Hello Devilfish!

by Ron Dakron

  Someone tortured you, maimed your kid, mushed your hubby into war grease? Don’t write about it—kill them. Slay them in their beds and McMansions, their boardrooms and yachts—hunt them down for sport, wear an Elmer Fudd hat while you unload your wabbit gun into their spraying necks, smear bootblack on your cheeks and sneak with ninja grace into their granite kitchens, driving a Ginsu knife through their smarmy hearts—do something besides type it up! Words are fangless kittens—Hello Devilfish! Really—you’re wracked with love and itches? You pine for impossible Betty? Then buy her some daisies and take her to Funkytown—just stop scribbling about it!

  Anyway, then I crawled over dead Busty Slug Squidra victims—let’s evade with much torpor! ’Cause I still ain’t learned to walk good, mostly stumbling crab-wise down streets gooey with squished limbs and squashed clam-nectar kiosks. Ms. Tentacle Butt’s def on the chaotic rag. So bathtub with me while I trip over another twitching corpse—Squidra’s eyeball lasers sometimes make them flop all galvanic red for hours—and let’s search for rude shelter. Which got really rude when some gangstas shoved me out of their basement stairwell, screaming Get bit in Yakuza slang. Join our happy scapegoat club! ’Cause I’ll def get much blamed if anyone finds out Squidra’s only after me—that I’m the rube ex-ray what triggered her big pink estrus. Her hanky-panky is extra abundant!

  Hello Carnage! And bloodshed and guts as I bobbled through the Financial Prefecture, pixel ads for Gitmo Sweat sports drink sizzling on cracked billboards while skyscrapers snapped and oozed human marrow—whoa! Somehow it all reminded me of Bible class. Eeek—it is God-ra! Crushing Tokyo with his jumbo gold sandals. And what does that stalker cephalopod think I’ll give her, anyway? Maybe snuggly intimacy with me nodding off while she drones on about how her goddamn punk brother burnt her favorite Barbie—Hello Spouse! So trick your brain with sense again while I stand and hyperventilate. ’Cause shhh—I just heard this horrid gloopy noise like jihad snot. Eeek, it’s my rubbery cuttlefish date! Who’s smashing stores and buses, sniffing the debris for my biped scent. No. 1 Towel Production OK!

  So pet your fury harder while I scramble away. Hah—we learned that much from 9/11—don’t wait around for the second jet. And get out of the way, fuck-nuts! Meaning these sarary hordes strolling past me, clutching laptops and delusions. They’re way too blasé about that nearby slimy kaiju squid churning Tokyo into concrete sorbet—apparently nearby ain’t near enough. It’s like at that pinky-chopping fish mart—if Mothra ain’t right on your ass, why worry? Ask any Israeli—no imams lurking on the loading dock? Then no terror sick-day for you. Or me as I swayed quicker through seething streets—you gotta run from smoochy love. Especially from a hormone-tweaked squid bending trucks and roads to her wobbly will. “Darling—we need to talk—” she coos, mashing cars and streetlamps into steel granola, “you owe me that much—you promised.” Huh? When did I promise her anything except hate and disdain?

  Lucky for me Squidra lost my scent, turning her fluttering bulk toward the sea—probably heading back to some weird Sponge Bob coral hut with a whale skull foyer. I was safe for now—another superb mammal motto. Safe for now! Join our stupid coward club—all you need is terror and feet. Too bad about dead Seahorse Chick—she smelled panic luscious in her sweaty rubber negligee—but I’d already boned her in my mind. Which is where most human boning takes place anyway—for sex-crazed bonobos, you guys hardly get any. And I’m getting less! Pity my lonely, lonely dong—it should be copping drunk titty sex with stripper chicks! These anthro wangs are somewhat demanding—my lust is a thing for big censure. And so are demented Squidra’s dude-on-squid fantasies—she’s more twisted than a licorice tornado.

  Anyway, I wobbled through night Tokyo till I ended smack back in that Buraku district. Why am I drawn to bum life? Probably the fish and death stench—it smells like stingray home. And then I saw a green rooster. Not an actual rooster—that clucker wouldn’t last a famished minute in broke Buraku-town. Nope, this fowl was super-sized—meaning that girl in a bantam costume shedding feathers near a furby bar. Whoa—a fur-real furby bar! Listen, a Tokyo furby bar is not to be missed or dissed. ’Cause unlike American furries—those chubby pervs who wear rent-a-mammal costumes for a night of dry-humping cartoon booty—Tokyo furbies put the hot back in haute. Plus a furby bar means cosplay—that’s costume-play in J-Pop speak. I’d read websites about cosplay orgies in ruined warehouses. Mmmm, sounds delish—a yelping pile of anime girls in manimal garb, a farm-fest fuck mosh crammed with warbling human tail. Hello Devilfish! I’m as delirious as a boiled preemie.

