My companion and I started with the Australian Blue-ringed octopus calamari and the Xanthid crab cakes. Both were tender and flavorful. For entrees I had a glistening slab of Nikogori (blowfish jelly) in a toadstool (don’t you love the names?) sauce. My companion had the (fuju tessa, thin sliced, raw blowfish), carved tableside onto a china plate with a little skull and crossbones design, how delicious. My blowfish jelly was simply superb, exactly the right amount of jiggle. And my companion’s sliced, raw Torafugu was heavenly, not too flaccid, nor too turgid to swallow (wink, wink). My companion’s Torafugu was served with a large helping of baked Castor beans in a raisin sauce (just a note, raisin was misspelled on the menu, is should be RAISIN sauce not RICIN sauce). My entree was served with assorted white and green grilled asparagus, or is it asparagi, asparaguses? I asked the Chef if the asperigeese were ‘poison’ too but she said it would just make your pee smell funny. Other scrumptious items on the menu included fugu-sushi, thinly sliced raw fugu served with ponzu (soy and citrus) dipping sauce. Fugu Kara-age is the fish lightly floured and deep fried. Fugu Hari-kari, fugu fin, grilled and floating in bowl of hot sake. And of course Fugu gai pan, fit for a Tai Pan. I would have eaten more of my entree but my lips and tongue began to feel numb and cold for some reason.
Dessert was candied California newt and Eastern salamander for two, and how they got these wonderful desserts in the shapes of amphibians so exquisitely, I will never know. The musky sweetness still lingers in the memory like tender lizard kisses. And of course, what does one drink with such delightfully ‘poisonous’ cuisine? Why absinthe of course! The liquorish-tasting, milky green, potent potable was the perfect complement to our deadly feast.
To sum up, the Fugu Lounge is a good value at twice the price. (Not that I’m trying to give them ideas.) As a responsible reporter I cannot condone trying to draw three cards to fill an inside straight or attempting to swim naked in the fountains at the Paradise Hotel (I apologize once again, to all concerned, especially to the alligator who resides in the fountain) but while in St. Pete Beach, I cannot recommend the Fugu Lounge warmly enough. I am sorry not to include my companion’s raves over the restaurant in this review. Unfortunately he was taken ill rather suddenly and unable to comment. Suffice to say the Fugu Lounge is truly a hidden gem. Make a reservation NOW!
(P.S. Try the defanged rattlesnake soufflé!!)
“It must have been those two guys who were in here a week or so ago, the ones who ordered one of everything,” Roland said, amazed as he passed the article over to Hussey who was still reading over his shoulder.
“I’ll be fugu fucked,” Hussey said as she finished the article. “That explains it.” She grinned as she scanned the packed tables. “We’re the new ‘in’ place to be.”
“Excuse me Miss!” said a dripping octogenarian who stood at the bar, pool water puddling at his feet. “But you weren’t at the front desk and you haven’t been out to the pool get our drink orders in over an hour. We’d like six banana daiquiris, two Mojitos and a Kamikaze.”
“Hold your colostomy bag, grandpa; I’ll be there as soon as I get a chance.” Dee Dee sighed, as she turned on the blender, causing rum, bananas and cream to whirl into a pale-yellow tornado, and went back to slicing fugu.
The dripping old geezer wheeled on his flip flop in a huff and followed the soggy trail he had made on carpet back out of the door toward the pool. When the man had gone Dee Dee went into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of voodoo powder she had stolen from Hussey in Rebel’s room.
“I’m sick of having to wait on those old farts.” Dee Dee’s mood was ominous as she stormed out of the kitchen and slipped back behind the sushi bar. “And it’s time to find out if I can make zombies like Hussey.” She fingered the bottle of Mambo powder in her apron pocket and returned to slicing fugu. After she had built a pyramid of snacks on a platter she dumped a heap of Mambo powder in the blender and whipped up a brace of deadly daiquiris. A tray in each hand, she headed for the pool.
