squeak

When I was young I went on vacation in Florida.
I was wading along the beach. There was a storm brewing out at sea, so the
water was a mite murky. The water was a foot and a half deep if it was an
inch, I tells you. Having seen a news report the night before about
baracuda attacks, I was reasonably anxious. As I placed each barefoot
step, I knew I could be nearing a watery grave. Finaly, fate took it's
chance. I gingerly stepped down and as I did searing spikes of pain shot
through the tenderest section of my foot. I ran screaming to land fearing
the inevitable amputation. I have no idea how much time passed, but
judging from the position of the sun, and the movement of the clouds in
the atmosphere, it must have been upwards of a half-hour. When I saw that
my foor showed no sign of permanent injury, I dug deep and found the
courage to return to the area of the attack. I figured that the beast must
have moved on by then, either to harrass other innocents like myself, or
to prepare to do so. As the storm had moved on, and the silt had begun to
settle, visibility was much better. My search didn't last long before I
found my attacker, a one-foot alligator. But not a normal Florida gator,
this was a plastic child's toy. When I raised it from it's liquid lair,
and drained it's sinister belly of the seawater it had been holding, it
let out a loud mocking squeak.