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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

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The Thriller Driller

ManSurfing

Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the Sea Lion Beach Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely, as he was headed home. “I found the woman sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Noway had suffered a heart attack.”

Way.

Sylvia , the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff concerning 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 e 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 local hero  Bernie, 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.

####

Donette’s

Donette’s Cafe, formerly Rosie’s, was built upon the end of the Bolsa Chico Pier, in Orange County, California, in 1956. Recently, it had been purchased by a dark, sultry, dirty-talking  shark goddess, Dauna Robinson, who bought the cafe to promote her native Fijian coffee products: the high-octane Getthefuckouttamyway and Outtamywayasshole coffees, grown on her private  island of Kupaio. Dauna was the one and only waitress at Donette’s.

Bernie rarely drank the coffee, but loved the food. 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 patrolman 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.

^^ö^^ The Working Dead ^^ö^^

The Working Dead

anitas-working-dead

In 2018, after major science breakthrough, the US Supreme Court ruled that death, as it now stands, “does not terminate the deceased’s obligations to ignore paying one’s bills and taxes until the human body reaches such a state of decay that at least three out of four limbs will not stay attached.”

But dead Neal Orestein was determined to go to work. Work was his life, uh death. You know what I mean. We all know someone like this.

#

After scraping through the mound of loose dirt over his grave, Neal was able to see daylight and the exasperated face of his long-suffering wife, Stella.

“Just look at those fingernails,” she scolded. “The dirt! Just where the hell you think you’re going, Neil?” After 60 years of marriage, Stella, holding flowers, could read his mind, even if it was becoming worm chow.

“Oh, crap,” Neal said feeling all used up. He raised himself onto his elbows and spat out soil. “Stella, what are you doing here so soon? I thought that I was the one who was to supposed to haunt YOU! I’m off to work. I got to get a doctor’s note or that  that punk Cabebe, will fire me. He hates old people.”

“You mean, dead people,” she said. “You aren’t going to work. Now, lay down and relax. I’ll call your boss and tell him you’re not coming in, ‘CAUSE YOU’RE DEAD!”

“Dead I can handle,” Neal said, “but unemployed and dead? Pour some coffee down my empty gullet . Look at the time.”

“Happy Hills Cemetery doesn’t have a Starbucks. Go back to endless sleep, old man. There is no more job and there’s no more you! Don’t you feel like a fool. You should rest, Neal. I came here to grieve, so tell me what I’m doing here. I feel like a brainless idiot.”

“No, Stella, I love brains. I mean I your love your brains, brain, your mind,” Neal sputtered.

“Where’s my tie? What time is it?”

“It’s 8 a.m. They just opened the gate.”

“Give me your hand. Help me get up. I’m already late.” Stella reluctantly pulled her husband to his feet. She was shaking her head, accepting he’d never change. “I gotta catch the Long Island Express,” Neal told her, spitting out a beetle. “Is this burial suit okay?”

“Except for the slit down the back, it’ll have to do. So … You think that you can just climb out of your grave and leave me standing here, for a crappy job? I can’t change you, silly man. Just don’t come home until you get cleaned up.”

Neal stood and wobbled unsteadily, brushing himself off. “Stella, after my first heart attack, Cabebe, said that myocardial infarction is not a good enough excuse to skip work. I’m gonna need duct tape to patch this jacket. I’ll stop by Target.”

“I’ve got a nail appointment. Have a nice afterlife, Neil. You never needed me.”

“Oh, thanks. I’m barely cold and you start in with the guilt. So, you’re saying I no longer have a job?”

“That would seem logical, Neil.”

“Logical? Well, Mrs. Spock, then I’d better hit the pavement. By law, I’m supposed to have a job until my last limb.”

“Maybe the office staff never got the memo that you’d died,”She said. “It was so sudden. I never had a chance to call them. Hey, watch where you’re tossing that dirt! I just bought this dress. Look at your dirty nails. Talk to God, Mr. Big-shot. Get yourself a manicure.”

Neal promised to make it up to Stella the following weekend, but today, he had obligations. He arrived at  work a few minutes late, was given a warning by Cabebe, and was back at his old desk by 9:10 a.m.

The next day, after a restless night drinking coffee and shambling around town in pursuit of an ambiguous protein snack, Neal was able to make it to work —  right on time.

