There’s them that blame it on all the lead in the gas thirty, forty years ago, which frankly Tits finds kind of offensive. She growls just thinking about it, and a column of air goes bubbling up past her mask in disdain. What did they know, anyway? Scientists. She was a fucking god of war emerged naked from the untouched rock, and that was all there was to it.

The water is killing cold but the wet suit does what it is goddamned supposed to do so she’s mostly aware of how cold Byron must be, assuming through some miracle the bottomfeeders have left him enough meat to feel anything with. Byron hated the cold; just the thought of how much he’d bitch warmed the very cockles of her heart.

There’s a ladder hanging off the back of the yacht like there ain’t any kind of worry to have. She lets the Sound take the belt and the tank and she swarms over the side like hell itself kicking down the door. None of Lefty Frizelle’s girls are sober enough to spot her until she’s harpooned Lefty off the roof of the conning tower, all teeth and blood and a giant fuckoff spear.

“Swim for it, you white-legs,” she tells what’s left, “I got what I came for.”

“Christ, Tits, have a heart,” says one, “that’s five fuckin’ miles.” It might have been Peaches Rodriguez before the second harpoon carries her out into the bay. The rest go piling into the water willingly enough; she only has to harpoon two more.

She lets the boat drift along beside them until the cold pulls them all down to keep Byron company, which is just perfect. He’d never cared much for women; just one more thing to bitch about.