“I brought hors d’oeuvres with your drinks this time,” said Dee Dee, dripping sweetness as she approached the pool carrying a platter of food in one hand and a tray of drinks in the other. “A little treat on the house.” She sat the tray of drinks on a table by the pool and passed the food platter around as the human water buffalos selected crackers with chunks of fish on top. The floaters munched the tidbits and smacked their lips she passed out their drinks. She took a seat in a deck chair and waited. In minutes, the grizzled occupants of the pool were turning as purple as Mambo powder. Gasping they reached for their drinks and gulped them down. Dee Dee watched as each AARP Aquanaut in turn flopped over, face down in the water.
From the shadow of the alley, Stinky watched Dee Dee pass out the fish and then the drinks. He knew all about the deadly fish. “So”, he meowed, “the slutty girl is going to kill all those old people. She aspires to be the Stinky of the floozy world.” Stinky stepped around the mass of constantly canoodling cats and crept closer.
“Oh shit,” Dee Dee muttered as she watched the floaters turn belly up like dead fish. “I didn’t count on that.” She lunged into the pool and pulled each head out of the water and whispered in each ear, “Breathe!”
In turn, each head emerged from the water, gasping for air.
When each geezer was once again standing in the pool, floating on their noodles, Dee Dee addressed the group.
“Now,” she commanded, “stay right there and don’t cause any more problems.”
Stinky stared transfixed. How could this happen? They’d eaten the deadly fish and died. At least these humans appeared to have died, but they came back to life, and now they were standing there, breathing and staring into space. This was even more curious. She had them under her control; she had captured their wills, their souls. She had turned them into zombies. He was determined to find out how. Stinky strutted over to the side of the pool, his tail twitching, and poked his nose in one of the human’s drinks and sniffed. “There is something in the drinks,” Stinky meowed, “smells like mushrooms, buzzard puke, and a little like catnip.”
“Those folks in the pool look a little out of it,” Cutter told Dee Dee as he took a seat at the bar. “I passed those old farts on my way back from picking up some lemons at the store and they’re just standing in the water, staring at the Gulf. I know that’s what they usually do, but they’re doing it a lot more intently.”
“I know.” Dee Dee brought the bottle of voodoo powder out of her apron pocket just enough to show him. “We won’t be hearing from those pain-in-the-ass floaters for a while.”
Cutter shook his head. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
“They’ll float around out there until we tell them to go to their rooms, or go for the early bird special. Trust me, nobody will notice the difference.”
Chapter Fifteen
In The Corner Obsesses A Boxer
“What are you watching?” Dee Dee said as she sauntered into the bar and found Cutter and Tony glued to the television set above the bar.
“World Boxing on Pay per View,” Cutter said. “But there’s some kind of delay, one of the fighters is in a heated discussion with his manager in the corner.”
Roland noticed Tony motion him over from the other side of the bar where he was watching the boxing match while washing bar glasses. “I’ll have another round.” he told Roland.
“Funny,” Roland said as he poured Tony a beer, “they measure time in boxing matches the same way they measure time in bars, by rounds.”
“Looks like some kind of trouble.” Cutter was staring at the television screen.
Dee Dee followed Cutter’s gaze to the television. In the ring, one of the fighters was waving his arms at his manager.
“That’s a new sponge, right?” Dutch ‘The Cleanser’ Lewis said, as his manager wrapped tape around his hands. “It’s anti-bacterial tape, right?”
“Yes,” his manager said, “I ordered it special.”
“Are th
e gloves new? I want to see you take them out of the box.”
“I know, I know … got the box right here, see? Brand spanking new”
“Good, good.” Dutch nodded. “You can lace them up now; right one first, remember?”
“I remember, already. Now let’s get this show on the road.”
“We need another athlete to bet on,” Dee Dee whispered to Cutter, as she slid on to a bar stool beside him. “I want to make some more money.”
“What about that cop guy sniffing around?” Cutter whispered back.