Young Cabebe, was happy, because he no longer had to pay ‘old, faithful’ Neal a living wage.  The slick, young exec sniffed the air and suspected that Neal had passed on. No one else knew that Neal was still working and rotting in his corner office making the CEO, Milton Armstrong, rich.

On Tuesday, when Neal realized that Cabebe was taking him for a —nearly free — ride he began to lose the feeling of pleasure he felt working. He left the office while the blinding sun was still high and the season was moving toward Daylight Savings. Neal stumbled toward the station thinking about how his grandkids needed college money. Tomorrow, he would hit the pavement, seeking the American dream like the other millions of recently deceased workers. Over 20 million of the dead  wandered the boulevards. The smug living were called them ‘suckers.’ You could see them, the worn out executives, in every city, shuffling and mumbling “Jobs. I neeeeeeed a job.”

My commuter train passed by Happy Hills Cemetery as it approached Neal’s old neighborhood. Graveyards are for slackers, he thought. A real man needs to work.

While waiting at the 5th Avenue crosswalk, he saw a hopeful sign. A literal sign — on a telephone pole, illuminated by the ghostly moonlight.

Highly Motivated Executive Services Wants You! YOU need $$$ and WE need BODIES to fill our Diamond Lane passenger jobs! 

We’re also seeking Parking Space Holders — Downtown, Full Time. 24 hours shifts available. 

Call 090-888-0000.

Tuck n’ Roll

Unknown
Man goes on Rampage in Hardware Store
Westchester, Los Angeles, December 12, 1964
 
Umberto Diaz had to be calmed by Rampart division officers yesterday , after he went on a rant about finding rat traps. Really big rat traps.
It seems that Mr. Diaz had just returned from Tijuana after getting his classic Chevy “Tuck-n-rolled” at Espinosa’s Upholstery where he had encountered giant rodents — “who talked.” It seems that Mickey Espinosa, who co-owns the auto upholstery shop with his wife Minnie had threatened Mr. Diaz after Mr. Diaz had accused the shop owners of stuffing his car upholstery with dead cats after his car began to smell a week ago — “I should have watched them.” The Espinosa’s told Mr. Diaz that , “There can not be dead cats inside your seats, Señor. We killed all of the cats in Tijuana years ago. They know that they are not welcome here.”
“Mr. Diaz was scaring our customers.” said Harry Meyer, the owner of Numero Uno Hardware on Temple Street. “He was screaming and tearing up our store looking for Human-sized rodent traps and scaring some of our local children. We had to call the police.”
“Minnie Espinosa, the woman at the desk, had a long nose and whiskers,” Mr. Diaz told police. “You could see the outline of her big round ears…

Clown Car — A Date with Mr. Jingles

“Clown Car — A Date with Mr. Jingles ”

3. ClassicClown

Miss Giggles paced the hallway of her small apartment in South Bouncy Town. She did not know what to expect of Mr. Jingles, the blind date that her girlfriend,  Roly Poly, had set her up with. A tiny polka dotted VW pulled up to the curb outside the window below Giggle’s small apartment. A cacophony of horns went off from inside the car. Who is this mysterious stranger?

Anxious, Giggles paced, skipped and did hand springs across her apartment. The funhouse mirror along with her silver jumpsuit made her look slimmer and taller than her squat five-foot frame.

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She had a new look and a new name. Many years ago, after a big sneeze from her giant fire-engine red nose, cruel classmates laughed at her and named her “Gluey.”

The name Gluey stuck for years. (Hyuk, hyuk! HONK!)

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Her new boss at the SMACME Fun Company had given her a better name, “Miss Giggles,” that was more suitable to her laughter. Giggles fixed her orange hairdo by Bozette and repositioned the two water balloons in her bra.

Her date knocked on the door with a familiar rhythm, “Shave and a haircut. five cents.”

“Hiya, hiya, hiya! Call me Mr. Jingles!” Mr. Jingles was dressed to the nines in a yellow baggy jump suit with six-inch blue polka dots and three red buttons the size of custard pies. His matching hat was two feet high and came to a handsome duncey point. Thank the Lord Bozo he wasn’t another hobo clown like her ex, Patches —with charcoal all over his face. My daddy, Boingo would like Mr. Jingles, she thought. So would my mommy. Miss Giggle’s mom, Bingo always wore the baggy pants in the Tumbles family.

