Hello Devilfish! (9 page)

/ 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
.

/ 25 /

Did we make lewd tangled love? Got me—I 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! Nope—just choking on undersea slime. Which I spit out and glanced around for escape routes—that damned kraken would rear her fugly butt any second and demand more nooky. You know the rule—you bone it, you own it. But instead I bumped into a much naked chick. And not just any nude girl—this 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.

“No—I've got eight. Or is it ten? It
was
eight. God dammit—those silly gangstas must've chopped one off,” she pointed at dead Yakuza. Actually everyone in here—bartenders, beer gnomes, sake hoes, and sloshed pilots—was killed except us. “Grrr, grrr,” she growled, “they cut off my tentacle!”

“Your which what?” I was mondo confused—I 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.

“Nah—I 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, and—”

“No, dufus,” she punched me harder, ow ow, “you changed me into a
human
.”

“Um, I'm not sure how that works—” 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 cares—make 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 lilt—more than their handy size and fragrant weight—they 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 cooed—and yep—she was def Squidra. My big ritual sex dick cured her—I am a hot weenie god! Pink girl, you're an unkempt vision—let's apply! Plus she still smelled like an unwashed ocean—that's how I knew she was her. “You seem surprised,” Squidra giggled, grabbing my arm—ow—way too hard. “Oops,” she grinned that trick smile, “I'm still way stronger than you, blue mansu.” It was her smile what clinched it—you only see grins like that on drowned babies and anthropomorphic squids—that 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 me—or that dead pilot whose bloody raincoat I draped around her luscious bod. “Clothing?” she laughed, “why?”

“You'll get cold,” I lied—actually she'd get us both arrested. It's one thing to smoosh Tokyo and even worse, a Yakuza bar—but even glittering pink ex-squid chicks can't walk around naked. Not when hordes of cops were hustling here—along with fireman and paparazzi and local sashimi maniacs greedy for a slice of trapped kraken. Like the wrapper on Drunky Cod brand entrails says—
Bring Mom these sushi guts
! “You're not making sense,” human Squidra laughed.

“Never have,” I shrugged.

“Excuse us—police,” some cop knocked on a wall. You gotta love Japan—cops that knock! Anywhere else we'd be coroner meat already—here they still follow bizarre feudal norms. “Now where?” I checked around for exits—but they're all blocked! “Hmmm,” I rummaged through splayed Yakuza bods, “maybe we'd better find some hot guns and shoot the fuzz when they—”

“Wait a sec,” Squidra—or Girl-ra or whoever she was now—blinked way too much. “I bet these still work,” and her eyes thrummed all ghastly Tang orange till—whoa! 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 relations—and sure, she's minus an arm—but 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 night—and that's it! That's enough—plots are more boring than dead lawns. Let's snuff this sick puppy—join 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