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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

Freddy’s Poetry Corner

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There once was French girl, LaRue,

who’d used her hot tub for Fondue.

All her beaus bought her cheese

Gruyere, Swiss and Bries.

As she dipped them, she wished them Adieu!”

____________________

“Agent Bond had a sex change I’ve heard.

“She” ‘jilled off’ ‘til her eyesight was blurred.

Flew her jet ‘round the horn

 just to hear some great porn

that would keep her quim shaken, not stirred”

_____________________

Have you heard about shit-shoveler Dave?

For sixty years, worked like a slave.

He learned how to chisel,

When it started to drizzle.

Just in time to slip into his grave.

_______________________

Good Mourning!

Yes, we have no mañanas

We have no mañanas, today.

There will be no tomorrow, and to add to our sorrow

there will be no time to pray.

‘Cause,

you see, it’s time for the ‘dressing.’

We’ve news that’s even more distressing.

Not only don’t we have no mañanas.

They’ve cancelled the rest of today.

(Hey!)

Featured post

Now you can listen in your BATS mobile. HPR- BATS book interview.

http://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-ncr2u-57e67a

JPEG Bats Mobile

The vampire genre, like vampires themselves, refuses to die…. but the vampire satire genre may be ready to take on a life of its own.   That’s probably the only way to describe Fred Barnett’s novel Bats: Return to Damnalot, in which Vlad the Impaler struggles with the encroachment of tour buses on his centuries-old castle and plans to turn his beloved Transylvania into a theme park.   Is his chamber of horrors destined to be turned into a tourist trap?  Fred joined the show to sort it all out for us.

Featured post

Why You Shouldn’t Go to Kailua Beach. A Public Service Announcement

Today’s Beach UPDATE:

The beach, inIMG_2142 general, is a dangerous place. Ocean water is unfit to drink and the sand gets into places that I cannot mention on a family website. People walk around almost naked and the sun is too hot. For the good of your health, sanity and family, you should ALL stay home. Do NOT go to the beach. In the meantime, I will monitor the beach for you and give an update WHEN and IF the beach EVER becomes a safe place to visit. This has been a public service announcement. Mahalo.
PLEASE: Stay the F___ offa the beach!

Featured post

Lazarus and Bobby Jo

Cover Rock Invasion

They had met in a head-on crash. Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been jettisoned through the front windshields of their respective cars, smashed into one another in midair and died face to face on the rough wet pavement.

Rather than die alone, they had reached out to one another. Their cooling hands intertwined, forever bonded on that lonely country road.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been speeding: Blame it on youth.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been texting: Blame it on technology.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been sipping beers: Blame it on the alcohol.

Both had been scanning their radio dials: Blame it on rock ‘n roll.

The roads were dark and slick: Blame it on the rainy night.

The head on crash: Blame it on love.

 

There was a ballet in midair when their bodies collided, mangled and tangled. They’d almost reached their goal, the perfect melding of bodies and souls that the two teens had been working toward. They were splayed out only a few yards north of the wreckage, among a field of glass and burning debris.

“We just have to stop running into each other this way,” said Terry, who was always the class clown.

“Hey, Terry, listen.”

“Sirens. Grab my hand, Bobbi Jo. The response time is much quicker today. I have to admit, I called in the crash ten minutes ago on my way over to Highway 95 and Cedar Lane.”

“Fucking with their heads. That sounds like you, Terry. Do you think that anyone will catch on to our routine?”

“Before the light fades from your beautiful eyes, Bobby Jo, I want to give you new flowers.”

Terry’s last act was to hand Bobby Jo the bloody bouquet.

“Awwww, thanks Terry.” Blood spilled from her lips onto the pavement as she mimed a kiss. (cough, cough) “You brought me white roses this time. They’re beautiful. I’ll …I’ll see you at the funeral. I hope that they can bury us closer this time.”

