Free Hello Devilfish! by Ron Dakron

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.”
    â€œWhat costume?” I act dumb. It’s not as hard as you think—think harder!
    â€œWhoa—cool skin,” she pinches me, ow, “how’d you dye it?”
    â€œIt’s a dumb story,” I grit my teeth. What—now I gotta narrate stuff?
    â€œGrab your bongos, Mr. Blue Mansu—let’s have a fuck party!” she giggles.
    â€œSounds 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 was 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