Hello Devilfish! (8 page)

/ 21 /

Happy Easter with goat sauce! But I had more to worry about than hairy kids right now—like that vicious squid slamming around the kitchen. “We could make whoopee,” Squidra coos in my ear, yucko, “and start all over again.” This kraken is horny for man meat. Her exerting kisses must win a fresh bed. “Open up to
love,
” Squidra lifts her skirt and spreads somewhere pink—eeek! Is love always that stanky? “How about some coffee first?” I smash a fresh carafe full into her face. Till she collapses in a cuttlefish heap screeching “Hot! Hot!” and spurting frantic ink. Hello Devilfish! I'm amazed I'm still alive. Unlike thrashing Rooster Girl near the oven, her cracked belly leaking poop-sausage loops. “Oooo—candy,” Squidra cracks that girl's skull like a glass bonbon.

“Whoa,” I gawk, “did you just kill my date?”

“She was your
date
?” Squidra grins like jealous dentures. Do squid even
have
teeth? “Ewww,” Squidra plucks snack hair off her beak, “messy little bitch.”

“Great,” I sidestep twitching Rooster Girl chunks, “
now
who's gonna clean up?”

“Not us, baby,” Squidra slithers closer, “and take that kimono
off.”

“No!” I wrap myself tighter, “you're letting a draft in! I'm
cold
. And who made
you
boss?”

“I will rule your soul,” Squidra winks.

“Booty macht frei,” I snarl back. Sorry, I know—Nazi jokes are
so
twentieth century. But I gotta troll for the easy borscht-belt laughs—noshing squids are a tough crowd. Hello Chutzpah! Yep, the fun never stops here—it just stops being fun. Well, when in Rome do as the Visigoths did—smash stuff and rape nuns—so I grab a chair and make ready to go all Captain Nemo on this kraken's ass. Who just gulps that chair and then smooths her polka-dot skirt. I was right—it
is
a marquee tarp. It's easy to see now 'cause that kitchen wall's long gone. “Just me—no other girlfriends!” Squidra roars. What gives with this cuttlefish? She's a product I can't agree on—let's submission with me! “You
know
my heart beats for you,” Squidra coos, spraying ink loogies in my face, “why you so cruel?” Hah—Squidra was digging for guilt, tapping into that male shame vein chicks mine out daily. Picture them toting IUD pickaxes and toiling away in ovarian shafts, singing Seven Dwarves
songs and wiping spermicide froth off their brows. Never leave a guy alone with an idea. Never tell us the truth either—we're not programmed to deal. So put a smile with your lips and fib along with me! “Um sure—I got
big
love,” I shiver as tentacles wrap my legs, “heap big love only for
you
—Rooster Girl meant
nothing
to me.” That part's actually true.

“Prove it,” Squidra sulks, “come to counseling with me.”

“Huh? What?”

“I found a raptor in Osaka that does couples counseling. We could learn to
communicate
—”

“Yeah, um, undoubtedly baby,” I purr, “great idea. I'll call
you
. Just write your phone number on the wall with some blood,” I check around for exits. “No!” Squidra rears like an enraged pink Slinky, “no more
ditching
me. Give it
up
,” she slithers suckers around my butt, “gimme your man rod.” Squidra's def a classic weird stalker chick—she needs lessons in booty etiquette for her very mating needs.

“
Bay-ay-ay-by—let's get together—
” Squidra croons an Al Green tune—with horrid antediluvian warbling dredged from the spanky sea depths. Her tongue is deaf fun! As she munches some last Rooster Girl morsels while flapping her gills at my neck. “
Loving you forevvvvvvvvvver—is all I wanna doooooooo
,” she gurgles like lip pudding. Except pudding knows when to shut up! “Let me at least stroke your weenie,” she shakes me like a bottle of shy ketchup. It's shy 'cause it can't leave the bottle—it has very tomato ideals. “Honey muffin,” Squidra rattles me harder, “was that a
yes
?”

“Muh-muh maybe www-we should see other pppp-people,” I giggle.

“Maybe we should
eat
other people,” she puts me down—and then lunges her beak at my head! Luckily I dodge good and she just crushes the fridge into freon pulp. “Alright! Whatever!” I yell, “like I said, write your phone number down and—”

“I need smooches
now
,” Squidra rasps like an asp.

“Um, maybe later,” I point at Rooster Girl muck, “first I gotta tidy up, and—”

“Now is
always
better, darling,” she presses gunky squid flab against me.

“No! Not now,” I stomp my teensy foot, “later!”

“No snuggle for Squidra?” Ewww, she gives me that hangdog puppy look—if puppies were ninety feet tall and chewed hippos for breakfast. “OK, Mr. Demon Fish—I gave you a chance.”

“You gave me a headache,” I laugh.

“And now have big death,” she lashes her every runny sucker at me. “Nuh uh,” I somehow twist free and scrabble hands at smeary walls, gulping dust and panic. “Love Squidra!” she waves her tentacles like zombie cobras. I'm cute when I digress. As Squidra smacks the whole condo apart, walls shuddering into stucco crud where I smash like a comet through spattering glass.

