Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….


August 2019

Murder at Raging Hormones Theme Park & The Kids from Geezer World

“Wait here for the police detective, you two,” said Bernie.

Frankie pulled Bernie aside and began to tell the new agent about the new trend among American teens. “Those two old bats are kids. It’s the fashion trend of last resort, pal.” Frankie had read about it in a Newsweek article last month. “What we have here, Bernie baby, is a couple of bored, rich, teenage jokers who have started a new clique.”

“Those are kids?”

“Yeah. A bunch of spoiled teenagers got together and purchased the retirement community named Geezer World near Sea Lion Point, a few miles from your old stomping grounds at Bolsa Chico. They spend most of their time complaining about aches and pains and doctors. This ‘old’ routine is their idea of recreation. Total Kooks-ville. A few times a week they get together for miniature golf, shuffleboard, canasta and a couple of shots of Geritol. They’ve got a style all of their own, buddy boy.”

“This boy Jules dyed his hair white?” asked Bernie.

“And shaved his head to look like he’s got male pattern baldness!” said Frankie.

“Claire dyed her hair blue! She must have on a gallon of cheap perfume.”

“Today’s kids are recycling the bottom of the fashion barrel, Clyde,” said Frankie. “One of their gang, a kid named Morris, had his back surgically bent. A fifteen-year-old known as Gramps drove that white Dodge here last night. Crazy cats.”

Dr. Green chimed in, “I’ve got grandkids living at Geezer World. Everyone there uses a walker.”

The Barnett’s were only sixteen.

Jules wore an “Old Guys Rule” T-shirt and belted “old guy” slacks that were pulled up; any further and he could have used them as a body bag. Claire wore an “Old Girls Rule Old Guys” T-shirt beneath a blue housecoat, along with bath slippers, and support hose.

Some got canes they use as weapons against a gang called the YW or the Young Whippersnappers,” said Green, who was lifting the sheet to get a look at the body.

Bernie asked the Barnett’s to tell him more about the apparent killers.

“Sure. Really ugly mugs. Mouths full of nasty teeth. That’s all. But we know who they are, Eggs. I mean Agent Benedict.”

“They’re a musical group called The Claspers,” said Claire. “They’re a band from New Guinea,” said Claire. “All they sing about is eating meat. They opened for us last night.”

“They file their teeth into points—very sharp points,” said Jules.

“What did you say, Julie?” said Claire.

“Pardon her, sir. “ The boss lost most of her hearing playing rock ’n’ roll with our band, Geezer. Have you heard of our band?”

“Should I have?”

“We used to be known as ROF, or Rich Old Farts. Then we went punk and called ourselves the Irritating Bowel Syndrome. We have a number one single out called ‘The Sound of Sirens’ from our hit CD called Elevator Music. You should check out our blog on”

“We’re sorry that we couldn’t get better descriptions for you,” said Jules. “We can’t see as well at night as we used to. Their band truck, with the shark fin on top, was parked next to ours. Ours is the Handi-Van over there. Their truck had a name on it. Coral something—painted on the side.

Dr. David “Soylent” Green pulled Frankie aside. “Agent Samidino, this may be the onset of rare epidemic form of a disease that we call progeria. It is normally a rare genetic condition where symptoms resembling aspects of aging manifest at an early age. In the Barnett’s’ case, the premature aging could possibly be blamed on a new recreational drug these kids use, called X-Lax-Tasy, that reportedly gives its imbiber what they describe as ‘a spiritual bowel movement of biblical proportions.’ You’re looking at our future, agent. X-Lax-Tasy.”

Poor Dayna was still wailing as the sun rose. Bernie turned to the two sixteenagerians. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk,” said Bernie. “Frankie, T.K., and I head the investigative unit called COED, the Crimes of Exotica Division. My friends and I believe The Claspers are a small part of a group of international criminals.”

Dauna Heads for the Mainland

Dauna, in mermaid mode, felt the stranger’s shadow looming above her on the beach, but kept herself still.

Even ‘it’s’ shadow smelled bad. The disgusting thing was standing behind her, trying to … A net?

Yes, a net. Captain Bill suddenly threw a heavy section of fish netting over her head, and with compulsory drooling, he began to run his hands over the rest of her still half-fish body. He began calling her “his prize” and “his fortune.” He squatted next to her with the intent of lifting the sleeping mermaid into his boat.

She was dead weight, and he was too drunk to budge her.

“Damn! Well, what doooo we have here?” Bill whispered in her ear. “I’ve been following you, my fine little filet. Your boyfriend Mr. MacHeath, told me to look after you! I should take you home with me, and stuff you.” He began to stumble backward but managed to stay standing. “Maybe I’ll sell you to a fuggin’ museum.” Bill was trying to unzip the button fly on his pants. Wait a goddamn second, babeeeee. How do fuggin’ mermaids make wookie, anyways?”

