Hello Devilfish! (6 page)

/ 15 /

Life's full of bees and surprises—with seaweed thrown in for zesty luck! That pretty much sums Tokyo up—surprise, bees, and seaweed—combine them at will. You'll end up with either a failed game show, a new sushi chain or prostitot models slathered with honeycombs. Or a former stingray turned crude human who's banging his pinky stump away on a sticky laptop. Was I researching human growth hormone for clues how to morph back into my proto-ray bod? Scouring med journals for DIY abstracts about how elbows work? Nope—I was just drunk—whee! After guzzling beaucoup sake from that croaked doc's fridge. Look, I'm used to gulping whole rail cars full of rope-a-dope liquor—what, drunk on only nine sakes?

Plus even worse, I was surfing evil, evil Japanese
match.com
. That snuffed doc had at least twenty fetish hookup pages bookmarked—
Vapid Creampie Housewife
was my fave. Them submissive MILFs made my pants eel point
up
. Hah—there must be some dating lass here who craves a morphed kaiju for her personal household leech. And while sifting through this bevy of fuglies, career Nazis, and absolute loons—no, I would
not
wear a lobster costume at some coastal Kozu trannie weekend—I stumbled across Squidra's profile. Which natch I didn't know was Squidra's yet—Hello Devilfish!

I see much of a kitten here! Really—that was the first line on her bizarre
match.com
page—
I see much of a kitten
! Hah—right above this crudely photoshopped pic of some thong-clad teen covered with—what are those?—squid tattoos? Along with some bizarre kraken costume accoutrements. Hello Horndog! And goodbye drool that I sprayed laughing—was this profile chick actually wearing rubber calamari socks and tentacle garters? Somehow I'd stumbled across the ultimo Marquis de Cod mate—who else would play at cephalopod sex? Even the Romans weren't that kinky. But mostly I figured her as some art chick with maritime bravado, a Boheme trickster screening out the hapless with provocative lingo—'cause her entire profile was in Manglish! Custom writ for a mark like me. With wordage like
I touched a tiny sawdust
or
Let's have a biology
or
Hello Demon Fish!
Hmmm—where'd I hear
that
phrase before?

Look—any other ray with our normal walnut-sized brain would've caught on it was Squidra! But my stupidity is brave—plus who knew she could type? Though that airbrushed babe's kraken get-up should've set off every
voopa voopa
Star Trek
red alert in my numb skull. But I was much intrigued—her fish shtick struck me as pure performance art. And no one bumps uglies like an art girl bent on new euphoria. Even so she kind of overdid it:

I am much dog aroused! With extra woof sauce. I pictured us in some waterfront bar, her skirt flickering up her nether thighs, her thong shifting into black naptha shadows—happy duping sex machine—Hello Devilfish! Are we tired of me yet? Apparently not as I typed out a reply, cracked open a frosty Sapporo and waited on fate sauce with extra cheese.

Anyway, it was later o'clock when that laptop beeped alive with spanky email.
More Love Than Moose With Squirrel
the subject line said—groovy! It must be that squid-pervy
match.com
chick. Either that or more spam for Mumbai Viagra made from the freshest battery slag. Acquire our toxic lead boner! Why not—anything's better than another hour of Tokyo TV, a Dada swamp made from rotting crayons and laughing gas. So I muted
Mr. Frog Cripple
—this game show with bizarre tasks like
Please taunt my dead rhino
—and clicked that email. Which was um, mostly cuttlefish porn—even more bizarre pics of red tentacles snaking through rubber camisoles. Are all human bitches this whack? Fine by me—I
like
naxty chicks. Especially sizzling Yakuza molls buttered with wet DNA. All I want is an implausible girl with peachy thighs. She should date me for a husband that has common ideals. Anyway—here's her reply:

Hmmm—real seaweed or metaphorical? Uh oh—was I dancing down that dank alley where infatuation gets conked on its Easter bonnet and reality rapes your face—meaning was this chick stone nuts? Did she ever drop the
I'm a squid
bit? I'm falling for Squidra's hookup lure 'cause I'm naïve about nooky—how'd she even know I'd find a laptop? Got me—girls are tricky. So natch I emailed her back and we arranged a date. Guys are dependable that way—we're flies checking out webs for the hottest spider.
Help meeeee
—
oooo baby
—
brzzzzt
. Plus maybe that café would serve boffo grub—I was mondo famished. Let's plotz with sugar fatigue! Sure, I could snack on that dead Buraku doc—but he was already getting ripe. I even spit out the toes I tried to chow down—ewww. They tasted like feet.