“I bought you some di-did-diddlely flowers!” said Mr. Jingles, as he thrust forward a bouquet.

anitas-sketches-3

The flowers flopped over when she grabbed them. “How pretty! I’ll put them in water.”

“No probalobelummo, Miss Giggles! I have plenty of water right here!” He squirted her with his platinum plated Fizz-o-Rama seltzer bottle. “Hyuk, Hyuk!”

Soon, they were performing summersaults down the stairs and out to Jingle’s star-covered Volkswagen bug, she wondered, Is it true what they say about size 28 feet?

Mr. Jingles clicked his remote and the “Merry-go-round Broke Down” played across the Rubbermaid Habitat lined street as his car doors popped open. “Everybody, out! Hyuk, hyuk!” said Mr. Jingles as he motioned for his date to step back. Twenty clowns, two wearing “Kick Me!” signs on their backs, three riding miniature bicycles, some with pet chimps, and a couple with a pig in a baby carriage wearing a bonnet emerged from the back seat. They streamed down the dark street, each honking their “own horn.” Mr. Jingles held open the car door for Miss Giggles. “You can get in miss! Safety first! Buckle up!” He handed Miss Giggles a buckle. “Golly! I hope you’re hungry! Hey! How about Chuckle’s Cheese? I reserved the ball pit for us.”

“Isn’t that a bit pricey?” Giggles asked politely.

“Heck no! Nothin’ is too much fun for my girl! Hyuk, hyuk!” said Mr. Jingles as he pulled out a wad of Monopoly money. “We’re gonna paint the town red, and green and yellow and…”

Part II — Chuckle’s Cheese

“Please, my dear have a seat,” said Mr. Jingles as he pulled a “Wet Paint” sign from underneath his date. “Gotcha!”

“Oh, Mr. Jingles!”

“How about pie? Do you like pie, miss Giggles?”

“Custard.”

anitas-sketches-2

“Oh, goody!” He called to the waiter, “Garçon! May we order a half dozen custard pies — with whipped cream?” Mr. Jingles turned toward Miss Giggles and placed his giant red glove on her giant blue glove. “Would madame care for something to drink? Oui? Waiter! We’ll have two bottles of your finest seltzer.”

When their meal arrived they shoved three pies into each the other’s face and rinsed each other down with the two bottles of 1856 Dieu Maudit le Clown Seltzer water.

“I don’t feel well,” said Giggles suddenly. She bent over the dinner table, stuck her tongue out and … “Hack, hack, hack!” She pulled a blue handkerchief out of her mouth, which was tied to a yellow one, which was tied to a green one, which was tied to…… This went on and on for nearly a two gazillion minutes!

“Are you okay, missy?” he asked. “Let’s get some air!”

“Whatsamattah? Can’t ya take a choke?” she giggled.

Mr. Jingles took her by the hand outside. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into her pocket.

Mr. Jungles casually asked Miss Giggles if she smoked.

“I only smoke when I’m on fire! Oh, no. I’ve been incinerated!”

“Well, there ya go! Hyuk, hyuk! You sure are hot!” Mr. Jingle’s lifted his duncey cap to reveal a plastic fireman’s hat. His red nose began to blink as he blew into a siren ring and ran circles around her.

“Save me! Save me, Mr. Fireman!” she cried.

Mr. Jingles stopped at his VW, unlatched the hood, grabbed a pail of confetti from inside and dumped it on her head. “Hyuk, hyuk! Gee, I’m sorry!” he said. “Here! Have another flower!” It squirted water into her eye, then drooped like the roses. Mr. Jingles grabbed her rouged cheeks and kissed her on her wax lips. Their noses beeped together.

“C’mon!” said Mr. Jingles. “Let’s go for a ride!”

It was a wild ride as they careened through the faulty stop lights of Bouncy Town and headed up the Benny Hills toward Sock-it-to me Lane overlooking moonlit Lake Guffaw.

anitas-sketches

Sock-it-to-me Lane

Once parked, they kissed and squeezed each other, producing many honks and beeps. There was barking from the back seat. Mr. Jingles was also an accomplished ventriloquist. “Woof! Woof!”

“What’s that Mr. Jingles?”

“A banana!”

“No, silly. I mean who is barking?”

