Hello Devilfish! Read Free Page B

set in Havana,” he paced, “with a girl—I mean a woman, can’t call them girls, and—”
    â€œMofo bad words that aggro the bitches!” I writhed my luscious blue bod on orange shag. Who puts orange shag down anymore? Even Commies won’t touch it. I touched a tiny Commie. “Come on,” I brushed him with my baby wing, “let’s write evil blather.”
    â€œYou talk the naxty pretty good,” he smiled, “but there’s my black friends, my Asian pals—and what if Chick Inc. gets wind of my apostasy—”
    â€œShriners fucking preteens!” I screamed. Uh oh—was I too subtle for him? Better ramp it up. “Midgets with wop sauce!”
    â€œA novel about Tourette’s?” he sneered. “It’s been done.”
    â€œYou’re a coward,” I twitched my stinger, “I’m sick of your prattling—you used to be fun. Why don’t you Google your pen name again?” And that’s when I crashed through patio glass and escaped—why hang with this fool? That twit was doomed to die unread and unfucked—and me? Mwah ha ha—I want to bathe in bad grammar, drink kitten milkshakes, coat myself with cheetah jism and rape the weeping sky—Hello Ambition! All your disgust are ours.

/ 5 /
    Tonight I wrapped my rubbery tail around a smokestack, ripped it up it and wrote in blood and memory. Your blood, my memory—Hello Devilfish! I wish I narrated stuff better—how scorched rice paddies curdle into mud soup with crow croutons, how torched skyscrapers melt like steel dildos—it’s been sappy fun! You need a deity to laugh at. And you will say to God—hey fucktard! Who makes leukemia and cake in the same universe? She never answers—she? Hah—of course God’s a chick. Who else goes all boo-hoo sentimental while snuffing their own spawn? She’s like those hags that shake their baby apart and then plead post-nasal depression. God kills us ’cause she loves us! It’s the logic of beaten dogs.
    Let’s say mild things—my prankster brain demands applause! As my bricky pen scribbles dirt ideograms about crime and lust and regret—regret’s the most fun. You get to do evil shit and then oops, OMG, sorry, didn’t mean it—I’m the prince of mad trauma. Especially when I stagger like some pregnant eggplant through chaotic muck, one stingray wing stirring streets into whirlpools and the other clutching dank hope. I hope there’s more stuff to wreck—is that too much to ask? More twinkling death shooting like licorice rays from my raving tail? More piles of split pelvises with baby gravy on top? A hint of lime and matricide would spice things up nice. Plus maybe a svelte stingray chick to share my opulent wrack, her lips frothing down my fiery prick, our flanks gilded with spit and spunk as we smash through night at the speed of dawn—Hello Porn! When you make up stuff make it sexy.
    But in real life I was still crushing that industrial wharf, shattering docks into splinter stew and gulping burnt workers like prole marshmallows. Till I spit their tongues out into a yelping confetti pile and drooled fire until my bod morphed into a gigantor blue flare. I am the light of the lost! Mostly lost limbs. But pure chaos is sort of comforting—you stop worrying about Facebook. No wonder some pimply reject buys a gun-show TEC-9 and lights up the nearest madrasa—hey, you try living with a flaming brain. And mine crackled as I toyed with the few biped chumps still alive, herding them from that dock’s edge to a seared parking lot where their feet boiled off in gurgling tar. Onward toeless soldiers! And then—hee hee—something tickled my flanks.
    Yowza—was it my awesome fantasy stingray girl? I hope she brought liquor, some viscous rum that’ll peel the paint off our skulls. We are having the sweet nougat life—join us in