Read Online Hello Devilfish! by Ron Dakron - Free Book Online Page A

smothered with toe gravy—I could barely down it all in one gulp. “Hey,” I drooled, “got any more?”
    â€œBlue mansu is hungry ,” Seahorse Chick grinned, “bigger samples inside—follow me!” she shuffled away in full rubber regalia. Mmmm—she smelled like a pile of burnt tires. So natch I tagged along—hey, she had food and tits. Pretty much all us dudes need to start into our peacock dance. You know the steps—dance dance, joke joke, plead plead, baby baby, please call 911. When we wake up stabbed or in jail or peering through another smashed eye socket at our hammer-wielding sweetie . Love is your personal brand! Which leads to cooler niche brands like betrayal, lust and murder—and I’m def eager to buy them all. And triple def eager for Seahorse Chick, all sweat lubed in sea latex, her tail doing a gummi-worm hula. I can haz booty? Maybe a happy tete-a-butt in some dark stockroom, our surimi-greased fingers seeking heat and wiggly parts? Mwah ha ha—nope! As fate closed in like an army of frog mummies. Let’s be paying grim attention—Hello Doug! All your ADHD are ours.

/ 18 /
    I’m a reality snack—Hello Devilfish! Let’s not again. Not what—commit mayhem, murder, tedium? Let’s start with murder—it’s chaos on a stick! And what drives this junked Volvo of a universe—join our tasty shoa! Hey, assembly-line death is pretty cool. But even murder gets boring—death’s just a cosmic plumber, a butt-crack slob phoned in to clean out the clogged pipes. Worshipping a vulture god like that’s a total waste of jizz. The trick is to have lethal fun —to put the yow back in Dachau. When I first set out to destroy Big Lit I thought your taboos actually mattered. Just violate a few of these hummers , silly me thought, and their mental empire will collapse . I was ready to whore out tweeners, smear babies into beige butter, scream racist epithets till I turned even bluer—till I found out it simply entertains you. You like hearing nuts rave—why else read me ?
    Someone tortured you, maimed your kid, mushed your hubby into war grease? Don’t write about it—kill them. Slay them in their beds and McMansions, their boardrooms and yachts—hunt them down for sport, wear an Elmer Fudd hat while you unload your wabbit gun into their spraying necks, smear bootblack on your cheeks and sneak with ninja grace into their granite kitchens, driving a Ginsu knife through their smarmy hearts—do something besides type it up! Words are fangless kittens—Hello Devilfish! Really—you’re wracked with love and itches? You pine for impossible Betty? Then buy her some daisies and take her to Funkytown—just stop scribbling about it!
    Anyway, then I crawled over dead Busty Slug Squidra victims—let’s evade with much torpor! ’Cause I still ain’t learned to walk good, mostly stumbling crab-wise down streets gooey with squished limbs and squashed clam-nectar kiosks. Ms. Tentacle Butt’s def on the chaotic rag. So bathtub with me while I trip over another twitching corpse—Squidra’s eyeball lasers sometimes make them flop all galvanic red for hours—and let’s search for rude shelter. Which got really rude when some gangstas shoved me out of their basement stairwell, screaming Get bit in Yakuza slang. Join our happy scapegoat club! ’Cause I’ll def get much blamed if anyone finds out Squidra’s only after me —that I’m the rube ex-ray what triggered her big pink estrus. Her hanky-panky is extra abundant!
    Hello Carnage! And bloodshed and guts as I bobbled through the Financial Prefecture, pixel ads for Gitmo Sweat sports drink sizzling on cracked billboards while skyscrapers snapped and oozed human marrow—whoa! Somehow it all reminded me of Bible class. Eeek—it is God-ra! Crushing Tokyo with his jumbo gold sandals. And what