“That’s my dog Sprinkles! Wanna see? Hyuk, hyuk.” Mr. Jingles opened his door and got out of the car. He tilted his seat forward and said, “Mr. Sprinkles needs to go for a walk!” as he grabbed a leash and pulled on it. The leash had an empty loop where the dog’s head would have been. “Miss Giggles, We’ll be right back! Then Sprinkles will leave us alone.” Mr. Jingles walked to a nearby tree with the leash and waited while his imaginary dog did his business. When they returned to the car, Mr. Jingles threw the leash into the front seat. “Oops! Sprinkles wants to sit in front, Miss Giggles. Whaddaya say? Let’s sit in the back seat. It can hold forty clowns!”

When in back, Mr. Jingles slipped off his size 28 shoes, and SHAZZAM!  Yes, thought Miss Giggles. It IS true what they say about big feet! ———— They stink!

And before you could say ‘Honk Honk’ Mr. Jingles had stripped down to his Happy Birthday Suit. “Har Har! Make a wish and blow!”

“Mr. Jingles you’re so much fun! Hee Hee Up until now, my love life has been a roller coaster — a Tilt-A-Whirl — and, and a funhouse!”

There was a knocking on the car window. The spell was broken.

“Uh, oh,” said Mr. Jingles. “It’s the Keystone cops! Get dressed, Hoppy.”

“Hoppy?” Who’s Hoppy? she thought. “Who in the Three Rings of Barnum is Hoppy?”

Jingles ignored her question. “They only want to chase us around the car with billy clubs ‘til our pants fall down.”

“Hey, I asked you something, Buster! Who is this floozy named Hoppy?  Have you been up here with other clownesses?”

Jingles ignored her again. “Oh, come on! Isn’t this fun?” Mr. Jingles rolled down the window! “Good evening occiffers…huh?”

Miss Giggles recognized the men outside the car behind the glare of their kaleidoscope flashlights. It was the notorious Muggles Brothers! Scary clowns.

“All of youz! Everybody! Outta the car!” said Boffo Muggles.

“Go steal a hamburger!” said Mr. Jingles as took the bubblegum from his mouth, fastened his jumpsuit with it, and stepped out of the car. He offered the Muggles brothers jelly beans if they promised to go away. Miss Giggles followed Jingles straightening her boxer shorts. She looked behind her to find out that yet another steady stream of clowns were exiting Mr. Jingles’ car.

The Muggles Brothers began “mugging” or making faces at the couple. Mr. Jingles surprised Boffo and knocked him down with an inflatable baseball bat, resulting in birds around Bofo’s head. Boffo popped right back up. Bobo Muggles said, “Give us all of your M&Ms, Jingles.” Boffo pulled out a gun that looked like a cannon. Mr. Jingles stood back and offered to give them everything. He started to empty his pockets. There were frogs, a rabbit, giant bloomers, white pigeons and hand-buzzers. “That’s all I got! Hyuk.”

“Mr. Big-shot Jingles is holding back on us,” said Bobo.

A “Bang!” sign popped out of Boffo’s gun barrel. Then, his brother Bobo hit Mr. Jingles with an inflatable sledge hammer sending him flying across the dirt lot where he landed squarely on his butt. Jingle’s big ears made his head look like a wing nut as it spun around. Jelly beans blasted from his pointy hat like a Piñata.

Miss Giggles remembered the two whoopee cushions in her back pocket. She threw them onto the ground and jumped on them with both feet, scaring the Muggles brothers away and saving the candy for all of the little children who love the Circus.

“You saved my life, Hoppy, uh …I mean Miss Giggles,” said Mr. Jingles, who was weaving, as she scooped up all of his candy and put it into her over-sized pockets. “Hoppy, huh?” Clown or no clown, he was only dating me for FUN! Mr. Jingles had  passed out before she could strangle the Casanova with his six-foot checkerboard necktie.

The ambulance arrived within minutes. Miss Giggles watched as the attendants loaded Mr. Jingles into the back on a gurney and sped off, in circles, of course… dumping him back onto the parking lot and, on the next round, fatally running him over, repeatedly, until the honking stopped. Mr. Jingles had gone to the Big Top in the sky. “Huyk, hyuk, hyuk!” Miss Giggles laughed. “Your fun-filled nights at Sock-it-to-me Lane are over Romeo!” She skipped back toward Bouncy Town, laughing-all-the-way. “Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk!”

But we all know that poor Miss Giggles was really crying on the inside.

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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“)

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.”