/ 22 /

Anyway, then I ducked and wobbled through a rebar goulash set to Squidra Muzak—mostly
Smooch me
gurgles and Dolby grunts. Join our grim soiree! That's pretty much all Tokyo was now—a smoldering hell deli chocked with crushed spleen pâté and torn-butt cold cuts. Whoa! Girlfriend has been
busy
—shhh, hear that murky screech? My kraken sweetie doth waddle hither, stomping thick tentacles through leaky streets, smooshing trucks and mopeds into iron gazpacho. Now wait for it—here they come—her scorching orange laser eyeball rays, yay! That's how she flushes any hid idiots from the wreckage until
Aeeeeeee
they're charred to crude carbon. Alright! Who doesn't want a snookums like her?

Me for starters—she ain't my type! No dingbats. But I was def her dreamy fish-man fantasy—maybe she dug my moral torpor. Let's have the confused lifestyle—it's called Moron Life. Does Squidra wants to date, bone, or devour me? No doubt all three—hey, she's a chick—meaning pink, wet, and schizo. I can haz archetype? Still, no reason to make it any easier for that damp beast—there's gotta be some way to elude her radar hearing, suckery arms and dog-squishing bod. Should I maybe go to the cops? Hah—good luck finding any in this steamy rubble. Plus they'd no doubt just lock
me
up for my kimono fashion faux pas—and no way I'm gonna dawdle in some Fuchu dungeon till my pink sweetie shows.
Yes officer—that's him, Mr. Human Demon Fish. He's my Korean love slave! No, keep the gag on—the little fucker bites.
Screw that—my latest hot plan was to board the nearest jet to anywhere—we are flying your skies with moxie! And probably crashing on your tarmac—I'd never ditch Squidra that easy. She'd just grab my jet midflight and use it for a toothpick—Hello Revulsion! Let's much avoid her.

And you will say to a morphed stingray—well, how's that gonna happen? All your question are ours—Hello Devilfish! If I say that enough I'll be safe. Safe from what? Safe from pink doom harpies with ribbon-candy teeth—that Squidra wants to kill me
good
. The weird booty memes were probably just thrown in to spice things up. Exactly—it ain't enough that a mad kraken wants to rip me limb from skin—she wants to be
loved
.

But I got smaller things to fret about—like picking smashed kitchen slivers out of my neck, ow. Plus there's big wildfire spreading from that wrecked condo's gas main—get away Hello Doug! Except hmmm, maybe I'm being a mite hasty—how often do talking squids get a crush on you? Opportunity was knocking and I'm always home. Usually drunk on the couch, raving about wetbacks, but still—maybe I could make some bling off this squirrelly cuttlefish! I'll turn her sloppy lust into boffo profit—with a Hello Squidra ad campaign! I pictured juicy sitcom offers, Happy Meal spin-offs, Manglish energy drink endorsements—
Try Tentacle Cola! It's better drinking than Balls Milk
. I could manage her like Colonel Sanders did Elvis—get her hooked on butter and Maalox, then work her to death and cash in.

Should I employ Squidra much? Don't be Hello Doug stupid! And don't hesitate neither, bro—let's join that squid-panicked mob swarming out of Nagano prefecture. Just follow the bouncing limbs! So have some menthol refreshment, tell your pals howdy and crowd along. Where I'm def now surrounded by crazed Buraku masses, broke Tokyo-ites whose social ladder rung is on the paint-splattered bottom. What's the untouchable rush? They'll never escape—the Army already blocked every exit with barbwire and shame, hoping Squidra will eat these clucks first—and maybe get fatal colitis from their sub-caste bods. Nope, their untermensch job is to just hopelessly mill around, clutching pots and toy penguins—which melt into avian soup as Squidra ramps up her melty vision—she's lit with orange rage! As more clueless fighter jets scream down—and then poof into diode dust when her eye lasers zap them. It's gonna be awhile till they figure out how to snuff her wet rump. Ahhh, my murderous ogling sneaky-pie Squidra—she's got a mind brewed from angst and loose teeth. She's a job with stale honor! And my job is just to stay alive—and evade those gummy streets where Squidra cracks whole apartment blocks open, snarfling the carnage and gurgling “Here, leetle fish man—” Please escape her with me! And limit your yawns again 'cause fucko—what if this mob finds out I'm Squidra's sole goal? No doubt they'll tie me to a plank, dunk me in sherbet and offer Squidra a Hello Doug creamsicle.

Anyway—after body-surfing a clump of floundering cripples, I somehow managed to claw into a subway and board the airport express. I'm so cute—I don't know that Squidra is Armageddon yet! Meaning that prole zone we zip through that's smeared with weepy biomass—have some lymph jello! I can't even ditch her image—Squidra's B-flick pics are
everywhere
—on overhead TVs, iPads, and cheap Laotian Kindles—she's more popular than candied carp fins. Hey, her doom specs are FX groovy—as walls writhe into death spaghetti when her dread tentacles raze another skyscraper that's tall like a thing.

