Free Hello Devilfish! by Ron Dakron Page A

down, “OK then. Let’s watch.” She is much a zesty mouthful!
    â€œHello Blue Mansu!” some octopus chick in a cheap tiara tugged my shirt, “let’s groove!”
    â€œCool,” 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