An excerpt from “Perdida — Island of Lost Things”

12243223_10153244997283873_627571000625904234_n(A Phone Message from the scientist Postel Amok to his Actress wife Margaret Amok  2/16/16 🙂

Le plume de mutant

“Hello, Margaret. This is Postel. I heard you were taking a break from the movies, and it just so happens that I’ll be gone from the middle of May through most of November.

You must come and see what I’ve done to our little island since you’ve been gone. Little Edison misses you and cannot wait to hear all about your movies. I’ve refurbished the pool area with a fully stocked bar, a waterfall and slide, and our satellite T.V. has every channel known to man and beast. You will see my new particle-accelerator that has been placed around the  pool area by the time you arrive. Don’t let Edison play with it. It can be potentially catastrophic in unexperienced hands. When I return, I’ll show you how to mix a Nutrino Smoothy — the most popular beverage in the 4th dimension. Ha! Life on the island should be quiet  while I’m gone. Doctor Vegzet from Switzerland may stop in to do a few quiet experiments, but that is all.

You won’t have to water the garden or clean the house as I have a new groundskeeper named Zubu who lives in the guest house and is capable of covering most of the chores. Don’t be afraid of Zubu though he seems to enjoy acting like, dressing like, and screeching like P.T. Barnum’s famous Wild Man of Borneo.—Woo Hooo Hooo Hooo!

You may run into a few of my new exotic pets outside, but Zubu can care those as well.

He’ll take care of the animals in our new fresh water lake, which your son, Edison has christened Lake Darwin.

You’re still the prettiest woman that ever lived.

Call me. O.K.? (pause). You got my number, Pumpkin.”

I Love you.

Maggie hated the way the big goofball called her Pumpkin, just to piss her off.

_________________

From the tiniest amoeba to the largest pre-historic sloth, the entire Isla de Mismo was inhabited by the one thing that the award winning scientist  loved the most, himself and his divine genetic history! He couldn’t wait to share the newest vision of his twisted world with his wife, Margaret, who’d just spent over a year filming make-believe stories in the fantasy land we know as Hollywood. On Friday, she arrived, by fishing boat to their newly designed Bermuda home on Isla de Mismo. From the dock the island seemed to be the same place that she’d left a year ago, with its white plantation style house and colorful row boats fronting the tropical beach.

Postel Amok had won the Nobel Prize in 1986 in Physiology for his work in genetic engineering and his most important project The Molecular Time-clock that would someday “reproduce animals of the past through the use of his own DNA.” Long ago, Maggie had heard her husband rambling on, over dinner, boasting to his  scientist friends, “My esteemed friends, I, Postel Amok, will be sliding down the evolutionary chain, into the past, in two-hundred-thousand-year increments.”

The freshwater pond behind the Amok house was fed by Postel’s solar power desalinization plant and was decorated with small islands of coconut trees and a large waterfall to keep the water properly aerated. Maggie watched a school of carp and large lungfish with red markings on their backs, swimming into the shallows. They’d disappeared in the murk before Maggie could get a closer look at them.

“Come, this way. Let me introduce you to our two very rare Anthracosaurus,” said the groundskeeper Zubu as he walked her along the shore and pointed to two large animals resembling black tree trunks. “They were believed to be an extinct genus of embolomere, from the Late Carboniferous period 310 million years ago.” The Coal Lizards, once found in the Brirish Isles were each over10-feet long —- They also had gapped teeth, like Zubu, like her husband, Postel. “The larger lizard on the left is Sal,” said Zubu,  “and his sweetheart is Amanda.” Amanda swung her head toward Maggie from the muddy bank and hissed a warning at the invasive female. Her mate, Sal the scaly brute, complimented Maggie on her legs with a chirp and a tongue swipe grooming  his pond scum coated head. Maggie felt the impulse to run but was then drawn in by the red Helix mark on the creature’s black back. Sal turned and grinned the same familiar gap-toothed grin that Maggie did not want to think about.

Though the two twelve-foot-long newts, Sal and Amanda, had lovely ragged  grins. They sized up Maggie as if she were a stick of Joe Blow chewing gum.

A frog, the size of a large man, lurched itself onto the muddy shore. It blinked at Maggie.

“That is Beelzebufo, miss,” said Zubu. “That is her genus.”

“Gee, what a cutie,” said Maggie.

