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Party on Horror Beach	By : SheliakBob Category: S through Z > Universal Horror Movies Views: 1676 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: i do not own "Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein" nor any of the characters from it. I do not own any of the Beach Monsters referenced. I make no money from writing this story.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER FOUR
La Viuda Island was shaped like along, feathery teardrop. The western end of the island was a solid crag of rock, thrust up with deep water around three sides. The Spanish had built their fort atop that outcropping of rock, where the cannons could easily control passage through the deep water channels nearby. The rest of the island was a long, low-lying shoal of sand that built up in the lee of the rocky headland. Most of that part of the island was covered with scrub brush and long grass with stands of stunted trees in thick clusters closer to the rocky end. The island was home to a herd of miniature deer that one or another owner of the mansion had imported, and a small pack of wild pigs. Rhesus monkeys, escaped from Dr. Mornay’s lab years ago, lived feral in the trees and along the rocky cliffs of the island.
Larry soon found that he had neither any need nor any desire to be “rescued” from his island. He fished for food, hunted shellfish, trapped sea-gulls, and plucked berries and coconuts to eat. Once a month he hunted the miniature deer that populated the island and consumed bloody red meat as The Wolfman. Most of the time he sat on the beach and watched the waves roll in. He napped in the sunshine. He gazed at the stars and sometimes wished he had a telescope like his father’s to see them more clearly. Every once in awhile a boat full of sleazy associates would come to the island and Larry would trade conch shells that he gathered illegally for necessities like fish-hooks and rope and clothing, and rum. Especially for rum.
All in all, life as a beach bum agreed with Larry. He didn’t mind that others thought of him as “Crazy Larry”, as long as they left him alone. Alone upon his island, far from anyone he could hurt, Lawrence Talbot even learned not to dread the coming of the Full Moon. He and The Wolf were finally at peace with one another. They were neighbors and allies, if not friends.
When Geoffrey Radcliffe, not so dead as he’d let loved ones believe, arrived on the island and took up residence in Doctor Mornay’s castle-like house as “caretaker,” he and Larry became close friends. Larry sometimes resented the Invisible Man’s acerbic wit and sometimes Radcliffe’s crisply intellectual cynicism reminded Larry too much of his father, Sir John Talbot, but in general Larry was glad to have someone to talk to other than himself. They were both outsiders, they both could not trust themselves in the company of normal men, and they both took solace in the peacefulness of solitary existence. They had much in common.
More importantly, Geoffrey made sure that Larry had a reliable supply of rum, keeping a case or two of it stashed at the house and doling it out to Larry in sufficient quantity to keep him comfortable, but not so much as to fuel the sometimes explosively violent drunken rampages Larry was capable of.
Life was good on Viuda Island.
Until outsiders came there to throw things out of balance with their noise and their meddling. Whenever fools came to monster-haunted Viuda Island, there was always the potential for murder and horror.

Images of murder and horror flitted through Larry’s mind, interspersed with memories of female torsos barely clad in skimpy bikinis, shimmying and shaking. Red hair was tossed over a come-hither smile, like a splash of fresh blood across the Moon. Chocolate-drenched claws scraped and slashed at bellies, at breasts. But when has chocolate syrup ever been red and sticky and tasted coppery? The images in Larry’s mind began to stutter. Smiling, laughing women’s faces went out of focus, became instead the startled faces of deer, the uncomprehending bland visages of sheep. Long, slender legs and hips in bunched-up bikinis turned into rabbits running through the night. The glare of arc-lamps became the cold radiance of moonlight.
Larry felt thirsty and hungry and excited all at once.
His heart thundered in his chest like a frenetic bongo beat.
His skin itched all over. His teeth ached.
“No!” he cried out in his sleep.
Larry snapped awake, swinging in the hammock stretched inside his shack. The itching and the aching did not go away. The pounding of his heart did not slow down. He held his hands up in front of his face. Hair bristled across the backs, crawling up out of the pores. His fingernails were too sharp and too thick. He rubbed his face. A beard had grown along his jawline overnight, his cheeks were fuzzy with short fur.
“No! No! No!”
Larry twisted and fell out of the hammock.
“This can’t be happening!”
He looked up out of the shack’s window. The Moon still had a black crescent of darkness across the top. It was not full, not yet. This shouldn’t be happening.
That did not stop his teeth from forming into jaggedly pointed fangs. He was ravishingly hungry.
The Wolf was tired of eating pygmy deer.
There was something juicier on the island, something waiting to be hunted!

On the beach, cast and crew sat around a crackling bonfire. Beers were passed hand to hand from the cooler chest. Skewered hot dogs blistered over the sizzling flames. An oversized portable radio blared Rock music from a La Mirada station as loudly as its batteries could bear.
Frankie DeWitt, who had already died twice during the previous day’s filming—as two different characters, leaped into the firelight with an unplugged electric guitar in his hands. He smiled at the girls, fingers strumming furiously to keep up with the Surf Guitar riffing on the radio. Sliding from foot to foot, he swung his bare, muscular shoulders in time with the music. He lip-synced to the singer’s voice on the radio, though the words he silently mouthed were all scandalously obscene.