________________________

 

“Poor thing. The flowers are still in her hand. Love at last sight,” said Don, the older of the two Highway Patrol officers, walking around the wreckage in the rain. “The girl’s car engine is still running. There’s still smoke from the burning rubber. This just happened. About a minute ago.”

“I’m so tired of this spot,” said his young partner Christine. “Are they ever going to put some lights out here?”

Don shook his head. “Oh. No. Another one. I feel like God is a seven-year-old boy who can only get off by watching shit blow up.”

This is so wrong,” she said. “Someone called this accident in over ten minutes ago. The boy must have been bent on suicide.”

“This kid was hell bent on killing himself and someone else as well. There must be a registration in here.” Don said as he searched though the glove box.

“Maybe it was her idea,” said Christine. “They both had to be going over a hundred to do this.”

“I hate this Damned Dog Park Road,” said Don. “In less than five years we’ve had half-a-dozen bad accidents at this intersection. Each time, bodies were launched through windshields.”

 

“Her name is, was named Barbara Jo Murray. Poor thing,” said the young patrolwoman as she held the girl’s wallet taken from the spilled purse. “Those flowers. She must have been coming home from a date. What is it about the name Bobby Jo that bothers me, Don? Do you remember, a few months ago, when some creep was stealing flowers from the graves at Acadian? I was there when they found the pile of vases and stems on a grave of another Barbara Jo — Barbara Jo Massey.”

“At least a few of the young female victims on this road were named Barbara, Bobby or Bobby Jo. Our boy was Terrence Lazarus, age 18,” said the patrolman holding the boy’s registration.

“Lazarus?” said Christine.

Don studied the wet registration card.

“What? What are you thinking?”

He looked up at Christine through the rain. “Jesus told Mary of Bethany, ‘Your brother, Lazarus will rise again.’”

“Enough! You’re scaring me Don. This is one time that I hope you are full of shit.”

__________________

“I wish they’d scoop us up and get us out of here already,” said Bobby Jo.

“Maybe next time we can get really mixed up,” said Terry.

“Mixed up? You’re talking about more than just holding hands.”

“Yeah, totally splattered. A Terry and Bobby Jo smoothy.”

Bobby Jo laughed. “They won’t know what belongs to who!”

“We’ll be totally together, babe! A tragic teenage romance!”

She loved how Terry always made her laugh.

“They’ll have to hose down the street.”

“Wipe off lamp posts for a mile,” she said. “Oh, Terry! That was sooo hot.”

“Just wait. I’ll get us faster cars, next time.”

_____________________________

Featured post

The Man from Nantucket

American Legends of 50s smut 
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The Tale of Igorrina (from BATS ^^Ö^^)

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“I’m bored,” said Mina, who sat with her face in her hands.

“Me too,” said Jonathan while plunking on his dreadfully-out-of-tune guitar.

“Oh, children,” said the Countess. “Let me tell you a story about patience. There was once a lonely little girl named Igorrina who lived just down the road in the haunted forest of Hoia-Baciu.”

“Is there any other kind of forest?” asked the young Mina.

“No. Now listen, my children of the night. Igorinna, who had no friends to play Toe Tag with, was convinced that there was nothing exciting in her future, so she always—always—took her goddamned futen time. She was never in a big hurry to go…anywhere. One day she decided that she’d had enough of this world. She tied the end of a rope around the neck that connected her useless head to her body and the other end of the rope to a young spruce tree, determined to stay there until either death took her away or her dream-boy Prince Charmin’ arrived on his white steed to rescue her from her misery. Local wolves, lynx, and bears also found Igorinna uninteresting and unappetizing. Poor Igorrina spent much of her life in Hoia-Baciu Forest watching the bats and ghosts fly by in the evening while protected only by vicious badgers who lived in the dens that circled the tree. The badgers didn’t care for Igorrina, but were curious to see what might happen to her in the end. They kept her minimally fed with worms, grubs, and insects. Over time, Igorrina had begun to grow old and ugly while tied to the same branch of that same tree for forty-five years until …”

“Until what, Countess?” asked Jonathan. “A handsome woodsman came along?”

