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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

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Goddesses

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.”

 

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.

Artemis gets Her Perfect Ass Banished

New Shark Fin Titled

One celestial evening, after 50,300 hits on YouTube the voguish goddess Leto was forced to watch (in shock and horror) a video of her daughter shopping while dressed in a hideous floral nightgown and tennis shoes.

Artemis grabbed the phone. “Daddy?” The voice on the phone was powerful enough for Bernie to hear every word. The voice was angry enough to generate lightning from the earpiece.

“Artie. Dear Artie. Your mom and I decided that you can’t come home until you lose weight and come to your fashion senses,” daddy Zeus had said. “And tell your hobo friend to hijack himself a new suit with real pants if he’s gonna paint the town with my baby. Bernie’s friend Frankie should have already told him that life’s too short to dress like a bum. And what the hell is that thing you’re drivin’?”

“Uh…” Munch, munch, munch. “Bernie’s Chia.”

“Everyone up here thinks that you’ve gotten weak and out of control. We can’t afford to have the other deities think that the Olympians are pushovers.” Zeus shouted into the phone. “For gods and goddesses sakes, Art-Art, you used to knock ’em dead.”

“Art-Art?” Bernie, her human, heard that, and giggled.

The goddess shot lethal optikos (eye) arrows at Bernie. “Shut up, sandal licker! No, not you, daddy. There is going to be an epic battle with MacHeath’s army soon, so I promised to help Bernie and his trollop friend.”

“You mean Miss Soapy Puppies?”

“Yeah, Dauna.”

“Princess,” the voice said. “Don’t come home until you’ve cleaned up your circle of friends.”

Zeus hung up.

“But, daddyyyyyyyy?” The heroic figure wept a flood of tears. A text appeared. Final judgment came to Artemis swiftly in a furious “bolt of rejection.” The bolt was hurled in the form of an angry text, with an angry minotaur emoji attached. Artemis had just been officially banished from her home and family.

“What family, pop?” she texted back. “Do we even have a family name?”

“Good point, pumpkin. Let me ask your mom,” he wrote. Back on Olympus he asked his wife, “Leto, dear? What’s our last name?” He texted Artemis, “You still there? Okay. Your mom says that our last name is ‘On High.’ We don’t need a last name, pumpkin, unlike the Kardashians. We’re bigger than Lady Gaga. We only use first names. Oh, your mom wants to know…what the hell kind of shoes were you wearing on the Walmart show?”

Zeus’ mighty presence was suddenly gone, and Artemis was hurt, and that meant that she needed tacos. Artemis had become “an embarrassment” to the fashion-conscious Olympian gods, who were tolerant to a point, often turning their backs on lesser Olympian crimes, such as torture, mass murder, incest, rape, infanticide and eating one’s own children.

A Midnight Swim in NY’s East River

New Shark Fin Titled copy

Interpol agent Bernie Benedict and the Shark Goddess Dauna pulled into a dirt lot by the river’s edge. The New York skylight twinkled. They stood along the trash strewn bank of the East River.

Dauna took a lighter out of her jeans pocket. “Listen Clam Dip, after our swim, I’m going to take you to a place that’s absolutely to die for.”

“Swim? I thought that we were going to talk over Dim Sum dumplings at Double Chins.”

“Drive over there, next to the outfall. I’ll show you dumplings.”

“You want to swim in the East River? Do you have any idea what’s in that mess?”

“Well, the rainbow plume on the surface suggests kerosene, fuel oil, gasoline, naptha butchering, sewage, and medical waste.” she said while throwing down her jacket.

“I’m not going anywhere near that petri dish.”

Dauna kicked off her shoes. “It’s safe, Hon. The East River is as dead as the River Styx. Most bacteria can’t survive in it. Let’s have a moonlight swim, chew toy. Let’s play.” She threw down the  cigarette. “I’ll protect you.”

“This water will probably dissolve your earrings.”

Shark Fin Soup – Final Chapter: Donette’s Cafe

Final Chapter.

BestCoffeeInTown3

Bernie carefully lay his fork on the table and stared at his plate. From across the table, his friends Jules and Claire were able to share Bernie’s ‘vision,’ which was framed by bacon, rye toast, home fries, a sprig of parsley and an orange slice. A trio of smiling faces, on his three sunny-side up eggs, began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in ancient Aramaic. For his birthday, now that he had attained full god status, the entire Holy Family had shown up to wish him well. Well, what do you know, thought Bernie, I must be hanging out with the right crowd. “Darling!” He yelled toward the kitchen, “Darling! Look who’s shown up for my Birthday! Hurry, dear!”

“Hold onto your baguette! God f*cking dammit!”  Donette, his goddess spouse, has Tourettes. She can’t control her foul mouth and she carries a doctors note to sonofabitchf*cking prove it!

“F**K!”  said Donette’s diners in perfect harmony, (‘Group Tourette’s’ is a rare phenomenon) …because…

Glass imploded into the dining room.  A crazed woman, dressed in a XXXXL Walmart flower print Muumuu, commandeering a red mobility scooter, crashed through the restaurant window. Her flapping right arm was clenched around the neck of the frightened Viking MacHeath, who was trying to stab her with a jewel encrusted trident harpoon — that he’d lifted from Poseidon. The scooter’s front wheel was stuck on the window sill when the huge woman grabbed the pitchfork and drove it through Edwin MacHeath’s neck as they nearly tumbled onto Donette’s customers. The scooter wheels were followed through the broken glass by a huge white cat, who managed its own bloody swipe at the Viking’s already spurting neck. The Viking’s helmet fell off revealing a two haired combover. The scooter with the trio on board flipped back out of the window and onto the pier outside where the heroic pair continued to tear into the Viking without getting as much as one drop of blood on themselves.

 

 

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 Night of the Shining Domes

The Night of the Shining Domes

— is an an excerpt from the short story ‘Rock Invasion’ from the book The Kingdom of the Cats

a sorrento

Where does inspiration come from?

Here, it takes the long route.

Our main character in the story Rock Invasion, is Johnny Passion: A washed-up 1960s pop singer

Second, we have Therpsicore: The newly elected Goddess of modern music and Johnny’s biggest fan. Working on giving him a second chance. We’ll call her Cori, for short.

Then there are The Brills: Cori’s alien song writing partners who inhabit the planet Brill. 


 

It was the biggest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over thirty years. The kind of moon that inspired love songs.

Eight tuxedo-clad ghosts solidified themselves and gathered, at midnight, in the empty baseball field of Dodger Stadium under remarkably clear skies. The Stadium was built in 1962. The Elysian Fields where it stood had been named by the Pantheon of Greek Gods in 5000 B.C. The local LA politicians, who would have named it for one of their rich cronies, had, thank the gods, nothing to do with the naming of the sacred space.

The ghostly group was a collection of the most talented of the deceased, bald show-biz legends. There was Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, and Al Jolson. They walked the diamond in a slow orbit around their chosen leader, the chairman, the venerated spirit of Francis Albert Sinatra, who stood on the pitcher’s mound holding a ghost cigarette in one hand and his cocktail of choice — four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniels, and a splash of water in the other. Frank was wearing his magic toupee. Other curious follically-challenged spirits began to drift in from the night to witness the rare and momentous occasion. Two dozen, daisy pushing, songwriters, and band leaders joined the festivities, as well as two accursed showbiz agents, from the Earth’s molten core; Max and Lenny Lipschitz — the twin Lex Luthors of Hollywood.

When they had been alive, each of these tuxedoed giants of music had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. Cori’s charmed hairpieces, were woven from the fur of the her long haired cat, Mr. Snuffles. When they were alive the magic toupees had helped the stars boost their fragile egos so that they would keep performing.

The Domes held their charmed toupees against their chests as they tightened the circle around Frank. The tops of their shiny heads pointed toward the heavens.

The solemn ceremony had begun.

The pale rays of the silent moon multiplied themselves upon the ghost’s polished heads until the moonlight snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous single beam, more robust than any laser, ricocheted itself back to the dark heavens. The signal was sent.

They set their wigs back upon their heads.

The toupees were lifted and slapped down repeatedly , over and over again, upon the bare heads of ghosts in quick, efficient military precision. The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted into the great beyond.

The Chrome Domes had sent their urgent message to star system LSMFT-456. Hundreds of light years away, on the distant planet Brill, the beam entered the studio window of Cori’s two writing partners, Ada and Buddy Brill. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for action, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please ask Cori to weave a special toupee for our new inductee, Johnny Passion.”

Johnny Passion, the washed up pop star, was about to be given a second chance at showbiz, thanks to his number one fan, the goddess Cori.

“Toupee or not toupee!” The ghosts chanted as they dematerialized back into the endless night.

The message from the Chrome Domes had been given top priority by the Brills, Buddy and Ada, who lived and worked on their tiny 24 Karat planet beyond the Milky Way. The Brills picked up their Buck Roger’s Walkie Talkie to relay the exciting message to Cori, who waited for the Chrome Dome’s approval back on Earth. Frank and the boys, giving Johnny the green light, would certainly lift the goddess’ spirits. Johnny Passion was Cori’s last hope for the renaissance of quality music.

Cori’s walkie talkie buzzed again and again, but there was no answer. The Goddess, protected by her gallant feline, Mr. Snuffles, was passed out, drunk, on the floor of her favorite watering hole, the Kailua Palace.

An Interview with Kālī (from Shark Fin Soup)

New Shark Fin Titled copy

It was 6 p.m. The end of Bernie’s first day at the Interpol office in Los Angeles. He was beat. The agent’s job at the agency was based on his ‘talent.’ Bernie had been hired because he was not only able to see, but also communicate with religious apparitions.

Bernie’s first day on the job ended with a short, unscheduled, but action-packed interview in his office with the Hindu goddess  काली (Kali).

A few minutes earlier, Kali, being her usual sweet self, looked down at Bernie through the splinters of his new desk and grinned her blood covered rack of 14K gold teeth.

“I AM THE GREAT KALI!!!!” She circled the desk and castrated its four legs with a swipe of the four Jambiya  घुमावदार चाकू in her four hands, pinning Bernie to the floor in the middle of the rubble.

“Please, stop, काली!” he pleaded.

“Call me DOOOOOOOOOMMMM, Agent Benedict,” the Goddess of Destruction hissed, “AND you will thank me for beating this lesson into your sappy skull. My गुंडापन Thuggee followers, who number in the millions, still send me sweet little boxes containing their progeny’s still-beating hearts on Saint Jack the Ripper’s Day. I just want you to know that what, I, THE GREAT KALI!!!!, am capable of. What I can do to you…is NOTHING…Mwahahahaha…Nothing, compared to what that Brazen HUSSY Dauna Robinson will do to your maracas before you leave the building TONIGHT! … By the way,” Kali said, while grooming her fluttering eye lashes with her flaming jalapeño tongue, “This is hard for me to ask.”

“What? Anything! Anything! Spare me, oh, great Kali! Your wish is my command, oh fearsome goddess!” said the fetal quivering loogie named Bernie.

“Stand up, Agent Benedict. I was only joshin’ with ya,” Kali said, while brushing the wood dust off of her armored golden sari. “Do you think that you can set me up on a date with your friend, Frankie?”

“The Sumatran?”

Kali softened her voice. “I’m asking you as a friend

.…Or else, Worm!”

 

Introducing (tah dah) The Chrome Domes

The Night of the Chrome Domes from my short story book: The Kingdom of the Cats

It was the largest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over ten years.

Seven tuxedo-clad phantoms had solidified their departed selves and gathered in the empty baseball field at Dodger Stadium. The Los Angeles stadium stood on sacred ground (only a few short miles from Tommy’s Original Hamburgers). The field had originally been named Elysian Fields, by the Pantheon of Gods.

The ghostly group of bald-pated show-biz legends: Bing, Astaire, Frank, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, even Al Jolson (whom nobody could stand), all stood in a solemn circle. The singers were joined by nearly a dozen other bald songwriters, band leaders, and agents.

When they had been alive, these giants of music all had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. The charmed hairpieces, made from the fur of Cori’s cat, Joe, had helped them all to regain the confidence that they needed to keep performing when they were alive.

RetroRocketship

Their task had begun.

The light of the silent moon lit the bald heads. The pale rays multiplied themselves upon the surfaces of the men’s collective domes until the moon’s power snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous beam projected itself into the heavens. The initial signal was sent.

The toupees were lifted by the ghosts, and then dropped down upon their bare heads in efficient military precision, more exact then that of the Chinese who jump in unison to send tsunamis toward their enemies across the Pacific.

The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted.

On the distant planet Brill, a great light entered the studio window. The code from the Earth below sent its urgent message to Buddy and Ada. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for help, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please bring some new tunes and a magic toupee for Johnny Passion.”

The Earth is in danger of imploding due to bad music. Also, bring some celestial smokes, if you can. And a dozen Plutonian tacos.”

Toupee or not toupee?” The message from the bearers of the Magic Toupees was given top priority by the Brills, who in a rare move initiated a call to their boss.

“Buddy! She’s not answering!”

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