Charlie and Mike jumped in behind him and began lip-syncing the harmony parts. They both wore big, goofy grins and snapped their fingers.
The girls howled with laughter.
The only person not laughing in the circle around the bonfire was Roger. It was his idea to get the boys to practice performing to playback music before trying to shoot any of the movie’s “musical” numbers.
Roger was not optimistic about the probable results.
When the music abruptly cut off for a news bulletin, the boys stopped moving and just stood awkwardly looking at each other. After a second or two, Mike stepped forward and began mouthing words along with the announcer’s voice. The expression on his face was gravely serious.
“Authorities report that the famous Gill Man has been spotted swimming in an Everglades estuary close to La Mirada. One man was killed and several were injured in an encounter with the beast. A Park Service boat was overturned during its rampage before the Gill Man disappeared into the sea. The Gill Man is still at large and authorities request that all civilians who live near the shoreline lock their doors and windows and avoid beaches until the monster is recaptured or killed.”
“We now return you to your regular radio broadcasts.”
Everyone around the campfire had fallen silent during the news bulletin.
Roger was the only one laughing when the boys picked up performing to the song as if nothing had happened. He had to give them credit for their dedication to the shtick, if nothing else.
“Do you think we’re safe out here?” One of the dancers asked in a frightened voice.
She went by the name of Toni Twist, but had been born with the equally improbable name Antoinette Merlot.
“Ah, that report is from practically the other side of the State. We’re fine over here. Unless, y’know, the Gill Man commandeers a motorboat or something.”
The image of the Gill Man at the wheel of a speedboat elicited a chorus of laughter.
The film-makers had just relaxed back into a lightly buzzed chatter of conversation when an unearthly shriek or howl erupted out of the darkness near their camp.
Everyone fell silent again and several of the men jumped up to look for something to use as weapons. Rod Spencer snatched up a largely useless prop spear gun and aimed it into the dark, as if the thing were capable of actually firing.
There was a real, functional, spear gun of course. It would be needed for some of the underwater shots planned. But by general agreement it was kept where Rod couldn’t find it and only one of the stuntmen, Charlie or Bobby, would actually fire it on camera. Rod was notorious for having once shot a co-star with a loaded six-shooter on one of his Westerns. There was an industry-wide perception that Spencer should never be allowed near anything with a trigger again.
The ghastly shrieking sound ripped through the night again, nearer this time.
One of the tents set up for the crew wobbled violently and crashed to the ground. Roger winced. Rental fees for the camping supplies were among the largest of his expenses for this outing.
Most of the girls screamed and rushed to hide behind the stuntmen and actors. Roxanne “Red” Cannons—born Judith McAllister—was the exception. She calmly bit the hotdog off the end of the stick she held and pointed the sharp end at the darkness. The look on her face made it clear that anything coming near her would become familiar with the business end of her skewer.
“Go…baaaack!” Moaned an echoey voice. “Leave this place, or suffer its cursssse!”
Another tent crashed to the ground. Several of the oxygen tanks stored behind Mike’s properties tent rolled across the sand on their own. Then the empty scaled rubber suit of the Party Beach Monster crawled out of the tent. Headless, the flaccid suit flopped and dragged itself toward the crew.
Rod stepped up, calmly leveled his fake spear gun at it, and pulled the trigger. There was a very business-like click, but the spear glued to the gun’s stock didn’t go anywhere.
Rod looked genuinely surprised. He let out a frightened yelp and stepped backwards, fell to the ground, then continued backwards at a fast paced crab-crawl.
Several crewmembers threw beer bottles at the menacing, flopping suit. There were a couple of audible thuds and a very normal sounding cry of pain. The monster suit fell to the ground and stopped moving.
Cautiously, Bobby and Mike stepped up to poke it with sticks.
There was no sign of life or movement from it.
Suddenly, one of the dancers’ bikini top unfastened itself and leaped off a pair of perfectly shaped white breasts, untouched by the sun that had tanned the rest of her skin. The bikini top fluttered in the air like a strangely shaped moth for a moment before hurtling off into the darkness.
Baby Blue, birth name Norma Reese, stared in petrified fascination at her rebellious swimwear and only remembered to cross arms over her exposed chest as a kind of absent-minded afterthought.
Footprints appeared in the sand, moving toward Red Cannons.
There was a loud smack as an unseen hand whacked her ass-cheek. Purely out of reflex, Red snapped out a right jab that contacted with something solid. There was a meaty thump, a cry of pain, then a roughly body-shaped outline appeared in the sand at her feet. Still acting on instinct, Red lashed out twice with her foot, connecting both times.
“Oof! Oof! Get away from me, you crazy beast!” yelped a pained but otherwise crisply cultured voice.
Sand flew up in spurts, then footprints appeared racing for the safety of the darkness beyond the campsite.
“You better leave a helluva tip!” Red shouted, purely by rote.
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Party on Horror Beach