I knew a man named Andrew once. Captain of a tour boat. Nice guy, never could say no more tequila, but nice guy just the same. Didn’t have an ounce of fightin’ in his body and he always told the best stories. Seemed he knew everybody on Star Island, personally, and had enough blackmail material on every one of ‘em to fill a library. He’d never need it though. This Andrew couldn’t hurt a fly.
Wish they was all like that but they ain’t. Another Andrew showed up and this one were a mean sonofabitch. He come rumblin’ in like hell on a powerboat, sucked the beach bone-dry and then he got angry. Started pickin’ up trash cans, tearing out mailboxes, throwin’ cars.
When you live here long as I have you get used to rough summertimes, otherwise you tuck your tail ‘tween your legs and head back up north. But you can’t, nobody can’t, prepare for Andrew. He ripped cypress trees right out the ground. Leveled half the city overnight, flooded the rest.
I didn’t think a storm could be a monster, but, well, there it is.