it look like I exploded, no, no.

That fucker went on YouTube and laughed about it. Made it look like I was the diva asshole here. Called me “Sharktopussy.”


He’s dead. He’s dead, he just hasn’t laid down yet. And by “laid down” I mean “become intimately familiar with every single one of my five-inch long, serrated teeth.” You hear me, Corman? You hear me? The next time you see me, you’re gonna wish you’d blown me up for real. You’re gonna wish you’d never been born, you hack bastard.

Just as soon as I… shit, as soon as I get some of these charges dropped.

Goddamn it, how is this even my life?

I didn’t ask for any of this.