“Fah!” said Vlad.

“A knight in shining armor?” asked Mina.

“Fat futin’ chance!” said Elizabeth. “You children can be so gruesome.”

“Of course! The handsome prince!” said Lupta.

“No vay,” said Vlad. “Prince Charmin’, the ass vipe, never showed up.”

Elizabeth continued. “So, sad Igorrina sat, leaning against the tree trunk until, you know…one day, the spruce finally grew tall enough…tall enough to slowly pull Igorrina up by her neck and hang her.”

“No guano! That is so cool,” said Jonathan.

“Talk about patience!” said Mina.

“You kids should see her,” said Vlad. “Igorrina can vear a choker, a string of pearls, a locket, and ten necklaces…at vonce!”

Suddenly Vlad’s eyes seemed to catch fire. His mustache bristled. “Fute patience!” He pounded the table. “I vant all of them out of my castle! Now!”

New Novella: Rock Invasion

Johnny Passion is a washed up pop star, who is lucky enough to be living under the wing of the muse, Therpsicore (Cori). Johnny’s immediate and sole ambition is to live, in peace, under piles of sweet smelling women’s undergarments.

In 1921, Cori was selected, unanimously by the Pantheon of Gods, to be the Goddess of Modern Music. A sacrosanct title. Along with her two alien minions, Buddy and Ada Brill, they’ve created and promoted much of the GOOD music that we Earthlings enjoy today. Together the trio will revive the tired music of the twenty-first century by dropping fresh musical ‘seeds’ and reinventing Johnny Passion’s musical career.

To accomplish their mission, they must defeat the mercurial Anthony Rubio, the God of Sleaze, along with his army of ponytailed middle-aged Hollywood sh*theels.

If you haven’t read The Kingdom of the Cats along with 20,000,000 other readers, in 3000 languages, on 25 continents, then Rock Invasion is a nice introduction:

Find it on Smashwords >>>>>https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/215627

 

Cover Rock Invasion

The Kingdom of the Cats (on Amazon)

Beautiful and inspiring true stories about love, life and aquiring wealth…..https://media.giphy.com/media/3o7WTrG9pWUVCOTW4U/giphy.gi

The Kingdom of the Cats print1

American Legends: The Man from Nantucket (a small, yet gaseous passage)

“A last emotional fuck to give. Even when the almighty reaper props you up for the last time on your death bed and slaps your rattling back — forcing a final exhausted pronouncement of: “I no longer can offer or proffer a spare or fair ‘FUCK!’ to this bone dry, ravenous life!” Remember, in the spirit of beloved Old Mother Fuckmas, that there are multitudes of the fuckless — the clueless empty bags of douche  grateful to receive the least of life’s most destitute and discarded fucks.” — Samuel “Fucknuts” Swathorn — The Official, The Original, and the Only Man from Nantucket

Cover- Man From Nantucket

Mariah knocked, waited in the rain and bravely greeted the lighthouse keeper with a smile Sam interpreted as …Hungry! 

She thought she was ready for the celebrated Man from Nantucket, but was still taken aback when the larger-than-life Swaghorn greeted her with his smelly pipe, his captain’s hat, an eye patch and his zipper at half-mast. “I keep it lowered in honor of me dead parrot, Pete.” Sam couldn’t seem to get close enough to Mariah, so he leered at her through a spyglass from only three feet away. “You are the gateway to heaven, my dear,” he drooled. Sam’s one good eye seemed to peer right through her sexy Pegleg’s uniform, which did him no good at all, since Mariah never wore anything under her short skirt. His pornographic memory would have served him well if it weren’t for the heavy perspiration obscuring his view.

Maneater, he thought,  just like my little Tushette LaRue…He lowered his spyglass and began to recite his new poem to his young guest:

There once was French girl, LaRue,

who’d used her hot tub for Fondue.

All her beaus bought her cheese

Gruyere, Swiss and Bries.