  Was I invited? Should I sneak in? Hah—anywhere’s better than waiting around for stanky Squidra. Plus maybe I’ll get laid here! Either that or snookered into a Badz Maru Tupperware party—you never know with these fur-dom freaks. As testosterone sugars surged through my veins while slit twats danced on my mind. I’m doing the hormone polka! No wonder I’m totally doomed—Hello Devilfish! I touched a tiny doom. And was def ready to touch pretty much anyone—my peepee’s a sad bachelor. Not for long—the sidewalk outside this furby bar was chocked with fashion slatterns, Ganguro hotties in superfly fly suits, Yamanba blackface babes, and barely-legal morsels dressed up as Bo Peep or her bendable lamb. Just like at The Busty Slug—Tokyo’s cuckoo for costumes. Japan’s pretty much a permanent Halloween.

  A Halloween with cooze and booze—alright—time to hustle! My lobster-hot Jimmy craves wet-time fun. But hmmm, without sufficient bling—how to get in? That dead doc’s wallet was pretty cash poor. And I doubt my usual Us morphed stingrays don’t carry much yen scam would work here. Ahhh, goofy Japan—I must count on my blue gaijan exoticness—all I gotta do is lurk around. Sure enough, I get tapped on the shoulder by Rooster Girl. “Blue mansu—we are having a social time!” she slaps me with her fake wing. Everything’s fake—get used to it. “And BTW,” she touches my bare arm, “nice Smurf costume.”

  “What costume?” I act dumb. It’s not as hard as you think—think harder!

  “Whoa—cool skin,” she pinches me, ow, “how’d you dye it?”

  “It’s a dumb story,” I grit my teeth. What—now I gotta narrate stuff?

  “Grab your bongos, Mr. Blue Mansu—let’s have a fuck party!” she giggles.

  “Sounds groovy,” I nod. Except uh oh—I am in a dicey neighborhood—what if she’s Buraku? How could I endure the shame? First I’ll need to learn what shame even is. “I know the doorman—free entry! You got money for drinks?” Rooster Girl squints way too close at my pockets—these Tokyo chicks ain’t shy about wallet inspection. I see much of a doomsday here! Better make shit up. “Blue Mansu knows the bartender,” I fib. My art, you are my art. Let’s never make sense. “I’m a chicken!” Rooster Girl pats her clammy fowl costume, “a really damp chicken.” True dat—her bare knees were sweating worse than mayo at a marathon. I can haz picnic sex? As we slide into that manimal bar and hopefully her libido’s waiting room. “Brak buk buk,” Rooster Girl crows, “I’m a big hen!” No worries—how many tragedies start with that line?

  / 19 /

  O Japan, you have mouths and pantsuits—let’s never disagree. Except about how god-awful hideous Tokyo pop is—the stuff sounds like fried mynahs. Hello Cacophony! As a furby party doorman bowed us into a room sick with sluggish light. Whoa—it was animal havoc inside—anime critters, manga mascots, duck and pig and peacock manimals all glugging cheap sake and prancing around like Satan’s lice. Uh oh—cheap sake can lead to no good. Especially since I already downed two cups. Imagine mixing peyote, Nazi pee, and devil snot—and then throwing that away and glugging cheap sake. That shit was brain Drano. My drift is powerful and hopeful! My lips were already numb. But I gotta admit—I was in prime form. When I somehow convinced myself Squidra could never find me here—happy delusion—Hello Idiot! I see much of a numbnuts.

  And much of a poontang too! Yee haw—this furby hump-a-thon was just the squid-ducking cover I needed. I could blend in—my blue skin has much costume advantage. Plus I w
as maybe guaranteed some hot beast sex—either with Rooster Girl or any other fine drunk she-manimal. Dressing up for anonymous sex is always a hit in repressed cultures—ask any mascot. Let’s boink like slugs, slow and delicious. But hmmm—with who? That girl dressed as a samurai fox? Mwah ha ha—maybe she wore a six-nipple bra underneath. I liked her hick vixen dancing style—Hello Orgy! ’Cause everyone here seemed def ready to naxty—a lush Sargasso Sea of manimal butts wiggling in a slo-mo frenzy. Join us in pants snarfling fun! “Just watching, huh?” Rooster Girl grabbed someone else’s sake and glugged that slop down, “OK then. Let’s watch.” She is much a zesty mouthful!

