Free Hello Devilfish! by Ron Dakron Page B

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.
    â€œWant 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