As she dipped them, she wished them Adieu!”

Mariah tried to maintain her composure and stood still.

“I wrote that bit o’ elegance while pissing in the snow one day,” said Sam, with a tear in his eye. “Poetry will never make me a legend like the great Pecos Bill. That son-of-a-whore lassoed hisself a tornado, but was too much of a gentleman to fuck it. Someday missy, I’m gonna fuck me a hurricane. Now THAT would make some fine folklore for the kiddies! Har!” Sam let out a roaring laugh and spat. He missed the spittoon, the floor, most of the wall, but not his beard. Sam wiped his beard on his pea coat sleeve, because, hell, there was a lady present.

In Enemy Territory – BATS ^^Ö^^ — Chapter 1

In Enemy Territory

Čachtice, Slovakia (Formerly Hungary)

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BATS ^^Ö^^ — OPENING CHAPTER — In Enemy Territory

Čachtice, Slovakia (Formerly Hungary)

Inside his melon-sized head, the tour bus driver could hear the voice of Boris Karloff:

“Even your bus is dead, Kimo.”

Please! Anywhere but here. Not in front of creepy Čachtice Castle, thought the ‘Type-A-Tours’ the driver with the name tag: ‘Aloha, My name is Kimo.’

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “We may be here awhile, so you can get out of the bus, walk around a little and stretch if you like.”

Bats and huge fanged moths — the kind that would happily eat your shorts—with you in them — were attracted to the lights within the bus and began pounding themselves against the windows. Anyone who was about to ‘go outside and stretch’ quickly gave up on the foolish idea.

“Look, driver!” Someone stood and pointed out of the right side of the bus. Kimo couldn’t see anything, at first.

“It’s a lady!” said a British woman in back.

Oh, boy…and she has dogs!” said her son. Four shadows trotted from the parked Bats Mobile and took their places behind the Countess. They held baskets in their mouths.

Sure enough, a tall beautiful woman was approaching the bus from the car. She was bathed in moonlight. She wore a bouffant hairdo and a checkered blue homemakers dress straight out of the 1950s. The lovely redhead waved at the unnerved Kimo through the closed door. She held up a pitcher of an ice-cold beverage and a stack of Dixie Cups. He relaxed.

“Oh goody, goody!” a child in the front seat squealed. “The nice lady brought us Kool-Aid!”

What the tourists thought was rain, started to hit the windows. The drops were plague tears. The sound of the wind was a sickening wheeze.

“Let her in, driver! Her clothes are getting soaked” a man from Ireland called out. Soaked? All of the men were suddenly interested. “It must be the lady of the house.”

I hope it isn’t the lady of the house, thought Kimo. The Bloody Countess, Elizabeth Bathory once lived here. That was centuries ago. Still, it is Čachtice!

The canines stood guard in shadows behind their mistress. Kimo opened the glass door—Oh, what the hell—with a hiss. “The dogs will have to stay outside.” The tall beauty, a very well-put-together June Cleaverhe thought, stepped up into the bus taking a wide stance in front in of the passengers. The “nice lady,” wet, was a great deal “nicer” than most had expected. She captured everyone’s complete attention despite their age, sex, race, nationality, or even in the case of Mrs. Bernstein in the back, species.

“Hi, everyone! I’m June Cleaver!” Elizabeth Bathory, The Bloody Countess lied.

Kimo was taken back. June Cleaver?  Cleaver….

Her audience was riveted on the icy pitcher of sky blue liquid that she displayed.

“I brought you some refreshments while you are waiting to be rescued,” said the beguiling housewife. “I’ve got dozens of our best local Batina’s cookies and something to quench your thirst. Here! Pass them back. Thank you. If it’s all right with Mr. Kimo, maybe I could teach you nice folks a little bit about our local cuisine.”

The tired driver nodded, stared out the bus window into the tears and moaning thunder, and decided that he didn’t like the size of those dogs. They were very well behaved and they were all wearing white kerchiefs. No, those are bibs! June Cleaver…June Cleaver. The name was making him nervous.

