Hello Devilfish!

by Ron Dakron

  “OK,” I swing a nearby IKEA lamp at her beak—which she simply gnaws to twinkly bits. Grrr, grrr—now I can’t even snuff one measly squid? Come on—killing stuff is why I attacked Tokyo! Hah—instead I’m the mark in the looniest grift of all time—the old gigantor-stingray-turned-puny-human bait and switch. At least I’ve been duped by the best—God is the ultimate carny.

  / 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.

  / 24 /

  Courage is the bitter part of valor. Good thing I got neither as I sprint into that handy tavern—maybe I can hide in a beer keg, get wasted, and ignore my flailing heart. It’s flailing with big hot sugar death magic—Hello Devilfish! Even I can’t make this stuff up. But all this dumb terror almost makes me pity you biped suckers—you’re scared of everything! Damn straight—it is all out to get you. And me too—even 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 underdressed—this dive swarms with natty gangstas. Makes sense—Narita’s a major hub for drug shipments. I can haz meth? Luckily no murderous minds fixated on me—why 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 eeek—it is Squidra! In all her fashionista splendor. Meaning she’s wearing a bridal gown stitched together from tarps and sails—where’d she find the time? And the tarps? “Sweetums—ask 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 two—” a gangsta cocks his thumb, “take it outside.” Screw that—I need to make large romance decisions. Fucko—was 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? Nah—better 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. Man—propose!” Squidra raves till “Banzai!” a sword-wielding Yakuza attacks her—and chops off a tentacle! Which flops around like a demonic tapeworm while Squidra smacks that Yakuza into bio goo. Watch out, snookums—’cause duhn duhn duhhhhh—here come even more samurai gangstas! With seppuku swords they somehow pulled out of their butts—till I hear their necks snapping like soft twigs. Sorry, boys, it’s a thankless battle—Squidra 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 all—mmmm,” 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. Hmmm—I could run away some more—except Ms. Pink Bloodhound here would no doubt track me down. I could try and kill this daft kraken—yeah, that’s worked real good so far. Nope—my only hope was to go along, get along, give up, and give in. I am bitter with cunning! Most of which was sheer disgust—this cuttlefish wants nooky? Then nooky it shall get—maybe she’ll slay me, maybe I’ll cum, maybe we’ll have babies, maybe I’ll get bored—your usual spousal concerns. “You want hot beast sex?” I snarl. “Then big sex time it is.” I even somehow conjure a boner up—hey, you try lusting after five tons of gooey fish pubes. “Alright! It’s Miller time,” Squidra yanks her tarp skirt off. “Um, no—baby,” I wince, “please. Leave it on.” Hey—no reason I gotta look at that puss. Or sniff it, ewww—Squidra must shower to help her social niche. But I kept my grit and spunk—at least the spunk—and 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, boys—if I survive I’m gonna need them. Survive? Hah—I’ll be lucky to die in one piece. Give mom a kiss and dad a gat—put a candle in the window and a shiv up your butt—me, I’m going in.