Before he could jam his filthy hands into the sand beneath her human breasts, Dauna’s scythe-shaped tail swiftly raised itself from the sand and sliced off Bill’s pickled head. The graceful tail quickly transformed into shapely human legs. She stood and tossed the net aside. Take a breath Dauna.

Fully human now, Dauna checked out her fine bod in the reflection of Bill’s sunglasses. The nap had done wonders. She put the. Captain’s glasses on, stripped him of his shirt and pants, slipped them on and dragged the headless body across the sand, back to The Kegger. Eighty-proof blood poured from the man’s throat like a spigot. Dauna, a five-foot-four powerhouse, lifted the fisherman’s body by its feet, smashed it against the side of the cabin and spilled the remaining guts on the deck. — All this before Bill’s pickled, brain, bobbing jauntily in the shore-break had a chance to spark its last.

Dauna tossed the head onto a pile of rocks for the harbor seals to play ball with. She sliced and diced the captain with an axe she found aboard and fed the bite-sized chunks pieces to the starving tuna imprisoned in the vessel’s hold. In the crowded tank, over a dozen large fish swam in patient circles around Bill‘s cold beers.

“Let’s have lunch!” Dauna said, tossing scraps and drinking a beer. “Sorry I couldn’t give you something better. Don’t get too drunk off of CAPTAIN FUCKFACE! And before you go home, pick yourselves a designated swimmer.”

Bill’s excess trimmings were tossed overboard for the crabs. The moment that the tuna were done eating, Dauna released her blitzed, but satiated new friends back into Mother Ocean.

“The word ‘dispatch’ came to mind. I like that word. I just dispatched that two legged pile of detritus! Dauna downed a beer screamed to the heavens, “Hey MacHeath, you asshole, wherever you are, I just killed your SCHEISSE FUR GEHIRNE (shit for brains) captain! Just call me the FUCKIN’ DISPATCHA!”

Dauna fired up The Kegger’s engine and swerved in the direction of LA and destiny.

Fish often “vocalize” through a series of body movements and grunts.

That night, the school of stewed tuna belched, “I love you, man,” to their buds — between bouts of blowing gastric chunkage. The dudes didn’t seem to care that their freakin’ heads would be pounding major ass the next morning.

On the deck of the Vinnie Maru


The next morning, Dauna had to return to Kupaio, to take care of the coffee business on her island and rendezvous with her new husband for the ‘obligatory’ honeymoon that would, in theory, bring peace to the Pacific. It was the idea of the ‘mating dance’ in the middle of the ocean that she dreaded. Six days later, they would swim toward their final honeymoon destination of Disneyland, in Anaheim, California.

To mate safely, the bride and groom needed to be far out at sea, alone. Alone with that dork? Dauna did not want to get ‘biblical’ with her louse-of-a-spouse.

It had been an arranged marriage and the still-young three-thousand-year-old shark goddess was agitated. She’d only agreed to the wedding only to preserve the future of her people and her beloved island of Kupaio. After thousands of years of war, it was her duty as the leader of her people to bind the families of the two nations together. Yeah, right, she thought. Why the &*&%^ did I fall for this *&#$@ked up fairytale &%^*?

Dauna’s idiot husband, Bunji, following her cute shark butt, was barely thinking. “Chomp, chomp, chomp,” he said to himself. (Translation: “Whoa! Hey. I’m gonna score!”)

Dauna wasn’t looking forward to spreading her fins for the golden-scaled doofus. Oh, what she was willing to do for her family and her caffeinated minions, the same idiots who swam and ran pointless endless laps around her island daily.

Dauna and Bunji were heading toward the chosen honeymoon spot for all gods and goddesses: Disneyland. The newlyweds headed toward the busy Port of Long Beach, just outside of San Pedro.

Dauna would have to get rilly detritus-faced drunk by munching on a few drunken sailors before the mating dance. That was when, from the warm Pacific Ocean outside of Catalina Island, she spotted the conveniently placed commercial fishing vessel, the Vinnie Maru. The best part (she could tell by the chatter aboard) was that the Vinnie Maru’s crew was staffed by enemies, the Hotat tribe of New Guinea.

And though Dauna could kill, but not nibble, on the Kuru infected Hotats aboard, she could partake of a few of the spicy drunk Caribbeans on board.

Hey! This could be fun.

“Thou art a general offense to farts in the breeze!” —- Dauna the waitress (Shark Fin Soup)

At first, Bernie was relieved to see the headline:

‘Schoolmarm Cleared of Underage Molestation Charges. However…’

Chief Bernie knew that the rest of Bolsa Chico was reading along with him that morning, when “Fiddlesticks!” The scandal centered around his wife , Sylvia, had taken a ghastly turn.