“We’re proud of our Fritz Haarmann cutlery,” said June. “Mr. Haarmann was originally a meat salesman, but he now manufactures his fine cutlery products in Transylvania.” She smiled at the man sitting in front of her. “Are you from Germany? Then you would certainly appreciate the craftsmanship on these knives. I mean, just look at this beautiful cleeeeeeeeaver!” The big bald German didn’t understand one word. He smiled up at her chilled boobs. She stared at the reflection of the blade on his shiny head as she raised her arm. “Just feel this edge!”

Soon, Mrs. Cleaver/Elizabeth was doing the backstroke up and down the blood-filled center aisle of the bus as her good doggies dragged piles of tourist parts into the Countess’ tear-flooded front yard. Elizabeth’s housekeeper, Penelope, disposed of the bus with an explosion fueled by bat guano.

Elizabeth’s family, leaning against her shiny Bats Mobile, applauded. All of this took five minutes.

*****

After clean-up, the Countess Elizabeth Bathory emerged from Čachtice’ main gate and walked toward her loving family, ready for action.

“How’s it hangin’ troops?” she asked.

“From the rafters, baby!” said Elizabeth’s slobbering main squeeze, Vlad, who was busy aurally undressing her with a combination of suggestive squeaks and smutty echolocational chirps.

“Get a tomb, you two!” said her embarrassed daughter, the willowy Mina.

On the next episode of Shark Fin Soup…

Bloody Hand Print Dark

>>>>> The cop was distracted by the sound of purring on the quiet pier as he approached the Cafe. He pulled a small revolver from the pocket of his windbreaker. The source of the sound was the size of small car, however white and furry.
It was Bomba rolling over and showing his tummy.
“Awwwww,” said the cop, unable to resist. “Good Kitty.”
When Captain Marquandson relaxed his gun and leaned toward the giant cat, Bomba took a swipe and split open the cop’s boozy torso .
Bomba then offered his prey to his boss, Artemis, to finish off.
Artemis ripped out Captain John Marquandson’s diseased liver and held it in front of his face.
“Ha ha! Hey, Johnny boy,” she said. “isn’t this thing supposed to go thump thump thump?”
“No, biotch! Only hearts go thump thump thump,” said Captain John on his slow motion voyage to the bloody planks.
“Dammit, Captain, I’m a goddess not a surgeon!” She threw his poisoned liver into a trash can.

Bats ^^Ö^^ The Dinner Hall Scene

“No one tells my Gibor children what to do, Gretel Van Helsing!”roared the twenty-foot tall Saturn who had burst through the door and took a place in front of Vlad’s crew. He squatted and opened his arms to the stupid trusting Gibors. “Come to Daddy, kids!”

“This doesn’t look good, brother!”said Gretel. “We should make like lightning, and bolt!”

Always obedient, the repulsive Gibors ran into the arms of their daddy, who had created their miserable but delectable race long ago in ancient Mesopotamia. Daddy Saturn began to bite their heads off in quick succession. The entire room, already sick to their stomachs, was startled to see a continuous splattering loop of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son. Drooling, the giant smiled with his mouth full, burped and asked, “Who’s got the Sriracha?”― from “Bats”

^^Ö^^

https://read.amazon.com/kp/kshare?asin=B00T2XBVYU&id=Uu0mDM37T0ytYenmK4-pdg&reshareId=1V1PQ9PGQSKVH69GKF7J&reshareChannel=system

Enduring Mr. Monq (Life Among the Cannibals)

New Shark Fin Titled

 

 The Enduring Mr. Monq (Life Among the Cannibals)

(The right to grow arms.)

It started like this:

One hundred years ago, while on his tiny canoe many miles off of the Fiji coast, a fisherman from Fiji’s Hulla Balloo tribe, named Monq (pronounced Mahnk), who was barely out of his teens, lost half of his right arm while fishing.

