IX. Satan of the Seas

"These tears of brine where do they come from, mother?"

Salsa woke up in the middle of the full moon night. Peculiar stillness hung in the air. The symphony of crickets, rubbing their fatty thighs together in creation of God's favorite genre of music, was conspicuously absent. No sound. And it is so hot. Salsa could imagine crickets tights would be sweaty therefore they would be rubbing therefore there would…