Thing a Week 13: Terror is a Whale With Red Eyes

A few days ago, I had a conversation with a certain brother of mine. He knows who he is. Hopefully. You do know who you are, right dude? Anyway, we were talking, and eventually the conversation turned, as all conversations eventually must, to Orca whales. Specifically, I was expanding on my theory that Orcas would be 3,000,000,000 times cooler if the world, as a whole, referred to them as Murder Whales instead of Killer Whales. I mean, think about it! You sight a pod of murder whales, and you know things gon' get real, and SOON. Anyway, my brother shared this opinion with me (how could anyone not?), and we started discussing how murder whales could be used to make the best movie possibly in the universe, like jaws but more amazingly fantastic. The conversation was long, but the result was clear: a movie had to be made. Spielberg cannot pass this chance up. The earth will probably fracture from the pent-up radicality if this isn't done. And I have humbly taken upon myself the task of creating the script for this awesome. Unfortunately, I am lazy, so I'm mostly patching together the meat of this post together from excerpts of the conversation. To add context, this scene in the movie takes place just as Lance (the hero type), a scrappy freedom fighting pirate, manages to survive an attack on his ship by some godless commie murder whales, which boat was carrying a load of tanks for a 3rd world country full of (also scrappy) lovable natives fighting for freedom from the communist regime besetting them on all sides.

Murder Whale:
Attack of the most terrifying things to ever exist, ever
*Technically, the whale should plural
Lance scanned the surface of the choppy sea, his red rimmed eyes searching desperately for some sign of life. It was three days now since the murder whales attacked last, two days ago since the ship was destroyed, one day since he ran out of water. Eyes glued open by the harsh sea spray and the horror of what he had seen raked the waves, always seeking the fin that he knew would inevitably appear. All that had survived that first attack of the whales was a Tommy gun, a crate of ammunition that had miraculously managed to stay dry, and a gallon of the cooks best bootleg hooch, which he and Lance had been sharing at the time of the attack.
The first fin slipped into Lances line of sight, and he grinned humorlessly. When the whales returned, he WOULD be ready.