The so-called “young punk,” who had actually bagged Bitch Benedict was only a few years shy of the NINETY. A junior to the ninety-five-year-old fisherman Sam Swathorn, who’d originally ‘finked’ on the unrepentant tramp, Sylvia to Reuter’s News Service. Sylvia’s lover turned out to be 88-year old Wayne Noway Sr. and not the grandson, sixteen-year-old Wayne Noway III. Bernie had seen the grandfather before. The old bastard was walking parchment! Bernie’s heart sank into his colon.

Apparently, Sylvia was very popular with the old guys she volunteered to chauffeur from Geezer World to Bolsa Chico Beach for surfing three times a week. She’d been noticed by lifeguards, hanging around the beach ogling flat-assed geriatrics with huge potbellies hanging over their Speedos. Lifeguards were afraid to tell their close buddy Bernie about his spouse’s odd behavior. When she whistled at the deaf old men, most people thought that she was just teasing.

Only last week, Sylvia and the old Wayne had been spotted sipping soup together by a local highway patrolman at a 3 p.m. (Early Bird dinner time at Denny’s). Sylvia had been overheard yelling at the old duffer who’d been sharing her one-piece bathing suit photos with his shuffleboard buddies. In one of the pictures, her covered, but generous, boobs hung over Wayne Sr.’s walker. Hoo hah!

The following day, Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the steamed up Sea Lion Beach – Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely. “I found Mrs. Benedict sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Wayne Noway the first had passed from a heart attack.”



Sylvia Benedict, the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff about what led up to the death of her eighty-eight-year-old lover: 

“We’d just had a friendly dinner, celebrating Wayne’s new Thriller Driller Penile Implant. He suggested that we to go out and replace all of the steel fasteners on the Long Beach bridge with his new… Oh, poopsieeeeeeeee!” (Crying.) “Wayne seemed fine! He really did. Then, after his little nap time, he wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Benedict,” said the nauseous ambulance driver.

The truth was el vomitosio. Somehow, the video of her story ended up on the local news.

Wayne Noway III’s (the grandkid) surfer buddies said that the sixteen-year-old surfer had been “blowing major chunkage,” “praying to the porcelain” and “hurling with a mighty chunder” after reading about what his grandpa and his ex-teacher had been doing. Los barfos, mesdames et messieurs.


My Sylvia! Bernie thought. And…and Wayne’s grandpa?! Noooooooooo!

He had to get out and get some fresh air, now.


After the broadcast, it seemed that the entire town of Bolsa Chico wanted to line the pier and join their local hero Police Chief in his major heave fest. It was if they’d all been hit with the dreaded Nosoi flu.

For days afterward, Bernie felt as though he were wearing a big red ‘D’—for Dumbass — on his forehead. Time had come for him to leave his longtime friends, his beloved job and his hometown of Balsa Chico.


It was the following Sunday, Bernie’s birthday, when he ordered his final breakfast at Donette’s.

The TV was on and…

“Oh, Fuck! No! Not……. on…….. my………goddamned birthday!” Bernie said. The other customers were wondering if the chief had caught Tourette’s from Dauna.

Nope. The news was on CNN — and Bernie was pissed. His tragic ‘train wreck’ had gone both bacterial and viral. Millions, perhaps gazillions, were following Bernie’s sad story. 

CNN: “Surf Patrol chief and local hero, Bernie Benedict, suffers major wipe out” was on the television screen above the lunch counter. It showed Bernie along with thirty other Bolsa Chico residents hanging over the pier railing retching.

Though he just lost his appetite, Bernie had ordered his usual: orange juice, toast and two runny sunny-side up eggs.

Hector, the truck driver joked to Dauna, “How does our chief, Bernie, order his eggs?”

“How?” Asked Dauna.

“Over easy—like his wife? Hahahahaha.” Hector came in every morning to drink Dauna’s dangerous coffee and, like the others, watch her wiggle and listen to her allude to forbidden lust.

“I hope that you enjoyed the little surprise that was swimming around in your coffee,” Dauna told Hector in her most sophisticated 16th century Tourettes. “You starveling, you ELF-SKIN, you dried NEAT’S-TONGUE! BULL’S-PIZZLE. STOCK-FISH!”


“Methinks thou art a general offence to farts in the breeze, you poisonous BUNCH BACKED TOAD!”

“Ma’am, where are my eggs?” Bernie asked with caution.

“OSCULUM MIHI RECTUM! (Latin: Kiss my ass!) Sorry, Chief. I didn’t mean… (she smiled at Bernie)…well, maybe.”

The chief, feewing wejected, looked lost and alone in the big mean corner booth. Months later, Dauna told Bernie that she’d felt compelled, on that horrific day, to offer him a comforting breast. “It would have been the civil thing to do.” Dauna wanted to wish Bernie a happy birthday in her own special way. Sadly, Bernie was in no shape to appreciate her gushing sympathies.

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