Hello Devilfish! (3 page)

/ 6 /

You can bone a steak but not your mom. And maybe I can bone Big Lit by subtly invading books. We'll start with some twentieth-century classics—Hello CliffsNotes! First off, let's trash
A Farewell to Limbs
by Zelda Hemingway—this honker about some castrated dude from a war. See what I mean? Lose a wang, gain a plot point. Anyway, this all happens in Paris—you can tell from the creepy yellow buildings. Someone's gotta clean this dive up—maybe I should just char it into Vichy rubble. But where's the boffo fun in that? And what am I doing in Paris anyway? I'm not gay or a poet, mwah ha ha—what's the diff? And why is my ray snout, ow, jammed into this teensy apartment? Where a skinny chick and fat dude wander around yammering fin de siècle nonsense. “I say, Count,” some chick named Brett snarls, “do pour us some bubbly.”

“Isn't she great?” the Count guffaws. Who guffaws anymore? “Huh? What?” I sputter fire, “huh?” And why am I hanging with these boozers? You need to stroke a fish for his luck. “Jake—don't be a boor,” Brett whines, “do find us some clean glasses.”

“Very clean,” the Count smiles.

“Extra clean,” Brett adds.

“Who's Jake?” I wrinkle my wet face.

“Amazingly clean,” the Count ripostes. “Hello Devilfish!” I scream and smear him across the sink. Plus who's Jake? “That wasn't nice,” Brett sighs, “you
can
be a beast.”

“Permission granted? Thanks!” I lunge away, smearing Paris into brick mâché. There's gotta be a Frenchy way to end this tome—I know—how about the Eiffel Tower? So I rip it up with my
radiant tail, shake some wailing tourists off, tuck it under my wing and hump back to Brett's flat. “Where
is
that champagne?” that bitch snarls.

“Hey, baby,” I poke that Eiffel tip through her window, “you dig shish kabob?”

“Hello Jake!” Brett backs up onto some silky divan. Hmmm—should I squash her into floor jelly? Or wear her skin like a scarf? Nah, I'll just prong her with this Eiffel thingy—
kabonggggggg
! Goodbye Lost Generation—Hello Devilfish!

And Hello Slums—woo hoo! Meaning this hovel district I wandered into after gutting that army. I salute you Major Ruckus! Fucko yes—I've always hated these rotting shacks hewn from bored work. You need a Devilfish to set you comrades right—meaning me! I'm anger with a tail and mass attitude. Destroy the running dogs of subtlety! Or just the running dogs—like that slobbering pack of collies I gulped down. Mmmm—they tasted most alpha. And somehow also stunk from caramel corn—no, wait—that's from that carnival I meant to wreck.
Geeraa
! I'll confess all now—it was a night lit by clown hair. Where I thrashed toward that crispy popcorn stench, shredding car lots and freight trains into aluminum salad. And after torching another freeway into smack-up soufflé I reached my radiant goal. Meaning this classic slack midway riddled with disco prepubes and gawking rubes. So cute—even the tots were swearing when I crashed the turnstiles, yay! Hello Devilfish! See how I subtly warp the dynamic? Who cares about nostalgia or tits when some crazed stingray is thrashing everyone into luminous goo? I bring you the cannibal century. I am the god of hellfire. How's my branding?

Alright! It was juicy mayhem—carnies and marks scurrying under smashed tents, me ripping spines out till they twist like drowned worms, addled moms shrieking like always—sheesh. Get a life, mom! And maybe churn out a few more tykes—they pop like milky cherries, mmmm. I even cornered a few hipsters by the Squid-o-tron ride. Meaning that pink iron squid ride with curly tentacle cars—which hmmm, no one was riding. Maybe 'cause it stank like a mummy's cunt. Plus who makes a ride shaped like a squid? It was fuglier than Mormon porn. Bizarre—its suckers even twitched a bit when I churned those nearby hipsters into plaid hat paste—take that, beardy dudes! All your beatnik are ours. And then I heard that evil calliope again.