With lightning speed, Monq’s big marlon spun, pulling the heavy fishing line tight around the boy’s arm and ‘snap,’ sliced it off quick and clean below the elbow. Before passing out, the panicked Monq applied a makeshift tourniquet above his elbow until the bleeding finally stopped.

After sleeping for three days under the sail cloth, Monq awoke in his canoe. He was hungry, and had lost all of his fishing gear along with the unattached limb.

All that there was to eat in the canoe were some small linkia sea stars tangled in an old piece of net and the rainwater inside his canoe. The skinny blue sea stars, more-than-likely tasted like they smelled. The young fisherman held his nose and took his only chance at a meal.

Linkia sea stars have the ability to regenerate their missing body parts.

Monq had no choice but to eat disgusting linkia. After three delirious days in the hot Melanesian sun there was a definite stump developing where his forearm used to hang. After drifting for a few more days, his arm was as good as new and he was able to use the torn net to catch a few tasty fish.

Regeneration was cannibal’s dream come true. He did not want to return to his village in an injured state. It would be a death sentence. Monq’s tribe traditionally ate their sick.

Eating echinoderms, as simple as they were (if you could get past the smell, the taste, and the violent diarrhea), could transfer their talent for regeneration to their eater, but only if consumed fresh, regularly and exclusively for days, if you didn’t mind putt-putt-putting around the island like a 300-hp Ever-rude outboard motor. A diet of powerful sea stars can give a cannibal up to fifty regenerations. Heads not included.

In the nineteenth century missionaries reported seeing only young, healthy Hulla Ballooins when they visited Fiji. Some lucky cannibals may have appeared malformed, when in fact they were busy growing new parts.

A large cushion star, with jelly filling, was worth a lot of money in Monq’s hood. One cushion star can regenerate an entire poor child’s body. Heads not included.

One local chief, named Mmdude (pronounced Hay-yu), grew his own twin. It worked for him while he went off to fish every day. He later set fire to and ate his twin as a birthday cake to himself.

Sometimes fingers, and even entire hands were lost when offered to tribal elders for nail-biting during times of heavy stress, thus saving their own desiccated  digits.

Today, the sea star cure remains a secret among a handful of tribes, handed (no pun intended) down from regeneration to regeneration. (hee hee).

In the Twenty-first Century, Sea Star Therapy has yet to be discovered by Western medicine. In nineteenth- century Hawaii, Father Damien, could not be offer the victim’s of Hansen’s disease the sea star cure. Damien, though pure-of-heart, and with his hipster beard, just wasn’t tuned in to Micronesian sea star magic.

Power to the People: Right Arm!

Monq -Version 10.2, was home again from his many weeks at sea and ready for the Annual Fiji Mbolo Worm Eating Festival (AFMWEF) which always began at sundown on June 1, with the centuries old chant:

“Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Guess I’ll go eat worms.”

Standing on the torch-lit makeshift pier, Monq tossed his net into the water, and saw the surface began to squirm. As he pulled in his net for the first time, he felt a sharp pain in thin membrane between his thumb and index finger.“Oh Mmfuck! Not again!” he thought. He kept pulling and saw that the net was, yes, not only full of green and brown Mbolo worms (oh yum) but deadly striped sea snakes!

In an angry quick motion, he pulled his razor-sharp machete from his canoe, and, in one furious swoop, lopped off his own hand before the lethal poison could travel through his blood vessels and throughout his body, which would ultimately result in his belly button unscrewing and his ass falling off.

Damn! It’s the right hand again! I need that for work too! It would be months before Monq’s new hand would, again, be operational.

____________

Monq had much bigger worries. One night while drunk on Kava, he’d insulted the local sheriff, Urp, by wearing the big red sea star on his bare chest and making gun sounds like a cowboy. He’d once seen Urp walking through the village wearing a silver star. Monq thought that wearing some red sea star “bling” might attract the ladies. (It would only end up attracting his often angry-for-a-good-reason, castration-happy wife.)