“We call her Ribbit. Your husband’s friend Doctor Vegzet, said that he brought Beelzebufo ampinga here from Madagascar, while your husband was working with the atom collider in Switzerland. Ribbit and her family were thought to be extinct since the Cretaceous and still has smaller relatives in South America. She seems to like you, miss.”

Maggie stuck out her tongue at the blank-eyed beast, in fun.

Zubu screeched and leapt, straight up, ten feet onto a jakfruit tree, “No, ma’am! You musn’t tease her.”

The frog rolled out it’s tongue like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker. Maggie felt a little guarded in front of the savage Zubu, but that didn’t stop her from making a “ribbit” sound and a greeting, “Hello Ribbit!” The frog answered her ribbit, and then added a series of other “ribbits” looking at Maggie for understanding? Suddenly, its tongue shot out and grabbed a moth the size of a crow. Beelzebufo held it in its mouth long enough for Maggie to get a reeeeal good look at the moth’s wing. That looked like a,“No it can’t be!” It had the same helix mark as her husband, as the groundskeeper, as Sal and Amanda! The frog nudged its bug-eyed head as if inviting her to “Try one! They’re not so bad, tasty once you get past the hairy wings! Really. Tons of fiber, pumpkin.” Ribbit slurped it down.

Postel has done it! Maggie thought.

Two Goddesses at a Wedding

Artemis Goes to a Wedding 

(From: Shark Fin Soup by Fred Barnett)

A scene from the arranged marriage of the Shark Goddess Dauna, and her chosen beau, the dim-witted, self-absorbed, pretty-boy Shark Demigod Bunji.

New Shark Fin Titled

The Zeus family couldn’t make it to the wedding. Most of the gods on Olympus had been bedridden with the Nosoi Flu, otherwise known as βροντές και κεραυνούς από τον κώλο, or  thunder and lightning released from the γάιδαρος or even more commonly known as sun flares.

Zeus, himself, was too ill to get to the phone, so he asked his wife Leto to call their daughter, Artemis. Artemis the Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt, who  was in Wyoming tracking a family of Yetis. She’d been trying to control the spread of Big Foot’s progeny for years. They were becoming a road hazard. She was trying to issue the elders a warning before the issue of total extinction would be their only other option. Most of the drivers who hit them at high speed had thought that the piles of fur and blood had been bears.

“Could you attend the (cough, cough) wedding of the Fijian Shark Gods Bunji and Dauna as our special envoy – as a special gift (cough) from all of the ailing Greek gods?” Leto asked her daughter, Artemis.

“Sure, Mom. How’s Dad?”

“All he can do is sleep. We both had a terrible night. Your poor brother has been sitting on the golden throne since early this morning.”

“That’s awful.”

Artemis would use all of her expertise in planetary design and cosmology to provide the lighting for the royal function. It would be a strenuous evening that would require that she control the movements of the Earth, moon, and stars, providing a light show lasting over an hour until the young marrieds dashed off toward their fahhhhhbulousssss honeymoon.

Artemis was uncomfortable with the idea of marriage, romance, and especially – fahhhhhhbuloussss honeymoons.

While standing in the long reception line, Artemis thought about the bride and groom, Bunji and Dauna. Six sunny fun-filled days! And five glorious nights! … in beautiful, romantic Hawaii! The A-holes. (She could imagine the two, breeding like filthy damned Yetis in the hotel’s heart-shaped tub.) 

Artemis was not jealous. To her, gods and goddesses should always strive to be above such “base” behaviors. A honeymoon was a primitive rite, common among reeking humanoids, recently emerged from the Tyranno- toilets called swamps.

Sleaze.

Above all things, Artemis was pure. Superior as both a goddess and a  huntress, she manifested dominion over the animals of the Earth and skies. Dignified.

But then, she has these long legs. Hoo hah.

__________________

Cool as the blue moonlight with her long black braid swinging, the majestic Artemis approached the newlyweds, Dauna and Bunji, as they received their guests. She tried her best to bow modestly in her short, off-the-shoulder white tunic. The self-designed garment enabled the Goddess to move quickly when she was in pursuit of fast prey.  To Artemis, the bride, Dauna, didn’t look ‘thrilled’ about the wedding. It had been an arranged marriage to bring peace among the Micronesian worshippers of opposing shark gods.

Dauna eyed her new husband, Bunji, trying to gauge his reaction to the long-limbed beauty approaching them. Dauna, a steaming hot goddess herself, looked up and met Artemis’ thinly veiled breasts at eye level. Uh-oh. I’m fucked. 

The mighty Chief Kivana, whispered into his stepdaughter Dauna’s ear, “The Huntress is an avowed Oh, my! virgin and a Wowser! legendary man-hater.” At first, disarmed by Artemis’ smile and the spark in her eyes, Chief Kivana found himself enraptured by the goddess’s cherry red lips. The Chief looked at his daughter and then back at Artemis. He shook his head: Uh-oh. Dauna’s fucked. 

The young groom Bunji tried to speak next. He eloquently expressed himself: “Hominahominahominahomina.” Then he took a big breath and said, in English, “Miss Huntress. Those, those are some …homina homina …impressive …uh, arrows …in your … thingy. Is…Is that a holster?”

“This thingy is called a quiver, my Lord Bunji. These are my golden hunting arrows. Please, both of you, call me Artemis.”

“Quiver?” (That …uh …sounds hot) the thirty-five-year old Bunji’s fourteen-year-old imagination raced ahead.

“That’s right, Hotshot,” said Dauna to her betrothed. “A soft sheath to keep your shafted projectiles warm.”

It took awhile for Dauna’s comment to register with her new husband. “Oh yeah! Ha! I get it!” Artemis blushed…all over her body.

“Please!” whispered the statuesque Goddess to the couple. “Let’s try to keep this conversation out of the gutter.”

The bride and groom stared at each other in amazement and then back toward Artemis in embarrassment.

“We’re sorry, we were just…” said Dauna.

“I know. Honeymooners. To me, sex is not a laughing matter. I am the virgin Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon. I hunt many types of prey. I also kill to protect the virtue of both myself and the innocent. I hunt nearly anything that moves …except men. They hunt me, then they end up killing themselves as soon as they find out that Artemis, the Goddess, doesn’t need a γαμημένος date! I wouldn’t waste my arrows on such weak and easy targets!”

“Oh, P-leeeeease,” said Dauna, rolling her eyes. ‘Cept that girl is spot on.

Artemis continued on as if nothing had happened. “I must apologize for the absence of the other Olympians tonight, all of whom are suffering from Nosoi.”

“Nosoi Flu?” asked Bunji. “That is nasty.” Mesmerized by the thin material of her tunic, he added, “Goddess! Do you have a card …on you?” He was unable to turn his gaze away from the tall porcelain-skinned wonderland before him. Dauna imagined a target glowing on her husband’s forehead.

“The gods of Olympus have sent me here to help light the heavens and set the mood for your wedding. Let me convey all of our best wishes and Congratulations!”

“I’m, uh, honored to uh meet youuuuuuuuu,” said the groom, who was looking down, maneuvering his shiny black patent leather shoes, so that he could  cop a peek up the Huntress’ short skirt.

“Honored to meet you, Artemis,” said Dauna, giving her new spouse a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Next in line, please!” said Chief Kivana.

Though the Chief hated to see his stepdaughter marry the half-witted mannequin Bunji, his quick thinking probably saved the young groom from getting a golden shafted projectile through his empty skull.

__________________

Black Friday ^^ö^^ from Bats

“Who is it?” said the new commander König Buckel (King Hump). “Is it the Van Helsing boys?”

“It’s me, Kapitän Flitzer (Streaker)!”

“Hurry! Come in,” said König Buckel.

“Ja, boss! I think that an army is coming through the forest.”

“Are you sure? Take a ladder, look over the parapet, and…”

“Is my hair okay?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Flitzer, you are not all that. Put on some pants. The gold ones are nice.”

When Kapitän Flitzer carefully looked over the top of the castle wall. In the moonlit forest and across the moat below, he saw a sea of ten thousand women. Lupta Axe’s new army of fans had surrounded the castle. The Black Friday shoppers had built a bridge; a human bridge fashioned from the bodies of sacrificed shoppers to reach across the moat to the drawbridge. The women who had the free samples of Outa-My-Way-Asshole! brand coffee were already tearing at the drawbridge with sharpened fingernails. Others beat at the twenty-foot wooden barrier with heavy handbags and stiletto heels.

“Commander!” Flitzer called down. “You have to see this!”

A woman’s voice called up to the frightened soldier, “Open up, Flitzer. It’s me. Your Aunt Stella! Open up! It’s midnight!”

“That is correct, ma’am,” said König Buckel, who had joined Flitzer at the top of the wall. “I am the commandant and it is midnight. So what? You should be home with your husband!”

There was a sudden calming in the fields below Poenari’s high walls. The moonlit crowd parted like the Red Sea. A woman built like a tractor approached the drawbridge swinging a purse loaded with a dozen heavy, greasy beignets. She stared up at König and ground her strong jaw.

“Go away, whoever you are!” said König Buckel. “The park is closed until tomorrow at 10 a.m.!”

“I am Pauline! Open the drawbridge or I’ll soon be using your skinny neck for butt floss.”

There was more banging. More determined women’s voices.

“Open up!”

“Sale!” another screamed.

Flitzer watched their torches in their left hands pierce the darkness as they chanted, “Sale! Sale! Sale! Sale!” Purses in their right hands swung like spiked medieval flails. Pauline stood at the head of the crowd and spat acidic venom that began to burn a hole in the wooden barrier.

“What are you people? Go home!”

“We are here to spend money! It is Black Friday. We are here for shoes, clothes, and free stuff. You are the worms who will die if you get in our way!”

“Quick, Flurry Schamhaar (Flurry Pubes),” said König, “I want all of the Meine Runt-Pferde suitcases brought out here into the courtyard. All of them. I want them unpacked and the clothes folded neatly on the tables. Now!” König Buckel called out to the women at the moat, “Give us another minute!”

“All of our clothes, sir?” asked Flurry Schamhaar.

“Yes!” said König. “We all overpacked for this trip. Hurry!”

The women outside began to chant “Now! Now! Now!” Inside the courtyard the heavy wooden beams of the drawbridge began to splinter.

König Buckel climbed back below.

“Sir!” said Flatternscheuen (Poser). “Things are about to get ugly! And 50% off!” He handed his commander König Buckel a flyer he’d picked up off the ground.

“Damn! Black Friday Sale!” said the commander.

Flatternscheuen turned the flyer over and read the back, “‘For the first two thousand of my loyal fans who storm Poenari Castle at midnight, all clothes modeled by the Meine Runt-Pferde will be 50% off!”

“Wait,” König said to Flatternscheuen. “That witch is talking about giving away our clothes, sweetie.” Flatternscheuen continued reading aloud, “Stick around for a free Chanel gift certificate, and there will also be dozens of available men.”

Oh, really? thought König Buckel.

“…and lots of designer shoes. PLUS, I will send a copy of my new book—FREE!—to everyone who mails me back their flyer. Signed Infinity Upton-Downes.”

The commander glanced at the witch’s flyer. “Infinity Upton-Downes! I love her books!” König Buckel dropped his weapon belt, grabbed his Chanel bag and turned to his weary soldiers. “Men! I’ve only heard of them in legend. These women of Black Friday, if they are who I think they are, are unstoppable. So it’s goodbye, my comrades. Auf Wiedersehen! So long my little Frechen Säugen (Perky Suckle), my brave Mond Mich (Moon Me), my handsome-but-straight Brust Gucker (Breast Gazer), and the rest of you sweeties! It was an honor to serve with—”

CRACK!!! The drawbridge shattered. The women stormed the courtyard with fire in their eyes trampling over each other to get to the tables first. Others attacked the König Buckel’s troops. “Flunker-wagger! Flunker-wagger!” the women were chanting.

“EEEEEEEyahhhhhhh!”

Pauline, who led the charge dressed in a badass polka dot dress and matching hat, met the commander eye to eye at the bottom of the staircase. She pushed him against the stone wall then swatted the commander with her wide brimmed hat. “Give me your boots,” she said to König Buckel, who was shaking in his pair of Nudie Saddle Ups.

“I-I-I…these were a special gift. No! Besides, you look like you wear a size eleven and these are nines.” Pauline started to twirl her beignet purse slowly. “No! They’re from Nordstoms, you beast,” he said. As König Buckel slowly backed up the spiral stone staircase, she matched his every move. He lashed out with his handbag and missed.

“What do you want for those boots?” she asked as she swung at his head. König ducked, saving his skull from being cracked like an egg.

“They were a birthday present from Heinrich Van Helsing! I’ll never find these again. Nudie stopped producing this line in 1995.”

“Heinrich Van Helsing? Are we talking about the same football player Van Helsing?”

“Please!” König screamed. “Heinrich! Heinrich!” Oh Lord! Where is my Heiny???

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