/ 16 /

Time to hit the love mines! I'm hoping for a girl who loathes my glad career life. Meaning first I'd better re-wrap this oozy pinky stump—thing leaked like a mofo. And then maybe rob that dead doc's wallet—I need cashola for my big pervy date! I have only small bling. Except yucko—his pockets were rigor gooey when I rummaged around for his wallet. “Thanks, um—Doug,” I read his ID. Cool—now I'm called Hello Doug! Sweet—I got a fake name, I kill friendlies, I'm psycho drunk—I'm finally a writer, yay! Anyway, then I grabbed shoes and a new shirt—that aloha number was getting truly skanky—and headed down to the subway. Where white-gloved helper guards pack you in closer than gay anchovies—maybe they'll douse us all with spicy soy oil next. Till Squidra grabs the train, yanks some hidden pull tab and dumps us all in her rubbery mouth! Fine by me—crumpling death might cure this horrid rice wine hangover—those nine sakes churned my skull into pufferfish stew. Hello Doug should smooch his body and not be a such drunk—Hello Doug should do lots of stuff. Mwah ha ha—maybe Hello Doug should write a
novel
about stuff.

Your dream empire is without snoozing guests—and you can't cop a hungover nap on these commuter trains neither. Not when you're stacked prick to butt with sixty aftershave-drenched sarary men muttering “Blue Mansu” at you. Nothing like a half hour of breathing knock-off
Old Spice
to make you fond of oxygen. Dunk your tongue in factory juice! I was coal-tar dizzy when I finally stumbled up a platform escalator and into a Hello Delusion street-scape. With pulsing billboards for
Grim Life Tofu
or
Queasy Deodorant
, featuring epileptic visuals and nubile jailbait. What does all this boiled glitter mean? Beats me—give up on sense—embrace the glowing pop goddess as she gilds your neurons with corporate goop. What else you gonna do—read? Let's thrive in happy bliss Japan! And get entranced like me—by that shiny café with a big-eyed Lucite sea slug on top. Whose neon speech balloon said
Busty Slug!
Let's Looking For Fun.
I see much of a comedy here as I snort till snot gilds my nose—only the Japanese could meld the preteen sleaze of Hello Kitty with the ickiest sea beast alive. And so ha ha I giggled while my grisly fate throbbed only footsteps away.

My needs are simple—all I want is chaos and steak! And maybe those two chicks in fish costumes hawking slug samples out front—one hottie dressed as a seahorse and the shorter one as a clam, both chanting “Sea slug! Get slug!” at bored commuters. I already pictured them both in my illicit condo, stripping select yummy zones while we writhe in our lust-gummi bed. Hey—how hard can it be to meet a few girls in franchise garb? I gotta do something while I wait on my
match.com
date—she's very squid obsessed!

Duh—what I should've done was tromp back to Buraku town and avoided large trouble! I have a fun trouble. Anyway, back to my throbbing fate—which ain't all that's throbbing. I was sprouting major wood from watching Seahorse Chick hand out pureed slug samples, her perky tits cupped with green she-beast latex. She must be luscious sweaty in that costume—I got dehydrated just watching her. Either that or from that shrimp-head crepe I scarfed from that dead doc's fridge—you never know. Sure you do—Hello Doug! Lies are fun with mouths. And mouths are fun with pricks—something about that seahorse hottie's rubber tongue twanged every male synapse in my spermy medulla. “Treats from the sea,” she passed out more samples, “very slimy!”