I always think of your thing. Especially when our train zooms through scrawny forests and toward Narita airport. I am a proud fashion god! Except nobody even notices that foofy carrot kimono I still got on—they're all gossiping about noxious Squidra! She's famous like a place. Grrr, grrr—it should be my Devilfishy fame, mine! And then—like nooky, war, or paychecks—that train simply stopped. With a gnashing
screeeeee
like from sabertooth rats as
duhn duhn duhhhhh
—squid lips gnawed through the car floor. Hello Predator! Hah—it's more fun than Commie panties as Squidra wads train seats into steel origami, sniffing any trapped human pretzels for my scent. “Give him up!” she rakes lasery eyebeams over commuters till they burst into bone popcorn. Squidra's having trouble meeting a boy and she's awkward. And pretty hungry too as she gulps anything drippy. Is that a kidney or a Chihuahua? Ewww—chew with your mouth closed.

/ 23 /

Number One mind destruction OK! Exactly—time to ditch this dopey culture seething with Manglish, preteen morals, and horny krakens. Mwah ha ha—I'm doomed 'cause I can't escape. Mmmm, escape—ain't that the loveliest human word? And the oldest—you warbled it crawling from sizzling jellyfish oceans onto gasping land—you whispered it stumbling through herds of vampire tigers—you sang it in schuls and trenches and cluster-bombed malls. And all I needed was maybe ten safe minutes to skulk away and make you guys proud. On to the airport! Let's lose our lives.

Hello Woozy Doug! That's me as I crawl from that creamed train and hop across squirming rails. That melt like my luck when Squidra amps up her eye lasers. “Where
is
he?” she thrashes at sprawled commuters, shaking some even deader and then gulping them down. While meanwhile anyone alive seethes away in fear waves, hoping they'll never be next. So why's it always
my
turn? I can't catch a break—or a taxi! Maybe I should just race around in circles like the rest of these human cyclones. And then yummy, I sniffed holy jet fuel spritzing like angel farts. Which meant the Narita terminal's nearby! So let's dodge through a jammed freeway, beep beep crash, then stumble onto—yes! Runway tarmac!

Thank you gone Jesus! Plus I still had that dead doc's ID—I could storm any plane and zoom into the swallowing skies. I figured with all this grim slaughter they won't be too picky about tickets. Then I'll buckle in and slurp Chex Mix and rip-off booze till we level out at ninety thousand feet—somewhere where there ain't flying squids. Till we hopefully jet toward survivalist Utah and some bleak Salt Lake desert—where I'll rent a ruined trailer and find work as a spud wrassler. You gotta have a dream—mine was rattlesnakes, chubby MILFs, and poor cable reception. And also heat, scorching heat—let's have a boiled lifestyle! The hotter the better—even stalker squids can't survive 120 degrees of blazing shade.

Believe me? Why not? 'Cause somehow I actually did board a plane, this midsize prop job where a stewardess grappled me up the gangplank—Hello Rescue! “Sit
down
, blue mansu,” she shoved me in a seat that already stank from pee—mostly mine! Do you bipeds always leak when you're scared? I'm sad and can't fathom why I'll never be safe. Especially when something pink this way comes—eeek! It is much Squidra! As that smooch-crazed kraken schleps across tarmac, wraps her sticky tentacles around the nearest 747 and rips it in two, shaking victims like Pixy Stix granules into her chewing mouth. Yucko—you can even see colons drizzling down her sticky flanks. She's a furor I can believe in—Hello Devilfish!

Never use fate as your caterer. As our mad captain throttles us past Squidra, hoping to dodge her spread tentacles—and no such luck. She's on a
love
hunt—puny constraints like physics and entropic mass won't stop her. “Where's my blue mansu?” she shrieks, latching onto our plane and ripping it into tin shards—with limbs and extra gut sauce! A stewardess even thinks fast and pops an escape slide open. Till someone's wallet tumbles down that slide—and some mope scrambles after it. What's he gonna do—show death his Walmart card? Too late—Squidra's already smooshed him and that slide with her pink rump. She's like a cartoon, only different. “Where's my leetle love bucket?” she growls, her beady eyeballs glaring around.

Our happiness is your squalor! But enough eloquence—time to get
out
. As passengers leap up and bonk their vaudeville heads together—and I'm trapped, wah! No prob—I just swim that yelping horde like it's an avalanche, frog-stroking over their punching fists till I flop onto tarmac—mwah ha ha! Let's have a plot to sneer with. I even ran before I actually knew how, plopping one dazed foot over the next like some trepanned lab rat, my brain pulsing with maze graphics, my hair streaming like neural implants. Join us in cowering fun! As Squidra rises in dank majesty, sniffing and gulping huddled bods and narrowing her gooey gaze. Uh oh—did she spot me yet? Probably—she's clomping very closer! But where to escape now—that twisted baggage ramp? That imploding terminal? That raging fuel dump? And then I smacked, ow, smack into an airport bar.