  “Hello Blue Mansu!” some octopus chick in a cheap tiara tugged my shirt, “let’s groove!”

  “Cool,” I wiped drool and memory off my lips. My biceps are pabulum strong! Meaning not strong enough to keep Rooster Girl nearby. Nope—some wandering dragonfly dude already snatched her, both giggling and dripping spilled booze as they booked somewhere hidden—with octopus chick tagging along! Let’s feel bad and some lonely. Hello Doug needs a better mating sense—hah—that and more rotting rice wine. At least there’s no Squidras here—that gooey kraken’s got cuddly-wuddly plans. Don’t she know I’m too tiny for her humongous twat? Love is a jealous stuff—get it away! ’Cause all I craved now was chicken booty, to slam against Rooster Girl and gnaw her ratty wings till she blossomed nude from sweaty feathers. It would be cool if she sucked my tool, too. My heart primps for nooky—with a brave and sugar passion!

  And you can’t fool a waking dick. Hmmm—maybe I could join that seething biped pile over there—but they looked like mostly dudes. And no way I’m sucking any Johnsons tonight—let’s not have the gay. Or not till I got smashed enough—hah—liquor has sexy ideas. And sake’s remarkably crabby—like that drunk raccoon girl slapping her date with psycho paws. Got me why—you never know what’s gonna set these mofos off. And just as quick it was over—someone said the magic Japanese word about seppuku or ancestors or shame—Hello Devilfish! Then I guzzled more sake till my pants eel rose like a drunk moon—gimme some rampant cooze! Let’s have the fuck life. As Rooster Girl stumbled back, grabbed me and then stuff happened with taxis and stairs. Evil, lurching stairs—I was too wasted to tell up from now or left from later. Who cares about sequences anyway? Realism is like bad acting—you get bored and want popcorn. I spit on realism and all its cunning henchmen!

  / 20 /

  Hey kids—use your crayons to help Mr. Devilfish escape from his placemat maze! Save the red one for his dingus. I’m def trapped—in a plot backwater ripe with croaking prose and pulp sludge. What clod god made this karmic swamp? Where us poor stingrays swipe at chuckling fireflies while the Big Dipper ladles us with doom syrup? Beats me—afterlife questions are best left to your oppressors. But I gotta regain my blue mojo—no rest for the vapid! I’ll screech geeraa and raise on my wings—sorry, arms, whatever—and crush someone—anyone—to snuff this boredom. Mwah ha ha—boredom’s the best killer, nothing beats it. It was a balmy day filled with storks and ennui. Elmer, my half cousin on my mom’s dad’s uncle’s side—they all had lupus or strawberry leprosy—stroked his iPad and mused about kale. Hello Paris Review!

  I know—I’ll morph myself into a Xbox game. Hello Devilfish—The Final Quorum. It’ll be FPS—first person shooter—with my flaming spit and toxic tail as your weapons. Be sure to reload that fire widget before your napalm runs out! Don’t like that boss, that girlfriend, that boy toy, that job? Blast away, mofos—ignore the cheesy graphics, the CGI puppies, and Shriners dead in a billion trenches. It had to happen, there were forces at work—hah! You fuckers kid your killers and kill your kids—you bipeds will snuff yourselves plenty without me. I’m just the cosmic garnish, the ticking cherry some nightshade hand gently plops on your holocaust sundae. Let’s have a gory dessert! For all your martial needs. Look, all I ever wanted was—everything! The world shivering in my wing—hand, whatever—drizzled with mint auroras and baked to a starry crisp. With lots of screams and thick penis fun! I craved murder and pussy and hot stingray sprees, hawking flame loogies through filthy rain while you nudniks shriek and aim drooping harpoons—Hello Freud! All your id are ours.

  Anyway, then night was either blue or dark. The wind and my mind moved as one. Right—except I wasn’t banging cheap shutters around. Let’s hide your secret hairs! ’Cause the long black ones on that pillow def weren’t mine—or those polystyrene feathers neither. Fucko—what rabid manimal pup did I take home last night? Oh, right—that chicken girl. Mwah ha ha I chuckled as flotsam post-party scenes bobbled through my mind—me puking in a cab and the driver screaming ideograms—me falling up apartment stairs one bruised knee at a time—me snoring while Rooster Girl slapped my limp dick around—with lots of blackout amnesia marbled through this memory meat. Meaning I probably didn’t bone her—drunky wiener-slap rarely leads to a stiffy—but what else maybe happened? My head is sleek with booze puzzles! I’m a snooze cocktail brewed from crispy alcohol thirst—let’s blame sake for my flaws! Let’s have a blame. My brain felt soggier than shark spit—Hello Doug has much ethanol trauma.