“He’s got nothing on us; I think he’s just digging. I’ve been doing some research on athletes with psychological disorders and I have some possibilities.”
Cutter turned away from the television and looked at Dee Dee. “What ya got?”
“I found a Jockey with aeroacrophobia, fear of wide open spaces. He has to wear blinders like his horse.”
“Nah, that won’t work. The horse does all the work, fixing the jockey is no guarantee the horse will win.”
“I found an Olympic skier with chionophobia, a weather phobia causing an intense fear of snow.”
“Possible, where is he?”
“Switzerland.”
Cutter dismissed the idea. “Nope; too far away.”
“How about a professional golfer with a combination of anthrophobia, the fear of people, and apiphobia, fear of bees and being stung, and he’s right here in Florida. He’s got a tournament in Miami.”
“Golfers are probably immune, they’re like zombies already. What else do you have?”
“OK, I have a rodeo rider who has with acute coulrophobia.”
“He has a cute what?” Cutter knitted his brows.
“Fear of Clowns,” Dee Dee said. “Even rodeo clowns. And the rodeo is coming to Clearwater in a couple of weeks.”
Cutter gazed up at the television. “Hold on a minute, I got a bet riding on this fight.”
On the screen, the announcer, in a starched white shirt and black bow tie, strode to the center of the ring, pulled the dangling microphone close to his mouth, and bellowed to the unruly crowd gathered in the Tampa Arena. “Ladieeees and Gentleman,” the announcer announced, “in this corner, in the immaculately white trunks, weighing in at 183 pounds … Dutch ‘The Cleanser’ Lewis!”
Dutch stood, flashed a brilliant smile, and raised his right hand toward the heavens while turning in a slow clockwise circle and hopping around from one foot to the other. As he sat back on his stool he whispered to his manager “That’s Glacier Bay water in the bottle right? Two lime wedges in, not lemon like last time. We don’t want another incident do we? And it’s a new water bottle, right? I didn’t see you break the seal.”
“It’s new and the water is right. Everything is perfect, trust me. Now focus on the fight.”
The announcer turned to the opposite corner of the ring, swung his arm wide toward the other fighter and announced, “Ladieeees and Gentleman, in this corner, in the yellow and brown-stained trunks, weighing in at one hundred and ninety five pounds … Peter ‘The Pig’ McNasty.”
“This doesn’t sound good,” Dutch said.
The name was apt. The Pig was merely repulsive on a good day. His head was shaved, exposing a number of bumps, warts and hairy moles. He had a scraggly, Fu Manchu mustache and chin whiskers that looked seedy and infested with things tiny and squirming. His two pig-like slits of eyes peered out with an expression that was only slightly more mean than stupid. He had coarse, curly, black hair covering his back and shoulders and he gave off a distinctive odor of dog farts and curried eggs.
The fighters walked toward the referee at the center of the ring. As he left his corner Dutch touched the top rope on his side, the west side of the ring three times. Then Dutch took a little side trip, veered left, and touched the rope on the north side of the ring three times, then he strode past the referee, over to the south side of the ring and touched the rope three times.
“What are you doing?” said the referee.
“A … kind of a little tradition of mine, for good luck and all,” Dutch said.
“Well cut it out and get your ass over here!”
Peter ‘The Pig’ stood beside the referee, shaking his head.
“I want a clean fight,” the referee said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dutch said.
“No hitting below the belt,” the referee said. “If there’s a clinch, when I touch you, break immediately. No late blows. You both got it?”
The fighters nodded.
“OK, go back to your corners and wait for the bell.” The referee stepped out of the ring as ‘The Pig’ turned to go back to his corner, Dutch following closely behind. When The Pig stopped at his stool and turned he saw Dutch’s face inches from his own. Startled, he assumed he had missed the bell and now he was caught with his defenses down He steeled himself for Dutch’s blow.
