Search

Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

Category

Cannibals

“Call Me. It’s Mel” — from Shark Fin Soup

Art by Vitaliy Hagen

03 Telepathica Pacifica 02 b 06 flat

“And God Spoke to Moses” — Exodus 33:11

“Are you listening Moe? Stop looking at your tablets. Focus on the flame. Tell your people, I the almighty, will watch over them as long as they keep me entertained. ”

T.K. Betel nut is a living, seven-foot-tall tiki. A curio. A half human stick. On a normal day’s stakeout Agent Betelnut will spend hours standing statue-still while tuned into the latest (mostly) fair and no longer completely ad free, news broadcast by the world’s oldest Wi-Fi: the Telepathica Pacifica Network (TPN).

Thousands of years ago, the TPN was set up as a web of psychic protection for plant life around the globe.

The TPN does not accept monetary donations from even plant-loving humans. Throughout the history of plant systematics, the TPN’s green members have all witnessed friends, relatives, seedlings and saplings chopped or mowed down, and mashed into paper currency for humans.

Today,T.K. was listening to the plant-based network while on a stakeout for his carnivorous friends at Interpol. His assignment was related to the protection of front yards everywhere. Specifically, he was there to protect the prestige of the original Don Featherstone lawn flamingos produced by Union Plastics.

Interpol believed North Korea intended to flood the free world with cut-rate birds. If left unchecked, the commies could ruin lawns everywhere with cheap knock-offs.Until now, the free world’s front yards—the ones blessed by genuine Featherstones—had been worth defending against marauding juvenile delinquents — the ones whose parents never lifted a hand to smack some goddamned manners into the noisy “little bastids.” Yeah, the same “little bastids” who made life a living hell for the half human half log, T.K., by tipping him over in public, just because they thought it was “funny.” Brats.

Waiting. Waiting.

Beneath the hot afternoon sun on a quiet Tuesday, T.K. tilted himself a few more degrees to the east, to help improve the reception on the grassy slope.

Breakfast at Donette’s

This is a little chocolaty taste from my upcoming big-assed novel, Shark Fin Soup….Ying Yang by Fred Barnett

In this scene, Dauna the Fijian shark goddess, owner and only waitress of Donette’s Cafe on the Bolsa Chico pier, and owner of her own coffee empire is trying to cheer up Bolsa Chico’s Surf Patrol chief who has just been scandalized by his wife across international news….Dauna suffers from Tourette Syndrome, cursed because she used Gods name, in vain, one two many times in her 3000 years on Earth….  

 

“C’mon, Chief snap out of it. One day you’ll fall in love again. Hey, look! I allllllsooooo…” Dauna bent toward Bernie, and reached behind herself “Oh, there it is!” …to reveal… “Ooh! I think that this may be a magic happy birthday hat for you, chief! It is!” She pulled the shiny hat from below her skirt. “I’ve been warming this up for you, hun.” It was a foil hat and the crinkles in the metal made it look happy. She sat down, and presented him with the consecrated flat hat. She opened it up and put it on his sorry head. “It’s magic! You never know, right? It might be. Wow! And It’s so toasty warm. Feel!”

“Ouch!”

“Muy caliente, eh?” Dauna, stood up and announced to all, “WHAT WOULD YOU EXPECT AFTER SPENDING AN HOUR NESTLED BETWEEN THE HOTTEST ASS CHEEKS in…uh…Oops. Sorry, folks! Not really.” Monsieur Tourette was speaking through Dauna today as if she were a tawdry ventriloquist’s dummy.

She turned and whispered to Bernie, “Did I say something dirty again, hun? Hopeless! I better just go and fetch your…… FUCKIN’ EGGS!” She sashayed to the kitchen and returned a few moments later. “Here they are! Hot, soft and oooey-gooey. Like…me.”

“Huh?” She tossed the plate on Bernie’s table and left him to wallow in his  misery. He absentmindedly picked up his fork, and that’s when he heard a choir begin to sing. A choir at the end of the Balsa Chico Pier? Bernie looked up and out the restaurant window and saw only Sol, the restaurant’s mascot seagull who was known for his huge loose bladder and perfect aim on people’s heads. Sol was eating from a drunk’s bait bucket. Bernie heard a chirp and looked up to see another Donette’s ‘regular,’ Dwayne the lizard, scurrying across the ceiling.

