Authors: Ron Dakron
/ 24 /
Courage is the bitter part of valor. Good thing I got neither as I sprint into that handy tavernâmaybe I can hide in a beer keg, get wasted, and ignore my flailing heart. It's flailing with big hot sugar death magicâHello Devilfish! Even I can't make this stuff up. But all this dumb terror almost makes me pity you biped suckersâyou're scared of everything! Damn straightâit
is
all out to get you. And me tooâeven that swaying
Hello Drunky Pilot
bar sign that clips my hurt pinky stump, ow, as I enter that dark Yakuza lair. “What's up, doc?” the doorman laughs.
“Huh?”
“The carrots,” he taps my veggie-deco kimono. Hey, at least I ain't underdressedâthis dive swarms with natty gangstas. Makes senseâNarita's a major hub for drug shipments. I can haz meth? Luckily no murderous minds fixated on meâwhy would they? If these killers can ignore a rampaging kraken, what's a barefoot dude in ratty silk matter? Which gets even rattier when a nearby bar wall crashes down. 'Cause eeekâit is Squidra! In all her fashionista splendor. Meaning she's wearing a bridal gown stitched together from tarps and sailsâwhere'd she find the time? And the tarps? “Sweetumsâask me to
marry
you,” Squidra gurgles, “and let love win.”
“Love is a fucktard's game,” I giggle and duck a keg Squidra throws. “Hey, you twoâ” a gangsta cocks his thumb, “take it outside.” Screw thatâI need to make large romance decisions. Fuckoâwas Squidra maybe right? Should I pop the question? Trade my big fuck fun bachelor pizazz life for a daily slog of brute work, poopy spawn, and dank loathing? Nahâbetter to stumble around like a spaz halibut. As Squidra slaps Yakuza out of her way, spritzing gore on the bar mirror. Let's not believe me a bit. “Do it, Mr. Manâpropose!” Squidra raves till “Banzai!” a sword-wielding Yakuza attacks herâand chops off a tentacle! Which flops around like a demonic tapeworm while Squidra smacks that Yakuza into bio goo. Watch out, snookumsâ'cause
duhn duhn duhhhhh
âhere come even more samurai gangstas! With seppuku swords they somehow pulled out of their buttsâtill I hear their necks snapping like soft twigs. Sorry, boys, it's a thankless battleâSquidra pretty much just mops the floor with everyone's guts. Except mine as I crack a cue stick in two and feebly slash at her. “
Stop
that,” Squidra giggles, “it
tickles
.”
“Enough!” I finally just stand there, courage stirring my brain into a war martini, “what do you
want
?”
“Some attention would be nice,” Squidra mopes, “a poem now and then. Some passion. Maybe a few kids.”
“And how's
that
gonna happen?” I toss that broken cue, “ain't you noticed? A slight difference in our sizes?”
“Nooky conquers allâmmmm,” Squidra gnaws on fresh Yakuza legs. They're extra criminal flavored! They're like goodness when your mom calls. And it's def time to call in my options. HmmmâI could run away some moreâexcept Ms. Pink Bloodhound here would no doubt track me down. I could try and kill this daft krakenâyeah, that's worked real good so far. Nopeâmy only hope was to go along, get along, give up, and give in. I am bitter with cunning! Most of which was sheer disgustâthis cuttlefish wants nooky? Then nooky it shall getâmaybe she'll slay me, maybe I'll cum, maybe we'll have babies, maybe I'll get boredâyour usual spousal concerns. “You want hot beast sex?” I snarl. “Then big sex time it is.” I even somehow conjure a boner upâhey,
you
try lusting after five tons of gooey fish pubes. “Alright! It's Miller time,” Squidra yanks her tarp skirt off. “Um, noâbaby,” I wince, “please. Leave it on.” Heyâno reason I gotta
look
at that puss. Or sniff it, ewwwâSquidra must shower to help her social niche. But I kept my grit and spunkâat least the spunkâand got ready to do my part. Let's do our job with action! As I slide my kimono open, aim my swaying woody, shut my eyes, scream
geeraa
and run at her. Leave a shot of cheap rye and some towels on the sideboard, boysâif I survive I'm gonna need them. Survive? HahâI'll be lucky to die in one piece. Give mom a kiss and dad a gatâput a candle in the window and a shiv up your buttâme, I'm going
in
.