Red sea stars were sacred. They were only to be worn as bling by authority figures. Monq didn’t think that anybody had been paying attention. Behind a clump of bushes, a young cannibal named Bing, of the rival Elvii tribe, was taking detailed notes. Members of the Elvii are greasy-haired relatives of the vicious and Kuru afflicted Hotats of New Guinea. Bing, coveted Monq’s beautiful wife, Mmbabybaby, “for her mind.” Monq’s rival was also insane. Bing had acquired Kuru (mad cow disease) from dining on human brains at “Cerebrum Fest 2007” while in Papua, New Guinea. Bing’s afflicted body shook like a leaf on a fuzzy tree. Uh huh huh. Later that night, Bing would leave notes. One for Monq’s chief and one for Monq’s wife.

“Chief Mmrall (pronounced Dave) will not be amused,” said Monq’s wife, Mmbabybaby. “He gonna bite your head off, stupid!”

“And heads don’t grow back,” squeaked Monq as she had just castrated him again.

Monq would probably lose his meager income as well.

Because of worry, Monq had bitten his own fingernails literally down to the knuckles on three fingers of his right hand. It would be weeks before he could properly wipe his behind, which luckily never fell off because of the sea snake bite.

“Idiot!” he thought to himself. “I’d better started chewing on my left hand!”

Chief Mmrall was due back today, and Monq was sure that the monarch would make him a main course on the ‘Royal Sunday Brunch Buffet table. Monq could imagine himself, on a plate, right next to the very rare, endangered dark porpoise eggs.

Yes, porpoise eggs.

The Jolly 400-pound Chief had come back to the village and nothing was said about Monq’s transgression. Then, without any notice, one Sunday morning, two of the villages scariest warriors, Mmrush and Mmrove (Bob and Ed), knocked upon the door of the Monq family hut. “Whish Whish” went the knocking on the grass door.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Mmus, Monq. The Chief wants to see you for breakfast! Now!”

Monq, put on his best Sunday-go-to-eatin loin cloth, kissed his wife a tearful goodbye and went to the Chief’s hut along with the two warriors.

“Monq!” said the jovial Chief, Mmrall.”Have you had your morning Kava yet?”

“Mmmmm No, Your Highness.”

“Do you take fruit bat milk in it?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Lady fingers?”

“No, thank you, Your Highness. Can I ask why you sent for me?”

“I didn’t send for you. Do you remember Daucina, the shark goddess? She was my close childhood friend. I’ve heard that she’d moved to Kupaio and started to grow coffee in the island’s bloody soil.”

The Chief smiled his ragged-toothed smile and leaned close to the fisherman. “She’s just saved your skin, Monq. She needs your special talent’s of regeneration, to help her fight the enemies of her old man, Dakuwaka.”

“The Shark God?”

“Apparently the *Hotats, the Kuru infected crazies from New Guinea have already adopted her power-hungry mother, Macelaca. Now, the crazies are also targeting Daucina’s family and her friends. You’ll be following, Daucina’s brother, a Mako shark named Fuscus, over to Kupaio, to help her out.”

“Fuscus. I remember him from the Fiji Devil’s Team. He’s one badddddd…”

“Shut your mouf!”

“Sorry, Your Highness.”

“Just fuckin’ with you, Monq.”

“Go and help the goddess. Get your canoe ready. You leave at high tide. When you return, call me. We’ll have dinner.” The Chief showed his ragged-toothed smile again. “Don’t worry. We’ll order a pizza….with everyone on it. Hah! I’m just busting your bolas, kid.”

“Your Highness?”

“Just fuckin’with you, Monq.”

•The Hotats a tribe of greasy “canoe mechanics” who cannot surf.

•Kuru = The human version of Mad Cow disease, caused by eating brains.

* Hansen’s disease / Leprosy (Not caused by the boy band The HansOn Brothers from the 1970s who, in fact wrote a song called “MMMBop“)

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