  And also amazingly crusty gums. So brush your teeth with Biopaste! It has chemicals for your longing. Hey, at least the stuff tastes minty—you never know with Japanese dental products. Believe me—do not try Tsunami Breath Mouthwash. Anyway, so I’m scrubbing last night’s tempura off my molars—Rooster Girl made me learn me that hygiene trick—when I heard something gloop closer. “What the—” I leaned through her tiny bathroom window—a cricket couldn’t see dick through this dwarf hole—but all I heard was crickets. That and my own wheezy breathing—these monkey lungs work like wet concertinas.

  But a life of booze, murder, and hot furby booty ain’t bad—maybe I could get used to staying human. As long as I never get a job—hah—you bipeds are slave donkeys. Any boss with a whip and a slogan can keep you suckas toiling. Maybe if I tricked Rooster Girl with love I could sponge off her—Hello Metrosexual! All your spike mousse are ours. Still—what’s with that glooping noise? No way Squidra could find me here—this ain’t even my apartment. For sure not—the place was freezing—brrr! How do you bipeds stay warm? Duh, with clothing—so I donned this kimono I found on the floor—some fuchsia number dotted with cartoon carrots. WTF? Was it designed for chicks or dudes? But instead of fashion delirium, maybe I should’ve watched those chintz bedroom curtains. Where eight sneaky stealth tentacles flexed at the moon—Hello Calamari!

  Here’s a story with girls and squids. OK—it was almost dawn out. Birds screamed about bugs. Cars wandered around like Alzheimer’s patients. Plus whoa—I needed some breakfast—I hoped Rooster Girl had some grub in her dinky fridge. But uh oh—maybe she’ll wake up and want smooches. Eeek! So far I’d gotten off easy—no violence, no weeping, no promises I couldn’t fudge my way out of—maybe nooky in Japan actually was guilt-free. Hah—dream the fuck on. Nooky’s always barbed with hell bait—evolution’s just one long demonic infomercial. And where was Rooster Girl anyway? Did she ditch both me and her own apartment? Cool—I could use a new pad. ’Cause by now that Buraku doc’s corpse stank up his condo into a cop-luring stench. Hello Maggots! It’s best to avoid the moist dead.

  “Want some coffee? Rooster Girl yelled from her kitchen. “Mmmm—java,” I wandered in where aha—Rooster Girl ain’t no chicken no more. Nope—she was radiant naked, a skin sylph whispering dawn off each florid curve—Hello Meat Treat! I got a major chub just gawking at her—human weenies are quick. “Do you take cream?” she tilted her hip. “Anytime,” I reached at her damp cooze. “Wait a sec,” she leaned away, “what’s that noise?”

  “I dunno,” I shrugged, “maybe giant krakens are sneaking through your windows.” And that’s when I heard those slurpy cheeps only squid suckers make. “Do you hear something liquid?” Rooster Girl frowned as eeek, morbid tentacles crashed through her kitchen blinds! Till a few wrapped round my shoulders and I smelled that hobo ocean scent—Hello Squidra! How’d she fin
d us? She has wholesome tracking skills. “Nice kimono,” she gurgled squid snot.

  “Um—thanks,” I edged away.

  “Why the boner, Mr. Demon Fish? Let me smell you,” she snarfled closer, “whoa—are you fucking this bitch?” Ahhh, mind your own beeswax. And your breath too—that cephalopod needs apocalypse-strength Listerine. “You said you’d be faithful,” Squidra poked her beak through that smashed window. Huh? Faithful to what—idiocy? Love me, dump me, eat me, date me, tempt me, shoot me, hump me, leave me—yow! At least she has goals. Baste me in girl juice!

  Let’s be modest with modest qualities. And get back to that yummy carnage where Squidra lashes even more tentacles through mashed glass and squeezes Rooster Girl! “Honor your commitment,” Squidra brays, “or the slut gets it!” and I both cower and shrug. While Rooster Girl puddles into organ fluids near a toaster—and what? I’m supposed to save her? It ain’t like we’re friends—all we did was hump. “Your choice—” Squidra screams, “love me—or mayhem!” and stinks up the place with her bottom-fish breath. Plus fucko is she ugly—that head like a gummy vibrator, that eye like a gangrened planet, those pulsing suckers that long to smother me with damp affection. Plus what’s she wearing—a polka-dot skirt? Some awning no doubt ripped from a theater marquee—which did nothing for her hips. “Stop undressing me with your eyes,” Squidra snarls, “use your hands!”