“Bargains for the insane!” Clam Girl wiggled her fake shell. Hey—they speak-a the Manglish too! All the hip kids are talking it. “What you got?” I leaned in. “Tits from the sea—very horny treats!” she danced around, “eat my writhing cannibal slop!”

“Nooooo thanks,” I winced—who eats sea slugs? They're like crossing boogers with spiders—and this gunk was worse. I give you the Slugwich—puréed frozen soft-serve mollusk swirled on a rice-cake cone. You could even get sea urchin spikes or carp-scale sprinkles on top—your slug needs big flavor! But I
was
starving—I hadn't wolfed anyone down for hours! Us Devilfish are semper-vores—we kill to eat and eat to kill. It's like sex with pancakes and strangers! Wait, sorry—that's just the Manglish jingle some nearby breakfast dive kept playing.
It's happy time with syrup—it's sexing with your pancake!
And speaking of sex syrup, where was my
match.com
date? She's later than Jesus! And twice worth the wait—in her pics she smoldered like a thermite nightingale. My cock is a lush viper snake!

“Why you tinted so
blue
?” Seahorse Chick grabbed my arm, “from a furby party? From Comic Con?”

“It's a full-body Yakuza tattoo,” I smirked. Smirking fun for everyone!

“And what's with your pinky?” she pointed at my bandaged stump.

“You know—bad honor, gangsta boss says cut off my finger,” I fibbed about being Yakuza.

“Makes sense,” Seahorse Chick shrugged.

“Goop from the ocean,” Clam Girl bowed to a German dude, “horribly tasty!”

“Ist gut?” he puzzled.

“Nope!” Clam Girl yelled. Not to worry—he's German. They'll eat anything—pigs, cabbage, history—anything except pureed slugs. “Ewww,” that Rhine monkey passed his sample back. “I'll try it,” I grabbed his slug muck. Which tasted like hippos smothered with toe gravy—I could barely down it all in one gulp. “Hey,” I drooled, “got any more?”

“Blue 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.

/ 17 /

Men—throw off your brains! You have nothing to lose but your balls. I come not to kill the Law, but to complete it—with real laws like cheat the poor. Jail the drifter. Bash the fag. Pimp out your kid. And wear goofy hats, don't forget
that
honker—eeek—even I'm tired of me. And even more tired of all your whiny, weak-assed fiction—been abused? Write a novel. Been a ho, a bum, date-raped by a priest? Write another novel. Till you got libraries crammed with the collective bitching of a jillion victims—who still find time to write! It's enough to discourage even me. But not enough to
stop
me—you need to ride a fish straight to hell! Your extra mild with horseradish hell—mwah ha ha—just try and shut me up. Books are just paperweights thrown to the drowning—especially these nouveau hipster screeds about alien strap-ons and toe-sucking nuns—they're
so
mod. Mod about two centuries ago—Hello Dada! These weekend beatniks just dodge real questions like
Why does that squirrel hate me? Why can't I get laid by Beyonce? Where's all the free pork chops?
I don't even need to crush these ink-maimed wretches—just lurk around their story corners, raising my tail now and then—Hello Devilfish! Let's looking for flaws.

Anyway, then I traipsed after Seahorse Chick into
The
Busty Slug
. Where cooks wearing fakey slug antenna caps screamed for more rice and nori. Was this my foodie Promised Land—or just demented franchise girl's house of latex bondage? I wish—that'd be
fun.
Plus fucko McSucko, it was
cold
in here—it takes a mighty Freon blast to freeze slug gristle into soft-serve ooze. But like they say, it ain't the meat, it's the milieu—and this fast-food Antarctica put even Walmart to retail shame. How? With gaudy colors and wailing noise and pure freaky behavior—shivering counter girls twirling slug surimi onto cones, customers frothing nonsense and cash—but what topped it all was the screaming. “He wants a happy treat!” a cook howled. “It's yummy!” the cashier wailed, flipping her cap antenna like rasta dreads. While cooks roared “Busty Slug! Busty Slug!” at hapless customers. Fucko—this dive was a raving deaf fest! “Gimme the grub!” a customer roared. Maybe 'cause of that overhead LCD banner where an anime slug said
Yell Like Me And Get Prizes
! Alright! Only Tokyo could make you order screeching food.