Dutch’s arm shot out with lightning speed … past the Pig’s face, and touched the rope three times. Dutch smiled as he turned and strode back to his corner of the ring.
When the bell rang, both fighters moved to the center of the ring. Before The Pig had a chance to settle in and size up his opponent Dutch caught him with a hammer-like roundhouse to the side of his head. As The Pig staggered, Dutch followed with a left hook to the stomach that could have stopped a truck. The Pig, his breath knocked out, bent forward in pain. Dutch grinned and caught The Pig’s chin in a lightning fast uppercut that brought The Pig up off his feet and backwards on to the canvas. The Pig lay on the canvas writhing, trying hard to breathe.
The referee stepped in and started a ten-count, trying to be heard over the sound of the cheering crowd. Dutch stepped back and touched the south rope three times. On the canvas The Pig tried to rise up and fell back down.
“One … two … three … four …” the referee counted.
“Six … seven … hey, wait ref!” Dutch complained, “You’re throwing my count off, start over.”
“If you say so,” said the referee. “One…two…three…”
The Pig stood, he was shaky but he was upright. The referee stopped counting and peeled back The Pig’s eyelids and looked into his spinning eyes. Shrugging, the referee stepped away and dropped his arm to indicate ‘go ahead and fight’.
As Dutch approached, The Pig faked a left and tried to connect with a right cross. Dutch easily ducked it, stepped to the right and nailed The Pig with a left jab followed by his own right cross that connected with the force of a wrecking ball. The Pig hit the canvas as the bell rang, ending round one. The Pig’s manager dragged him to his corner.
“You got my towel ready?” Dutch said as he bounced over to his corner. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Yeah, yeah,” groused the Manager. “Exactly 62 degrees Fahrenheit, slightly damp with a lime wedge folded into it.”
Dutch snatched the damp towel from his manager and dabbed his face. He took a sip of lime-infused water from his water bottle and watched as The Pig’s manager tried to revive the man slumped on the stool by fanning his face with a towel. As the bell rang to start round two, The Pig’s manager dumped a bucket of ice water on the fighter’s head and pushed him out into the ring.
Dutch approached the swaying Pig. “Are you OK?” Dutch said.
“I’m OK,” The Pig said. “Let’s go!”
“Well, I’m game if you are,” Dutch said and unleashed a flurry of punches. The Pig tried to cover his face, his mid-section, then his face again, as Dutch beat him repeatedly about the head, face, chest and stomach. In the middle of the pugilistic punishment, a seam of Dutch’s glove grazed The Pig’s forehead leaving a small cut that began to ooze blood. Dutch ceased battering the Pig and stepped back, horror in his eyes. The Pig staggered, the cut over his eye now trickling blood. A thin red rivulet ran down his face and dripped off his chin. Dutch looked at his glove and shrieked; “Contaminated! You’ve contaminated my glove!” Dutch was dancing wildly around the ring and shaking
his glove as if he had stuck his hand into a hive of bees.
Running over to his corner he continued shrieking, “Get it off! Get it off!” shaking the glove in his manager’s face.
“If you leave the ring I’m gonna have to give you a count,” the referee called after him grabbing Dutch’s shoulder as he started for his corner. Dutch shook it off.
“Do what you want,” Dutch screamed over his shoulder to the referee. “I have to wash my hands. I’m contaminated. The germs, man, think of all the germs!”
“One … two … three …” the referee counted.
Dutch thrust his blood spotted glove at his manager who quickly unlaced it and slipped it from his shaking hand.
“I have to wash my hands!” Dutch screamed again, holding his bare hand as far away from his body as possible, like a bomb set to go off at any second. His manager doused his hand with anti-bacterial gel and held out a bucket of distilled water with a sponge floating on top. Dutch plunged his hand into the water and began scrubbing furiously.
“Six … seven … eight …” counted the referee as the manager slipped on a fresh glove, right out of the box. The Pig stood by the referee, waiting, his nose taped by his manager to stop the bleeding.
Homemade Sin Page 21