Churning out this horrid steamy
Baby Elephant Walk
schlock you fuckers play to get cheerful. I spit on your cheer with stingray napalm,
geeraa
! And then thrashed that calliope into sonic tin—now it can play
Baby Stingray Walk
! While meanwhile I squashed more midway bodegas, slathering my bod with bloody cotton candy till I looked like some undersea tampon. I even got still and totally silent awhile, hoping these marks might mistake me for another attraction—like that pink Squid-o-tron ride that was hmmm, slinking away. But then all that spun sugar on me began to fricking
itch
—so I schlepped into a nearby marina. Us stingrays love baths—especially in mercuric harbor spas. I am bluer than most Smurfs! I will always haunt your malls. Just like those steamy tentacles grappling the wet horizon—huh? Strange—somehow that iron Squid-o-tron came alive and moseyed into my harbor. Was it some mondo robotic wonder, some time-warp Terminator sent to snuff my sorry butt? Hah—my butt is never sorry—and what kind of hokey pink ride just ups and escapes? I mean besides youth and pussy.

/ 7 /

My love—you are my love—never let go of our hopes and dreams. Now I'm confused—I want to be good but I crave victims. I have no pals—I'm lonely like dice in a church. So what to destroy next? Hmmm—how about this marina I'm already swimming in? Let's drum up some human kibble—Hello Devilfish! Be cheery with cheerful qualities. Anyway, so I'm slicing moored boats into fiberglass chili, la la la, smooshing bosuns and fleeing deckhands—when I spot a yacht trying to escape! Mwah ha ha—no one escapes the dapper Devilfish. Not when I swoosh out and waggle my fatal tail at some yacht hottie who screams “Eeek! Squidra!”

“Huh? No—I'm
Hello Devilfish!
See?” I tap her chin with my tail barb, “Stingray! Devilfish! Plus I talk your hot language.”

“Eeek! Squidra!” she howls again, her bikini butt trembling with fear—so natch I eat the silly bitch. Mmmm—she tastes like a baked wig. And while spitting her gallbladder out, ewww—I see that lurking Squid-o-tron ride munching people too! Fucko McSucko—that ain't no ride—it's an actual gigantor kraken!
Duhn duhn duhhhhh
—fucko! It's Squidra! She's like a nightmare beast from a nightmare—pinker than birth and squirmier than a nude junkie. Plus she's chowing down my victims—mine! I hate her like a thing. And you will say to a Devilfish, listen bub—you gotta kill stuff to own it. So grab a heart, put your ax in it, and listen to me babble! I'm a story with story ideas. And Squidra's my fugly problem! She moves like an armed pickle—plus she's got orange eyeball laser rays! Grrr, grrr—what a whup-ass weapon! Whoa—she just squints till her microwave vision shears through masts and skulls with surgical glitter—and also torches a huge welt across my left wing, ow. “Hello Mr. Demon Fish—glarb,” she gulps a swimming helmsman, “I've been
watching
you.”

“It's
Devilfish
, not demon fish—
geeraa!
” I roar, scaring some waves away, “and who
are
you?”

“The girl you're
meant
for,” she bats her gummi eyebrows.

“Buzz off! Ow,” I lick my burnt wing, “and get your own happy death farm! This is my Tokyo—mine!”

“You wish,” Squidra flutters her seaweedy tongue, “come on, sweetie—let's make
love.
” Whoa—she's obviously sicker than gangrened fudge—
love
her? I'd rather socially slay and eat her—but she's way huge! And sleek with gooey curves—she gives me urges like Elmer Fudd gets for Bugs Bunny in drag. Cunning pheromones were def out to trap me—biology's always lurking. Stupid biology—what's it ever made to brag about? Malaria and turkeys? Have a Coke and some pants again! With some fish-lust stew thrown in—the slop du jour I gagged on while gawking at my new honey—Squidra! Her tentacles like rain crawling through cyberspace—her curves flaring like wet jonquils—her eyes blinking with drunk baboon force—her suckers flexing like a billion lips—Hello Stalker! Hey, you try untying eight tentacles wrapped like demented bow ties around your gills. “Go
away
,” I curl my bod into a blue-wing taco till she slides off.

“What's
your
problem,” Squidra sulks, “you think I'm too fat?”

“What? Huh?” Fucko—where'd
that
come from? “You are freaking
whack,
” I shove her, “shoo!”