/ 25 /
Did we make lewd tangled love? Got meâI passed out within microseconds. Squid twats are
stanky
. Till much later I sat up like a drunk rocket. Was I dead yet? Happy stupid hoping! Nopeâjust choking on undersea slime. Which I spit out and glanced around for escape routesâthat damned kraken would rear her fugly butt any second and demand more nooky. You know the ruleâyou bone it, you own it. But instead I bumped into a much naked chick. And not just any nude girlâthis one was a stark fetal pink. She glowed like God's tongue. “You
do
love me,” she traced a hand down my biceps, “but why you got such weak arms?”
“You should talk,” I laughed, “you only got one.” 'Cause her other arm was lopped off neat at the shoulder.
“NoâI've got eight. Or is it ten? It
was
eight. God dammitâthose silly gangstas must've chopped one off,” she pointed at dead Yakuza. Actually everyone in hereâbartenders, beer gnomes, sake hoes, and sloshed pilotsâwas killed except us. “Grrr, grrr,” she growled, “they cut off my tentacle!”
“Your which what?” I was mondo confusedâI need more brain for big knowing!
“My
tentacle
, dumb butt!” she screeched, ow.
“Uuuuurt?” I cocked my head like a cartoon dog.
“You
still
don't get it,” that pink lass sulked, “I'm
her
.”
“Her who?” I wiped gangsta goo off my ankle.
“I'm
Squidra,
” she punched my shoulder, ow.
“NahâI don't think so,” I scoped her up and down, “can't be. Really?” Whoever she was, she was hotter than fried gold.
“Your kiss
changed
me,” she licked her lips even pinker.
“Yeah,” I shrugged, “I do have this spiritual effect on chicks, andâ”
“No, dufus,” she punched me harder, ow ow, “you changed me into a
human
.”
“Um, I'm not sure how that worksâ” and why
did
she morph, anyway? Was it my smoochy human-growth hormone spunk what changed her? Was it fairies with goofer dust and Grimm pedigrees? Who caresâmake something up. “And look here,” that girl slapped her chest, “I got happy tits!”
“They
are
happy,” I admired them. But even more than their upward liltâmore than their handy size and fragrant weightâthey were this garish, DayGlo delirium-tremens baby elephant pink like the rest of her. She was a candy gestalt mixed from sleep and peach nougat with black fuzz sprinkles on her yummy puss. “Let's have more nooky,” she cooedâand yepâshe was def Squidra. My big ritual sex dick cured herâI am a hot weenie god! Pink girl, you're an unkempt visionâlet's apply! Plus she still smelled like an unwashed oceanâthat's how I knew she was her. “You seem surprised,” Squidra giggled, grabbing my armâowâway too hard. “Oops,” she grinned that trick smile, “I'm still way stronger than you, blue mansu.” It was her smile what clinched itâyou only see grins like that on drowned babies and anthropomorphic squidsâthat primordial smirk, the smile that splits the world alive. It's how wolves sneer when they smell gored ponies. It's how lightning beams when it spots a lone golfer. “Maybe we should get out of here,” Squidra giggled, “want me to carry you?”
“With one arm? Good luck,” I scowled. Hey, at least she ain't taller than meâor that dead pilot whose bloody raincoat I draped around her luscious bod. “Clothing?” she laughed, “why?”
“You'll get cold,” I liedâactually she'd get us both arrested. It's one thing to smoosh Tokyo and even worse, a Yakuza barâbut even glittering pink ex-squid chicks can't walk around naked. Not when hordes of cops were hustling hereâalong with fireman and paparazzi and local sashimi maniacs greedy for a slice of trapped kraken. Like the wrapper on Drunky Cod brand entrails saysâ
Bring Mom these sushi guts
! “You're not making sense,” human Squidra laughed.
“Never have,” I shrugged.