My damned life couldn’t get more fucked up.

#

“God Over Easy.”

The sound of the heavenly Choir resumed. Bernie looked up. Nothing there. He turned back to his breakfast. 

What Bernie saw next was a face staring at him from his sunny-side eggs. Maybe it was the pepper making the design, or the way that Reynaldo the cook had routinely over cooked them.

A tiny bearded face was smiling at Bernie Benedict.

“Waitress!” Bernie screamed. “ Hurry!”

“Hold onto your baguette! GODDAMMIT! I’m covered in chocolate!” Dauna sashayed toward the chief’s table. “What do you need?”

He could only point at the table.

“You didn’t do a Linda Lovelace on the Polish sausage, did you? I don’t do Heimlich.” She looked down at Bernie’s plate of sunny-side eggs, and did indeed see the smiling face of Jesus, in all of his shining glory. Bernie was nearly choking. Unable to grasp the conversation between the waitress and the eggs. “You didn’t RSVP!” Dauna told the eggs. “Are you coming to my wedding in a few weeks?”

Bernie felt paralyzed.

“I’m working on my comeback TV special, shark goddess” said the runny Messiah. “How about I show up at your honeymoon, instead?”

“Hardy har har, smart ass. Stick to preaching.”

“Why are you flirting with Bernie?” asked Jesus. “Poor guy.”

“Lupta, the sage of Kupaio, told me that I must protect him. I don’t know why. Look at this busted up schmo, J.C. He’s feeling really down. Right now, he’s the saddest man in the world. I’m just trying to cheer up the dumb lug. Can I get you some coffee or something, chicken fruit?” she said to the sunny-side son of God.

  “Chicken fruit? Have you been behaving yourself? Why are you here, God Junior?”

“I’m honing my rusty social skills. Ahem! Commandment number eight: Thou shalt not steal. Are you listening to me, Dauna? Do not steal Bernie Benedict’s heart. He’s in pain.” 

“Excuse me everyone,” Dauna put her hands over her face. “Ah…aH…AH… FUCK!”

“Are you catching a cold?” asked Jesus.

“No. I’m just allergic to bullshit.”

 

Preview: Shark Fin Soup — The 1st Illustration by Vitaliy

This is T.K. Betelnut,  Interpol agent in charge of the TPN

Telepathica Pacifica Network. He’s about to fall in love with a potted plant.

14612352_1216326551760784_4789995738798171161_o.png

Famous Suspected Cannibals in History

Cover Shark Fin

Famous suspected Cannibals …. from the upcoming Shark Fin Soup

“I never met man I didn’t like.” — Will Rodgers
Humorist and suspected cannibal

“I love children. Especially when they’re well cooked.”-W.C. Fields.
Comic actor and suspected cannibal

“People who need people are the luckiest people.”— Barbara Streisand – Singer, actor and suspected cannibal

“I wouldn’t eat you because you’re too tough!”- Sheb Wooley – Purple People Eater singer, composer & Suspected Cannibal

“Taste your lips of wine.” –Don and Phil Everly , The Everly Brothers.
Recording Artists and suspected cannibals

“Sugar and spice and everything nice.”–Mother Goose
Children’s author and known cannibal

“Mmmmnnn nom nom nom” — Linda Lovelace

Moonlight, Artemis and Cheeseburgers

Bernie cracked open an eyelid. The lunar light had filled the room. Light as a feather, the specter of a tall pale woman had settled astride his waist, replacing his cat who now sat at the foot of the bed. A long black braid, full of stardust, tumbled down her bare right shoulder. The light danced across on her long white legs and silk tunic. The folds of her garment fanned out like gardenia petals. With each of her deep breath the white cloth fluttered and teased across Bernie’s chest. She leaned close to see if he was still asleep.

There was no scent of flowers when she exhaled above his  lips. That would have been simple and pleasant. Poor Bernie Benedict never knew what hit him. A goddess! The woman’s lips had been anointed with the divine.