“Do you like the band Foreigner?” Squidra crumples another mast into pine mush, “I love their version of “Urgent.”
Urgent, dee dee dee, so urrrrrrgent
—urgent like
you
,” she coos, “so gimme kisses!” Whoa—what's with girls? They creep up on you like commas. Let's have a marriage lifestyle—it's called Hubby Life. Just mix obsession and dumb smooches—add on a tiff about pay equity and some weak mimosas—and put that suburban muumuu
on
. “Vamoose!” I duck her searing eyeball rays. “Scram!”

“You think you're so
hot
,” uh oh, Squidra's eyelids glow even oranger, “who made
you
king?”

“I'm always king—king hot pants!” I laugh, “
Geeraa!
Now am-scray.”

“Some king,” Squidra sneers, “you can't even talk romance to a
girl
,” and whoa, now I def should flee. She said
romance
! Plus
talk
and
girl
—words that stun your tongue like wasp pie. I'm a myth worth lying about! “You
know
you want me,” Squidra puckers up. Uh oh—was it true? Did I actually lust after Squidra's nicotine-black beak, her red-lead mouth, her puss flexing like nude pudding—no wait,
that's
her mouth. Add on her retinal lasers crackling yachts into charred goop—fucko! Eyeball rays! Why ain't I got a sick weapon like that? Let's have a sulk with grump sauce.

It all started—wait, it started already—with me confused by harpy sex desire. Face it, bros—we're pussy-whipped mopes who'd follow a spayed poodle straight to hell—we've been bamboozled, chained to a smelly meme, a wet Death Star that sucks our jizz comets in. “
Adore
me,” Squidra twines me with her Twizzler red tentacles, “I'm gorgeous!” You need to trick a ray into sex—Hello Devilfish! That goes without saying. So does doom—as Squidra flares like popped bubblegum when I giggle “Gorgeous? You look like God's snot ball.” Awww, did I shun her girly lures? Good! 'Cause mwah ha ha—now she'll fight me, yay! I'm a lout worth scrapping with—just let me drool some starter fire, flex my stingray wings, prep my tail and
smoke
her. Maybe I can fuck and devour her afterward—sweet! True, she outmatches me—she's fatter than Kansas and just now scorched my other wing with her horrific mango Kool-Aid eyeball laser beams—but I spit big flame! My enemies will be lurid toast. But when I puke a napalm tsunami at that greedy cephalopod—she just surfs it back at me! Did I mention she's way colossal huge? Uh oh—I'm gonna get my wet butt stumped
good
.

/ 8 /

Plots are for babies and geezers. At the end of the novel—Jesus gets the girl! After he punks the smug quarterback and saves the gator mascot from a handbag cabal. Bore me with sleep sauce! Really—you want little stories? How's this one—Death is your boss and Pain is your wife. It's a sitcom—Pain's dinner party goes awry when Death spills alum in the pizza dough. The laugh track's been looping for billions of years—Hello Devilfish! You can see why I need to destroy stuff. Hey, at least I got away from Squidra—'cause instead of tussling and losing, I just dove down some harbor channel. I can haz panic? And after cruising through this undersea Yakuza graveyard—a swaying garden of swelled bodies wrapped in leaky chains—I surfaced near night Tokyo. Alright! This was my Broadway, my Emmies, my Show of Shows—this neon pile spiked with weeping meat and estrogen. Meaning all the chicks I'd get to snarfle down! They're usually tastier than dudes—plus who wants a gazillion dicks in their mouth? I mean besides most guys from Montana.

And so har har, I lurked beneath a simmering tide, sniffing the lair of the land, calculating the Tetris parameters of which ripped skyscraper to stuff where. Oooo—this was the night I daydreamed about for snoring eons. As I flogged the sea with my engorged tail, gargled some fire and then—
geeraa—
rose like a blue ghost. Where I smooshed another wharf, mushing dockhands into a denim grease that I slid on into downtown. Let's make a grief smoothie! Start with fresh guts, then sprinkle with scared pee, girdles, Parcheesi boards, and sizzling lips. Now whip this mess into a blood frappe, pour into a milk truck and suckle it
down
. I am God's toddler! That fucker needs a parenting class.

Her kids are total monsters.
Geeraa!
That's my creamy motto—I sang it while spitting fire juice at that warbling crowd—you could make a porn compilation from my napalm money shots. Maybe even mix in some latex bustier foot-fetish action to market to the basement trolls. But right after crunching a few skyscrapers into rusty toast—when the elevators burst it's a human sashimi treat—I halted in that smoking wreckage. Something was def wrong. Whoa—all this senseless devastation—all this wanton, useless cruelty—it ain't cruel enough! I came to wipe hope from the map, not play urban developer. You bet, mayor—after we level Pimp Town, we'll build a Williams-Sonoma Macchiato Hut!

Hey, I know—sometimes Art gives you freaks hope. Why is beyond me—no matter how you paint your grave it's still dirt. So
duhn duhn duhhhhh
—let's destroy Big Art! With nonsense and violence and beauty—you gotta toss in beauty to fool the chicks—Hello Devilfish! I really can't say that enough. So let's raze some galleries, yay! As I trashed this Noho district with my crazed tail, jabbing aesthetes into shriveled lumps and whipping Brutalist lithos into boho gruel—hah! Till blazing patrons screeched around like schizo pinballs—that'll give them something to Art about. But I soon got bored with smooshing all this kitsch—Art croaks on its own. With big and frosty twitches! Plus why am I babbling about Art—I'm here to kill books! I'll kill them to death. I'll squish presses with my heavy wings and scrawl poems in lit petrol—I'll yelp till the cowering stars shoot their lumen loads—I'll scream delish nonsense till you bipeds agree that I'm King Lit! You should respect my pants and agree. Hah—I can already hear the Squidras of the world bitching—
That dumb fish can't even talk right, fer chrissakes—and what's with all the sex boasting? He thinks he's the Marquis de Cod
—Hello Devilfish!

But hmmm—what Lit pit to raze first? Should I pulp libraries into sans-serif mulch? Or maybe just torch the whirring server farms where e-Pulp hides in pixel shame? All good and rude fun—but if you really want to throttle belles lettres, just wipe out liquor. A sober poet is a minor poet. So I sniffed around till I nosed in on the brewery district—which natch was next to the slummiest slums. Hey, you gotta give the serfs
some
amnesia drug—either liquor or morphine or cable news—otherwise they'll wise up to their fucked prole reality. Hello Trotsky! I'll show them some guerilla dialectics, mwah ha ha—just wait till their precious goofer juice sloshes into those thirsty sewers. Plus while I wrecked their booze factories I could get sloshed myself. Bash your brains with bongo wine! Me, I craved a colossal drink—maybe a spinal-fluid Manhattan with a speared elephant garnish. Hello AA! I def need a better sponsor.

Anyway, after a few klicks of schlepping wings over crumpled wharves and kebobbing Datsuns with my gourmet tail—I found the land of hard drink. And whoa, these were titanic liquor-cracking plants, chocked with pot-still toxins and funky Midori—yee haw! Bro, no one gets hammered like the Japanese—they never really did Puritanism here. Nope—they went straight from grubbing feudal poverty to pomo industry—with a little six-year diversion into Nanking and germ warfare. Happy Sneaky Emperor—Hello WWII! And Hello Double Boilermaker—as I made a fish beeline at some ethanol tanks, slicing them open with my scalpel tail and guzzling all the unaged booze. Which must've been 150 proof 'cause whoa—I got bonkadonk drunk. Yes! This was
so
worth all the swimming miles to get here—to go pure hillbilly with my snout jammed in the world's hugest Martini. Hah—that swill made me as crazed as a bipolar shark.

You talking to me? Mwah ha ha—I felt pure murder syrup ladling my veins, roid rage bathing my nerves till in my eyes glowed into green amperes. Whoa—I need to think up sicker torments for these biped mofos. I'll rip pregnant chicks into caesarian stew. I'll mentor a Three Stooges gender-studies course. The only problem is—whenever I summon chaos—it always appears! As
kaboom
a gigantor pink kraken rears up, crushing mash pits into sugar dust
.
Uh oh—goofy Squidra done found me! She is both twit and silly—and stinks worse than a Romanian hostel. “Where's my lover boy?” she screeches. What a pest! I hate her like stuff. Grrr, grrr—let's have a grrr. It's monkey ripe with best flavor—Hello Devilfish! I'm a strange one.