“Excuse usâpolice,” some cop knocked on a wall. You gotta love Japanâcops that knock! Anywhere else we'd be coroner meat alreadyâhere they still follow bizarre feudal norms. “Now where?” I checked around for exitsâbut they're all blocked! “Hmmm,” I rummaged through splayed Yakuza bods, “maybe we'd better find some hot guns and shoot the fuzz when theyâ”
“Wait a sec,” Squidraâor Girl-ra or whoever she was nowâblinked way too much. “I bet these still work,” and her eyes thrummed all ghastly Tang orange tillâwhoa! Her eyeball lasers kicked in! And toasted a skewed freezer to tin dust till a charred doorway showed. “You still got
lasers
?” I gawked.
“Guess so,” Squidra blinked her eyebeams off, “doesn't everyone?”
“Probably,” I fibbed. Look, I hadn't totaled the math yet on our mutual power relationsâand sure, she's minus an armâbut eyeball lasers could def tip the balance in her feminazi favor. Hello Gelding! “Let's ditch this sake stand,” Squidra buckled her trench coat. “Lead on,” I nodded as we snuck out a back alley, our limbs and minds striding into nightâand that's it! That's enoughâplots are more boring than dead lawns. Let's snuff this sick puppyâjoin us in book-shutting fun!
PHOTO BY MARCIA GLOVER
ABOUT RON DAKRON
Ron Dakron is the author of the novels
Hello Devilfish!
,
infra
,
Newt
,
Hammers
, and
Mantids
. His work runs the gamut from surrealism to sci-fi pastiche, with a prose style that he describes as “haplessly Chicagoan and influenced by working class whites, African American slang, and Yiddish comedy.” His novels explore differing styles of poetic prose, from Romaticism to cubism, B-movie satire to mangled Japanese translation. Born in Chicago, Dakron majored in English at Elmhurst College and Lawrence University before moving to Seattle where he worked as a street violinist and house painter, and developed a confrontational poetic performance style “drenched in faux punkery.” He began writing novels in his late twenties, and considers himself “a proud working-class novelist who dreams up Big Lit.” He lives in Seattle, WA.
Find out more about Ron Dakron online at
http://www.rondakron.com
Recent and Forthcoming Books on Three Rooms Press
PHOTOGRAPHY-MEMOIR
Mike Watt
On & Off Bass
FICTION
Ron Dakron
Hello Devilfish!
Michael T. Fournier
Hidden Wheel
Swing State
Janet Hamill
Tales from the Eternal Café
(Introduction by Patti Smith)
Eamon Loingsigh
Light of the Diddicoy
Richard Vetere
The Writers Afterlife
DADA
Maintenant:
Journal of Contemporary Dada Art & Literature
(Annual poetry/art journal, since 2008)
SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGY
Have a NYC:
New York Short Stories
Annual Short Fiction Anthology
HUMOR
Peter Carlaftes
A Year on Facebook
ESSAYS
Richard Katrovas
Raising Girls in Bohemia: Meditations of an American Father
PLAYS
Madeline Artenberg &
Karen Hildebrand
The Old In-and-Out
Peter Carlaftes
Triumph For Rent (3 Plays)
Teatrophy (3 More Plays)
MIXED MEDIA
John S. Paul
Sign Language:
A Painters Notebook
TRANSLATIONS
Thomas Bernhard
On Earth and in Hell
(poems by the author in German with English translations by Peter Waugh)
Patrizia Gattaceca
Isula d'Anima / Soul Island
(poems by the author in Corsican with English translations)
Cesar Vallejo | Gerard Malanga
Malanga Chasing Vallejo
(selected poems of Cesar Vallejo with English translations and additional notes by Gerard Malanga)
George Wallace
EOS: Abductor of Men
(poems by the author in English with Greek translations)
POETRY COLLECTIONS
Hala Alyan
Atrium
Peter Carlaftes
DrunkYard Dog
I Fold with the Hand I Was Dealt
Thomas Fucaloro
It Starts from the Belly and Blooms Inheriting Craziness is Like
a Soft Halo of Light
Kat Georges
Our Lady of the Hunger
Robert Gibbons
Close to the Tree
Israel Horovitz
Heaven and Other Poems
Matthew Hupert
Ism is a Retrovirus
David Lawton
Sharp Blue Stream
Jane LeCroy
Signature Play
Philip Meersman
This is Belgian Chocolate
Jane Ormerod
Recreational Vehicles on Fire
Welcome to the Museum of Cattle
Lisa Panepinto
On This Borrowed Bike
George Wallace
Poppin' Johnny
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