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

does that stalker cephalopod think I’ll give her, anyway ? Maybe snuggly intimacy with me nodding off while she drones on about how her goddamn punk brother burnt her favorite Barbie—Hello Spouse! So trick your brain with sense again while I stand and hyperventilate. ’Cause shhh—I just heard this horrid gloopy noise like jihad snot. Eeek, it’s my rubbery cuttlefish date! Who’s smashing stores and buses, sniffing the debris for my biped scent. No. 1 Towel Production OK!
    So pet your fury harder while I scramble away. Hah—we learned that much from 9/11—don’t wait around for the second jet. And get out of the way, fuck-nuts! Meaning these sarary hordes strolling past me, clutching laptops and delusions. They’re way too blasé about that nearby slimy kaiju squid churning Tokyo into concrete sorbet—apparently nearby ain’t near enough. It’s like at that pinky-chopping fish mart—if Mothra ain’t right on your ass, why worry? Ask any Israeli—no imams lurking on the loading dock? Then no terror sick-day for you . Or me as I swayed quicker through seething streets—you gotta run from smoochy love. Especially from a hormone-tweaked squid bending trucks and roads to her wobbly will. “Darling—we need to talk —” she coos, mashing cars and streetlamps into steel granola, “you owe me that much—you promised .” Huh? When did I promise her anything except hate and disdain?
    Lucky for me Squidra lost my scent, turning her fluttering bulk toward the sea—probably heading back to some weird Sponge Bob coral hut with a whale skull foyer. I was safe for now—another superb mammal motto. Safe for now! Join our stupid coward club—all you need is terror and feet. Too bad about dead Seahorse Chick—she smelled panic luscious in her sweaty rubber negligee—but I’d already boned her in my mind. Which is where most human boning takes place anyway—for sex-crazed bonobos, you guys hardly get any . And I’m getting less! Pity my lonely, lonely dong—it should be copping drunk titty sex with stripper chicks! These anthro wangs are somewhat demanding—my lust is a thing for big censure. And so are demented Squidra’s dude-on-squid fantasies—she’s more twisted than a licorice tornado.
    Anyway, I wobbled through night Tokyo till I ended smack back in that Buraku district. Why am I drawn to bum life? Probably the fish and death stench—it smells like stingray home. And then I saw a green rooster. Not an actual rooster—that clucker wouldn’t last a famished minute in broke Buraku-town. Nope, this fowl was super-sized—meaning that girl in a bantam costume shedding feathers near a furby bar. Whoa—a fur-real furby bar! Listen, a Tokyo furby bar is not to be missed or dissed. ’Cause unlike American furries—those chubby pervs who wear rent-a-mammal costumes for a night of dry-humping cartoon booty—Tokyo furbies put the hot back in haute. Plus a furby bar means cosplay—that’s costume-play in J-Pop speak. I’d read websites about cosplay orgies in ruined warehouses. Mmmm, sounds delish—a yelping pile of anime girls in manimal garb, a farm-fest fuck mosh crammed with warbling human tail. Hello Devilfish! I’m as delirious as a boiled preemie.
    Was I invited? Should I sneak in? Hah—anywhere’s better than waiting around for stanky Squidra. Plus maybe I’ll get laid here! Either that or snookered into a Badz Maru Tupperware party—you never know with these fur-dom freaks. As testosterone sugars surged through my veins while slit twats danced on my mind. I’m doing the hormone polka! No wonder I’m totally doomed—Hello Devilfish! I touched a tiny doom. And was def ready to touch pretty much anyone—my peepee’s a sad bachelor. Not for long—the sidewalk outside this furby bar was chocked with fashion