A dazzling blend of home-made chili, tangy American cheese, fruity floral onions, crisp kosher pickles and magnificent beef accords.’ 

MoonGoddess

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

New Shark Fin Titled

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

Thursday 13 November, 2003, 04:34 GMT, The Lunch Times of Fiji posted this headline:

“A 136 year apology becomes just another ‘roast’ for the descendants of Thomas Baker”

The local inhabitant’s of Nabutautau have been suffering more than indigestion after eating Thomas —the English muffin — Baker over 136 years ago. So a tribal ceremony included a Baker’s Dozen — I meant to say — a dozen of the reverend Baker’s descendants.

Prime Minister Laisenia Qarase and 600 people, attended the tribal ceremony.

The Prime-cut minister said: “The Reverend was good and good for you and we’re honored that his great-great-grandson Geoffrey could attend. And though Geoffrey’s a Baker by name, he appears to be a roaster.” (He paused for laughs.) None came. The audience was getting restless. Bibs were being tied.

The local inhabitants believe their village has been suffering bad luck ever since the cannibalism incident in 1867, and hope that saying sorry will help their fortunes.“We believe we must have been cursed. When we have made the apology we will be clean again.”

Back In 1867, The Dinner Times Published this article: July 21, Nabutautau, Fiji

The Reverend Thomas Baker, from Playden in East Sussex has passed away. Baker was killed on Monday, in Nabutautau.

The Reverend spent many years in the interior highlands of Viti Levu trying to convert the Natives who were reluctant to give up their God, Bau, who is said to be ‘really cool.’ It is possible that the Reverend Baker may have offended some villagers with his holier than Swiss cheese attitude.

Only Reverend Baker’s right shoe remains today. The Hotat tribe ate the rest, including his hat, the left shoe and his spectacles.

The reverend’s cause of death is unknown, though it may have had something to with him getting his brains bashed out by chief Mbunji’s men.
One report says that the revered and untouchable chief, Mbunji, ‘borrowed’ the reverend’s comb while the missionary was out savoring…er, uh, saving the nearby Huk Huks.

When Baker returned that evening to his adopted village during that evening, he recognized his beloved comb still stuck in Chief Mbunji’s fancy hairdo. The reverends last words were, ”I hope that you don’t have cooties, “ when he pulled the comb from Chief’s sacred  ‘do. ‘

The villagers, enjoying their Bloody Mary and Venous Victor cocktails were astounded when they saw the Reverend touching Chief Mbunji. The chief’s should never be touched by a commoner. When a Fijian chief uses a cannibal fork, he will not let the ‘meat’ of his lowly prey touch his esteemed lips.

Then one of the local’s lowered his cup of Kava and  spoke to Reverend Baker: “O.K. Baker, pick your favorite sauce.”

“We ate everything,” one environmentally conscious 10 year old boy said. “If it weren’t for his horrible   stink foot we would have eaten both shoes!“

Services will be held at 5 p.m. on July 29, at the Jesus Shall Tender-Rise Chapel. In honor of the Reverend, guests are requested to wear only one shoe. The celebratory dance afterward will be a hopping good time.

There will be an open casket, a size-10 tissue lined box.

#

It was a ‘repentant consumer’ that lead a mission teacher to the tree limb where Baker’s shoe was perched.

The Reverend’s one leftover shoe is now on exhibit in Fiji’s Culinary Arts Exhibition through January.

A final ‘Foot’ note:

In 1926, Andrew Merrit, a young Mormon from Utah became the last known ‘missionary’ victim of Fijian cannibals. Only his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit remained after the attack.

The wealthy Merrit family tried to sue the British Government who controlled Fiji during the 1920s.  A justice of the Supreme Court spurned the litigation by proclaiming:

“This suit holds no Merrit.”

Note:

The Reverend’s humerus bone, attached to his leftover shodden foot was recovered twenty years later from fork of large shaddock tree.

No. The humerus bone is NOT the funny bone. Nor is it even attached to the foot. The humerus is connected to the shoulder bones on top. The lower humerus is connected to the wrist bones. The wrist bones are connected to the hand bones, which in modern man is connected to the iPhone.