“Have a big treat!” a cook shoved a Slugwich sample in my face. “Sure!” I gulped that squishy mess. “Make him eat more!” the cashier screamed at dancing Seahorse Chick. While shier customers clutched their Slugwich coupons and slunk away, hoping to find a saner franchise. Mwah ha ha—there is no saner franchise. But this Hamburglar inferno seethed with meltdown chaos—my kind of energy—so I might as well stick around. Hey, I gotta do something while I wait on my no-show
match.com
squid fetish date—her lateness angers me glumly! I'd already planned tipsy dinners where I lick sashimi off that art girl's thighs—or any other foodstuff she hopefully brings with. Uh oh, maybe she smelled my poverty—even wifi can't hide that shizit—and dumped me before we even met.

“Samples!” Seahorse Chick motioned a cashier over. Who wailed “He deserves plenty grub!” and bowed at me. So natch I bowed back—Japanese etiquette pretty much imitates those bobbling drunky-bar bird toys. “Hello Slugwich!” he screamed. “Um, same to you,” I whispered, hoping to maybe calm his bonker sonics. Dream on—that entire workforce ramped the decibels up, chanting “Hel-lo Slug-wich!” and banging pots on stainless counters. “It's full of sexy protein!” the cashier squealed. Makes sense—why else would anyone eat frozen slug? It's like chewing a bleach bottle. And no amount of wasabi-infused “spawn sauce” is gonna shield your tongue from that oncoming salt coma. Japan's been on a sodium Jones for millennia—who else makes candy from eel heads? Boil me in hot luck!

But no hot luck for me—'cause they suddenly stopped doling out samples. Why? Um, probably 'cause my date finally showed. I could tell 'cause all the windows burst. In an ear-jangling
keeee-rash
—fucko! What now? Was North Korea finally attacking? Or was it just another bone-melting earthquake like they get every six hours here? Nope—it was my gooey snookums. Hello Squidra! “Nyah nyah,” she stuck her fugly tongue out, “you
fell
for it. My
match.com
trap!” As her tentacles lashed past the counter, grabbing and twisting Seahorse Chick into a latex croissant. “You stop talking to other ladies,” Squidra munched that human pastry, “you only kiss me!” But lips that suck brains out will never suck mine—not with bad breath like a homeless ocean. A writhing pink and sticky ocean—hmmm. Squidra reminded me of
something
—but I couldn't quite pin it. Something damp and furtive on a June evening tinted with beer and raised skirts. But all that raised now was voices chanting
Oooo
while everyone's cell phones taped this smarmy carnage. Hey, it was flash dramatic—as Squidra dropped half-gnawed Seahorse Chick and then eeek, wrapped those Velcro tentacles around my back. “You're a
cute
little changeling,” she drooled human rib bits, “come to mama.”

“Nope—Hello Stabby!” I grabbed some chopsticks and lanced at her gummy suckers. “Hee hee—tickle me Demon Fish!” Squidra snorted, drizzling murder goo all over everyone. Whoa—learn to cover your mouth! Or beak or whatever that thing is. While her tentacles whirred like a flesh propeller, knocking customers and stunned cooks into walls or stoves or whatever other cheap decor got in her way. Let's have a décor—Hello Doug! Hah—Hello Doug should maybe escape now and not talk so cute. Hello Doug's a moron—I just gawked and oozed fear funk while Squidra churned everyone into death sludge. “Come on, baby,” she hissed, “let's work on our
feelings
.” Great—it's always helpful and delicious when life turns into cartoons. And feet into panic when I skedaddled out of that collapsing slug shack, giggling like a baby hyena. 'Cause hey, Squidra's
match.com
profile didn't lie—she
was
wearing a ton of seaweed.