They were given the traditional drink of kava, and attended ceremonies on Thursday, at which they were to take part in a “symbolic cutting of the chain of curse and bondage over the village.” The chain happened to be adorning the neck of a church elder.

A Methodist pastor, Iumeleki Susu, a descendant of the only surviving member of Thomas Baker’s doomed group, was also present.

 

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

By the Sea (from Shark Fin Soup)

 

The warm morning sun shimmered upon the rippling sea. A nice sized coconut bobbed up and down just past the surging shoreline and a few yards past the black skinned, golden haired, fifteen-year-old Mmbop Handsun, the prince of his own itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie Micronesian kingdom.

It was going to be another hot one, and Mmbop had forgotten his newest pair of certified-previously-owned Ray-Ban sun glasses given to him, in trade, by a rich tourist woman for one of his prized wood carvings — carvings that he ordered, weekly, from what he thought were poor dumb hard-working saps over in Malaysia. He did not realize that the Malaysians had been outsourcing the genuine Fijian carvings to a sweaty warehouse in Alabama, USA, that employed the children of ex auto workers. Mmbop only paid twenty-five cents apiece for the crude art. Yesterday he’d sold ten oversized one-hundred dollar wooden cannibal forks that his father, the Chief, Papaumaumau, had ordered from Taiwan at 50 cents apiece. It had been a good week, now that he’d also helped his parents decimate and sell off most of the island’s remaining palm trees to the Chinese.

As if any drunken tourist would even notice, there was hardly a substantial palm tree left on any of the High Society Islands within three hundred miles. Coconuts were scarce on both Little Hubba, and Big Hubba-Hubba, the two islands comprising the kingdom of Hubba Hubba Hubba.

“Shouldn’t waste perfectly good food!” Mmbop said, as he pushed his thick blonde dreadlocks back. The golden hair and clear blue eyes were a throwback to his Scandinavian sailor ancestors who’d visited, mated and had been munched on, in Micronesia over seven hundred years ago.

Mmbop lifted himself up, stretching his long thin shadow across the beach.

After eating the sweet coconut meat he would clean off the husk and carve a bearded monkey head for the dwindling tourists that have been disappearing along with the trees. Maybe he’d add a human finger bone through the nose.

Tourists always assumed that the “nose-bone” came from a chicken. Chickens were revered as Gods in Hubba-Hubba. They were only used for their eggs, by order of Queen Erica, after the island’s omelet loving priests had convinced her that the chicken fruit were a gift from Lomalagi (Heaven) and that ‘the sacred chickens, DID, in fact, come before the eggs.’

He watched the coconut bobbing in the water. After the carving was finished, he would add some shell teeth and toy glasses.

Tourists love that stuff, Mmbop thought as he bent forward, and tried to grab onto the bobbing nut that persisted on floating away in the slow current and morning glare. He hit at the coconut with a stick and it turned over. It appeared to have already been carved with a funny beard and a big schnozolla with a human bone through it!

It, of course, was a real human head.

Mmbop scooped it out of the surf and carried it to shore.

Granola grinding, hemp wearing, coral hugging tourists don’t want a real human head, he thought. Not even a fresh one like this. Maybe I should toss it back? He shook his head ‘no.’ I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good head. He decided to ‘fix it up’ with a few artful cuts. He reached into the pocket of his Izod swimsuit, which yet another rich tourist had traded him for a necklace of genuine plastic whale teeth, and grabbed his Swiss Army Cannibal Fork, that came complete with a saw blade, a grater, a marital aid, assorted knives, an Egyptian nose hook (for removing brains), a Phillips screwdriver, and a waterproof universal remote.

At home, waiting for him, was his main squeeze, Mmbopalula.

“Maybe I’ll take it to her as a gift.…Besides, nothing turns a woman on like a full head of hair.”

Books on Amazon by Fred Barnett (Bats and Shark Fin Soup coming soon!)

 #1,2,&3 are available in ebook and paperback on Amazon! Bats should be out in October 2014, Shark Fin Soup in 2015!

 Nantucket is a wee bit of smut available on Smashwords for 49 cents!

 Cover Bloody Good 2013 Cover : Second Chances Cover Rock Invasion Cover Shark Fin   Cover- Man From NantucketBATS

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: