Harry Guakomoli was having a bitch of a time figuring out his newfangled phone. Our hero had been given the gadget by Dr. Lawrence Triangle, a man he had found annoying the moment he met him. The Guak wanted nothing to do with the nuisance, but he was in a bit of a bind; his telephone did not survive the explosion at Neuneuschwanstein. Neither did our hero for that matter, but the phone did not have the benefit of a weirdo with access to arcane whatever to bring it back from the dead.
But this phone was like nothing he had ever experienced prior. Our hero always used s cheap pre-paid phone, a "burner" in contemporary street parlance. His new communication device was not a burner, but a super phone, smart phone, whatever those egghead dinks called it. The most he was able to do was figure out his contact list of phone numbers. The list only had one name: Dr. Lawrence Triangle. And it bothered The Guak to no end that the doctor even typed in the "Dr." part of his name. Of all the people with titles in the world, doctors certainly topped the list of those that made sure everyone knew they were worthy of such titles. That really burned our hero's britches.
The Guak was trying his damndest to figure the fucker out while riding in the back of a cab. Oslo was kind enough to give our hero a hundred dollars to pay for a taxi, though really it was the least The World's Smartest Cat could do after he killed his crime-fighting partner and took his home and the object of his lust. Our hero was struggling to figure out his own phone number. The Guak kindly asked for his driver's cell number so our hero could call him and get his number that way, but the cabbie couldn't understand what his passenger was saying. The Guak was unsure if the hack was legitimately confused or just pulling his leg, as those foreign-born drivers were likely to do. It was then that our hero realized he was thinking like Travis and decided to give the gentleman the benefit of the doubt.
Meanwhile Gunther was starting his day. The day's first sunbeams had began to break through the night's wall of darkness. And the groundskeeper knew he was going to be busy. He always was on Sundays. He sat down to eat an enormous bowl of Rice Krispies. After pouring on the milk he sat in silence and listened. Listened to the snapping and the crackling and the popping of the cereal. God he loved that magical sound. Then Gunther dumped three tablespoons of sugar in the bowl and stirred in the sweetener. Gunther dug in, quickly and noisily scarfing down that particular breakfast staple from those nice folks from Kellogg's.
The groundskeeper chewed with his mouth open, causing milk to drip down his corpulent face. He made short work of the solid portion of his breakfast before taking the bowl into his chubby hands. Gunther brought the receptacle to his maw and began slurping down the sugary milk which flowed from the corners of his mouth.
Gunther had just started his daily ritual of drinking the saccharine lactose when a loud knock came from the front door of the hovel he called home. He ignored the knock; an hour remained before his shift started, and he was not to be disturbed. A thunderous methodical series of knocks followed.
"I'M FUCKIN' EATIN'!" Gunther screeched after he lowered the bowl from his mouth. "COME BACK LATER!"
Satisfied that he made himself clear and would no longer be interrupted, the groundskeeper returned to his sucking down of the milk. Then the pounding started. Pounding which could only mean his uninvited visitor was trying to break the door down. That startled poor Gunther, and he jumped out of the chair, dumping the bowl's contents all over his face, stained white shirt, and white briefs. As I am sure you can predict, dear reader, this enraged Gunther.
"YOU ARE GONNA GIT SUCH A TALKIN' TO!"
Gunther stomped over to the door and quickly unlocked the three dead bolts that protected him from home invaders and the restless dead. Standing before him was a large man with shortly cropped brown hair, brown sweatshirt, jeans, and a stylish pair of Velcro sneakers. One hand was smashing the door while the other gripped something black and sleek. Gunther reminded himself not to show his envy toward the stranger's footwear.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" the groundskeeper barked.
"Do you have a shovel?" The Guak nonchalantly asked.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" Gunther asked again.
"To borrow a shovel obviously," our hero coolly answered.
"WHY FOR?!" Gunther demanded to know.
"To dig up my own grave."
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Part XXX: What's In A Name? (The Guak The Origin Part III)
Harry Guakomoli was barely a year old when he was abandoned on the front steps of St. Hedwig's House For Children. An orderly responded to the door buzzer shortly before dawn. He looked down at the partially unzipped duffel bag. Poking out from the bag was the face of a sleeping infant.
"Shiiiiit."
The orderly picked up the bag and stepped back inside. He walked down a sterile white hallway until he reached a middle aged white woman with thinning gray hair seated at a metal desk eating Mexican food. The man set the bag down on the desk.
"Another God damn abandoned baby," he said in disgust.
"Jesus Christ," the woman said with a mouthful of taco salad. "Open up the bag for identification."
St. Hedwig's was operated by nuns. But none of the elderly sisters were interested in doing God's work after midnight so others were hired to hold down the fort until eight in the morning. None of the overnight staff was particularly religious, and night supervisor Loretta Branson was no exception.She never thought twice about taking The Lord's name in vain and never chastised her underlings for using similar language.
Byron Lawrence, the orderly, did as he was told and pulled The Baby Guak out from the duffel bag. The boy quietly slept in his soiled powder blue onesie. Byron rummaged through the bag only to find a few ratty towels to act as blankets for the infant.
"Nuttin,' Loretta," Byron said.
"What's that on his chest?"
The orderly turned The Baby Guak around so that the two males were face-to-face. The Baby Guak was still sleeping. A saliva bubble began to form out of the one year-old's mouth. Why are white babies so ugly? Byron thought to himself. He looked down to the boy's chest.
"It's a note. It says 'Baby Harry.'"
"Anything else that tells us what the little shit's name is?" asked Loretta. She pushed her dinner aside and took out a manila folder from one of the desk drawers.
"Nope."
Loretta sighed. People had a tendency to dump their unwanted children on the front steps of St. Hedwig's in the dead of night with alarming regularity. In an attempt to curb that trend the sisters always had someone patrolling the grounds, not to mention a strict policy demanding every abandoned child must be identified, first and last name, along with the name of at least one parent. This did not stem the baby tide like the nuns had hoped, but at least the children had names.
The reason this policy was not particularly effective was due to the fact that Loretta often found herself bored and would request, more like demand, the company of the orderly, a post filled by either Byron or Craig. The overnight supervisor and whatever attendant was on duty would usually spend their time together playing cards or checkers or the occasional bout of sex.
Loretta got around this by making up names for the orphanage's new charges if identification could not be found. She hated making up names primarily because she had exhausted her limited imagination some time ago.
"Hmmm," Loretta thought aloud. "We need a last name."
She looked around for inspiration. Lamp, light, desk, pen, paper, folder, man, child. Those were off the list; Loretta had used those before along with countless others.
"What's that stuff on your salad?" asked Byron.
"Huh?" Loretta responded.
"That slimy green shit. What is it?"
"It's guacamole," answered Loretta.
"There you go. There's your last name."
"Brilliant, Byron! I knew there was a reason I liked you. It's definitely not because of your stamina."
Byron scowled as his superior paid him a backhanded compliment. Loretta opened the folder and grabbed a child abandonment form. She picked up a cheap blue pen adorned with the MetroBank logo. It was one of a dozen she had stolen from the branch down the street a few weeks prior. Loretta filled in the blank designated for the abandoned child's first name with "Harry." She was known as a notoriously poor speller so she looked over to the note pinned to The Baby Guak's chest to get it right.
"How do you spell 'guacamole?' G-U-A...is 'C' or 'K?' I always forget."
"Umm..."Byron racked his brain for the answer. His spelling prowess was not much better than that of Loretta. "G-U-A-K-O-M-O-L-I."
Loretta filled in the last name blank exactly as her subordinate and lover spelled it. She examined the results and scrunched her nose.
"This doesn't look right," Loretta criticized.
"That's good, right?" retorted Byron. "If the spelling was good those old penguins might call you on your bullshit."
"Again," Loretta said with a smirk. "It's not because of your stamina."
Loretta filled out the rest of the form. Her brain was already fried due to the little thought she put into the endeavor, and she wanted the whole affair to be done. She scribbled in "unknown" for The Baby Guak's father, and decided to go with "Margareeta" as the mother (this misspelling was not a clever move on her part to conceal her fraud). She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, smug in her handiwork.
"Take the puke upstairs with the rest of them," Loretta ordered Byron. "And when you come back would you rather play Crazy Eights or screw?"
"Shiiiiit."
The orderly picked up the bag and stepped back inside. He walked down a sterile white hallway until he reached a middle aged white woman with thinning gray hair seated at a metal desk eating Mexican food. The man set the bag down on the desk.
"Another God damn abandoned baby," he said in disgust.
"Jesus Christ," the woman said with a mouthful of taco salad. "Open up the bag for identification."
St. Hedwig's was operated by nuns. But none of the elderly sisters were interested in doing God's work after midnight so others were hired to hold down the fort until eight in the morning. None of the overnight staff was particularly religious, and night supervisor Loretta Branson was no exception.She never thought twice about taking The Lord's name in vain and never chastised her underlings for using similar language.
Byron Lawrence, the orderly, did as he was told and pulled The Baby Guak out from the duffel bag. The boy quietly slept in his soiled powder blue onesie. Byron rummaged through the bag only to find a few ratty towels to act as blankets for the infant.
"Nuttin,' Loretta," Byron said.
"What's that on his chest?"
The orderly turned The Baby Guak around so that the two males were face-to-face. The Baby Guak was still sleeping. A saliva bubble began to form out of the one year-old's mouth. Why are white babies so ugly? Byron thought to himself. He looked down to the boy's chest.
"It's a note. It says 'Baby Harry.'"
"Anything else that tells us what the little shit's name is?" asked Loretta. She pushed her dinner aside and took out a manila folder from one of the desk drawers.
"Nope."
Loretta sighed. People had a tendency to dump their unwanted children on the front steps of St. Hedwig's in the dead of night with alarming regularity. In an attempt to curb that trend the sisters always had someone patrolling the grounds, not to mention a strict policy demanding every abandoned child must be identified, first and last name, along with the name of at least one parent. This did not stem the baby tide like the nuns had hoped, but at least the children had names.
The reason this policy was not particularly effective was due to the fact that Loretta often found herself bored and would request, more like demand, the company of the orderly, a post filled by either Byron or Craig. The overnight supervisor and whatever attendant was on duty would usually spend their time together playing cards or checkers or the occasional bout of sex.
Loretta got around this by making up names for the orphanage's new charges if identification could not be found. She hated making up names primarily because she had exhausted her limited imagination some time ago.
"Hmmm," Loretta thought aloud. "We need a last name."
She looked around for inspiration. Lamp, light, desk, pen, paper, folder, man, child. Those were off the list; Loretta had used those before along with countless others.
"What's that stuff on your salad?" asked Byron.
"Huh?" Loretta responded.
"That slimy green shit. What is it?"
"It's guacamole," answered Loretta.
"There you go. There's your last name."
"Brilliant, Byron! I knew there was a reason I liked you. It's definitely not because of your stamina."
Byron scowled as his superior paid him a backhanded compliment. Loretta opened the folder and grabbed a child abandonment form. She picked up a cheap blue pen adorned with the MetroBank logo. It was one of a dozen she had stolen from the branch down the street a few weeks prior. Loretta filled in the blank designated for the abandoned child's first name with "Harry." She was known as a notoriously poor speller so she looked over to the note pinned to The Baby Guak's chest to get it right.
"How do you spell 'guacamole?' G-U-A...is 'C' or 'K?' I always forget."
"Umm..."Byron racked his brain for the answer. His spelling prowess was not much better than that of Loretta. "G-U-A-K-O-M-O-L-I."
Loretta filled in the last name blank exactly as her subordinate and lover spelled it. She examined the results and scrunched her nose.
"This doesn't look right," Loretta criticized.
"That's good, right?" retorted Byron. "If the spelling was good those old penguins might call you on your bullshit."
"Again," Loretta said with a smirk. "It's not because of your stamina."
Loretta filled out the rest of the form. Her brain was already fried due to the little thought she put into the endeavor, and she wanted the whole affair to be done. She scribbled in "unknown" for The Baby Guak's father, and decided to go with "Margareeta" as the mother (this misspelling was not a clever move on her part to conceal her fraud). She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, smug in her handiwork.
"Take the puke upstairs with the rest of them," Loretta ordered Byron. "And when you come back would you rather play Crazy Eights or screw?"
Friday, December 9, 2011
Part XXIX: The Guak Vs. Oslo!
Harry Guakomoli was greeted with the nude form of Yo-Yo Ramirez. It was a surprising sight and not an unpleasant one. He was caught off guard and paused as she pointed at him and yelled something in Spanish.
"Die doppelganger motherfucker!" Oslo The World's Smartest Cat screamed as he pounced towards The Guak's face. While Oslo was truly the world's smartest cat he was by no means a genius; if he was he may realized that a surprise attack was more effective if it wasn't announced.
Oslo's assessment of what he believed The Guak to be gave our hero the time to snap out of his trance and catch his former best friend by the neck.
"Your strategies always sucked, traitor," The Guak growled as he tightened his grip.
"Fuck off, imposter!" Oslo screeched as he clawed away at The Guak's arm. The sweatshirt sleeve was being torn to pieces and the cat's nails dug into the flesh underneath.
"You stole my home. You stole my girl. Now I'm going to steal your life."
Like he did with Dr. Lawrence Triangle, The Guak squeezed Oslo's neck. Our hero had few friends in life, Oslo perhaps being the only true one. Yet those that fell into that particular designation were granted fiercely unwavering loyalty. But The Guak also expected that loyalty to be reciprocal. He viewed the actions of The World's Smartest Cat to be treacherous, and he couldn't let that go unpunished.
Oslo knew this guy who looked, sounded, and smelled like his best friend was intent on killing him. The World's Smartest Cat had no idea if his species truly did have nine lives. What he did know was that he really did not want to discover the answer firsthand. Oslo scratched and clawed at his would-be murderer's arm, but nothing the feline fury did caused the brute to release his grip.
As the life of The World's Smartest Cat slipped away Oslo had a realization. If this guy truly was an imposter why would he try to kill him? The logical plan would be to infiltrate, not annihilate. And he certainly wouldn't be dressed like that! This wasn't a clone or a robot or an evil twin. This was the bone fide The Guak!
"You're...you're not an evil robot twin clone," Oslo strained to say.
"No shit, weirdo," said The Guak puzzled.
"Boss...please," begged Oslo. The end was drawing near for our four-legged friend.
"¡Papi Grande!" exclaimed the buck naked Yo-Yo. "Me and Senor Gato never did no hanky-panky! It's true!"
Our hero was expressionless as he stared down at Oslo. His former sidekick had stopped attempting to claw his way out of The Guak's vise-like grip. The World's Smartest Cat no longer had the energy to struggle. All he could do was hope there was a sweet Hereafter. And if there was such a place the oceans would be malt liquor and the islands were made of Nutter Butters.
"Fuck," The Guak said.
Our hero released his stranglehold on his former best friend. Oslo instinctively landed on his feet before rolling over onto his back and desperately sucked down air. The Guak, looking dangerously close to remorseful, turned his attention to Yo-Yo.
"Are any of my clothes still here?" our hero asked the lovely Latina softly.
"Si, El Guako," the shapely senorita replied. "They're in the spare bedroom. Senor Gato refused to part with them."
The Guak lumbered off to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind him. Oslo and Yo-Yo looked at each other.
"So El Guako no kill us?" asked the confused Latina.
"That appears to be the case, mi cucaracha."
"Senor Gato," Yo-Yo said as she crinkled her nose in disgust. "You have boner."
The two stopped speaking to each other. The World's Smartest Cat rolled up into a ball of malt liquor- and vomit-soaked brown fur while Yo-Yo left to make herself more presentable. The Guak emerged from his dressing room in a dark brown hooded sweatshirt and slightly more stylish blue jeans.
"Where the fuck are my shit kickers?" our obviously less-than-pleased hero demanded to know.
Oslo looked down and noticed The Guak in his stocking feet. White, stained, and torn stocking feet.
"Well, boss," answered the feline fury. "There was this burial, see..."
"You buried my fucking boots?"
"There wasn't a body so we used some mementos instead."
"God, that's fucking stupid," The Guak said. "Is that where my autographed photo of Charo is?"
"Yeah, boss," The World's Smartest Cat answered, suddenly feeling less that smart.
The Guak added digging up his own grave to his mental list of things to do. He would be damned if he didn't get back that photograph to remind him of the greatest sex he ever had. Our hero returned to the bedroom and slipped his feet into the gray Velcro sneakers. He returned to the living room and headed towards the apartment's exit, stepping on the door he kicked off its hinges as he did so.
"Boss?"
"Yeah," The Guak asked.
"The hood rat was right," Oslo replied. "We didn't get it on. Sometimes I would crawl into her nap while she was naked, and she would stroke me. Not my willie though. That's all that happened. Promise."
"I believe you."
"Don't go, boss. Stay and tell me how you're still alive."
"Maybe later," The Guak said softly. There's some shit I need to do on my own. But there is something you can for me."
"Name it," Oslo said. "I'll do anything for you."
"I need money for cab fare."
"Die doppelganger motherfucker!" Oslo The World's Smartest Cat screamed as he pounced towards The Guak's face. While Oslo was truly the world's smartest cat he was by no means a genius; if he was he may realized that a surprise attack was more effective if it wasn't announced.
Oslo's assessment of what he believed The Guak to be gave our hero the time to snap out of his trance and catch his former best friend by the neck.
"Your strategies always sucked, traitor," The Guak growled as he tightened his grip.
"Fuck off, imposter!" Oslo screeched as he clawed away at The Guak's arm. The sweatshirt sleeve was being torn to pieces and the cat's nails dug into the flesh underneath.
"You stole my home. You stole my girl. Now I'm going to steal your life."
Like he did with Dr. Lawrence Triangle, The Guak squeezed Oslo's neck. Our hero had few friends in life, Oslo perhaps being the only true one. Yet those that fell into that particular designation were granted fiercely unwavering loyalty. But The Guak also expected that loyalty to be reciprocal. He viewed the actions of The World's Smartest Cat to be treacherous, and he couldn't let that go unpunished.
Oslo knew this guy who looked, sounded, and smelled like his best friend was intent on killing him. The World's Smartest Cat had no idea if his species truly did have nine lives. What he did know was that he really did not want to discover the answer firsthand. Oslo scratched and clawed at his would-be murderer's arm, but nothing the feline fury did caused the brute to release his grip.
As the life of The World's Smartest Cat slipped away Oslo had a realization. If this guy truly was an imposter why would he try to kill him? The logical plan would be to infiltrate, not annihilate. And he certainly wouldn't be dressed like that! This wasn't a clone or a robot or an evil twin. This was the bone fide The Guak!
"You're...you're not an evil robot twin clone," Oslo strained to say.
"No shit, weirdo," said The Guak puzzled.
"Boss...please," begged Oslo. The end was drawing near for our four-legged friend.
"¡Papi Grande!" exclaimed the buck naked Yo-Yo. "Me and Senor Gato never did no hanky-panky! It's true!"
Our hero was expressionless as he stared down at Oslo. His former sidekick had stopped attempting to claw his way out of The Guak's vise-like grip. The World's Smartest Cat no longer had the energy to struggle. All he could do was hope there was a sweet Hereafter. And if there was such a place the oceans would be malt liquor and the islands were made of Nutter Butters.
"Fuck," The Guak said.
Our hero released his stranglehold on his former best friend. Oslo instinctively landed on his feet before rolling over onto his back and desperately sucked down air. The Guak, looking dangerously close to remorseful, turned his attention to Yo-Yo.
"Are any of my clothes still here?" our hero asked the lovely Latina softly.
"Si, El Guako," the shapely senorita replied. "They're in the spare bedroom. Senor Gato refused to part with them."
The Guak lumbered off to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind him. Oslo and Yo-Yo looked at each other.
"So El Guako no kill us?" asked the confused Latina.
"That appears to be the case, mi cucaracha."
"Senor Gato," Yo-Yo said as she crinkled her nose in disgust. "You have boner."
The two stopped speaking to each other. The World's Smartest Cat rolled up into a ball of malt liquor- and vomit-soaked brown fur while Yo-Yo left to make herself more presentable. The Guak emerged from his dressing room in a dark brown hooded sweatshirt and slightly more stylish blue jeans.
"Where the fuck are my shit kickers?" our obviously less-than-pleased hero demanded to know.
Oslo looked down and noticed The Guak in his stocking feet. White, stained, and torn stocking feet.
"Well, boss," answered the feline fury. "There was this burial, see..."
"You buried my fucking boots?"
"There wasn't a body so we used some mementos instead."
"God, that's fucking stupid," The Guak said. "Is that where my autographed photo of Charo is?"
"Yeah, boss," The World's Smartest Cat answered, suddenly feeling less that smart.
The Guak added digging up his own grave to his mental list of things to do. He would be damned if he didn't get back that photograph to remind him of the greatest sex he ever had. Our hero returned to the bedroom and slipped his feet into the gray Velcro sneakers. He returned to the living room and headed towards the apartment's exit, stepping on the door he kicked off its hinges as he did so.
"Boss?"
"Yeah," The Guak asked.
"The hood rat was right," Oslo replied. "We didn't get it on. Sometimes I would crawl into her nap while she was naked, and she would stroke me. Not my willie though. That's all that happened. Promise."
"I believe you."
"Don't go, boss. Stay and tell me how you're still alive."
"Maybe later," The Guak said softly. There's some shit I need to do on my own. But there is something you can for me."
"Name it," Oslo said. "I'll do anything for you."
"I need money for cab fare."
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Part XXVIII: Home Sweet Home
Harry Guakomoli was on a mission to fuck up a cat. He had just broken the face and genitalia of a fellow street-level crime fighter and felt mighty good about doing it. Fucking scum, our hero thought about Travis. I should have done that a long time ago.
The Guak had stolen Travis' canary yellow cab and was hauling ass through The City towards the barrio. The Guak thought that maybe cruising at close to 100mph wasn't the wisest of ideas. It would sure have sucked to be stopped by the cops on the way to confront his once best friend. But the head wound he gave Travis caused blood to smear all over the hood. Attention was already drawn to the cab so fuck it.
The cab's speed allowed our hero to reach the barrio in record time. The Guak cut on to Lemon Street and continued to race, ignoring the traffic lights and stop signs and went crazy with his horn. His apartment building, Oslo The World's Smartest Cat's apartment building, was only half a block away, and The Guak could see a trademark lowrider of Los Fuegos Pollos parked across the street with two gangbangers behind it playing craps. They looked up to see the taxi barreling down on them at full speed. They sprang up and tried to run, but it was too late for the cholos; the cab collided into the back of the lowrider with the pair caught between the two vehicles. The men died immediately upon impact.
The Guak, who was smart enough to have buckled up as he rocketed down the streets of The City, was spared the brunt of the crash due to the cab's safety belt. He quickly unbuckled and exited the Crown Vic. Across the street, in front of the building our hero once called home, stood four more Los Fuegos Pollos staring in disbelief at what just happened to their homeboys. They did not realize it was The Guak who murdered their amigos until he charged towards them. One of them was punched in the throat, his windpipe crushed the second he snapped out of his paralyzing astonishment. Another reached for the semi-automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his low-hanging jeans. Our hero wrapped one of his mighty mitts around his neck and grabbed a handful of hair with the other. He pulled until the gangbanger's head became separated from the rest of his body. A torrent of blood erupted from his neck. A cholo pointed his pistol at The Guak who countered by hurling the previous victim's head at him. The head connected with El Fuego Pollo's own head which threw off his aim. The barrage of bullets ventilated the other breathing homeboy. Or he was breathing before the bullets tore through his heart. Our hero shortened the gap between him and the gunman in an instant. The Guak grabbed his wrist and stepped behind him, twisting and cracking the Latino man's arm as he did so. Our hero grabbed the other wrist and violently yanked its arm behind him as well. The Guak kicked the gangbanger's legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. Our hero placed his foot between the gunman's shoulder blades and pushed down while he pulled up and back on his arms until they were torn from their sockets. The cholo wailed like a banshee until he was silenced by a stomp to the back of the neck.
Our hero kicked the severed head down Lemon Street before he bolted up the stoop to the front door. It was locked so he ripped it from its frame. The Guak chucked the door behind him, and he heard it hit a car. He reckoned it was the Camry. Regardless of the vehicle's make and model, the impact of the door hitting it set off the car's alarm. The Guak chuckled and then proceeded up the stairs. The thuds of his march were not as impressive in the cheap Velcro sneakers as they would if he was wearing his shit kickers, but they were still loud enough that The Guak knew Oslo would hear them. Slowly, deliberately, he climbed up the stairs.
The Guak stood in front of the door of the fourth floor apartment he once called home. He knew the door would be locked with a dead bolt, and he knew that wouldn't stop him. He kicked the door hard, causing the frame to split and the door to violently swing open. The impact disconnected the door from its hinges.
Our hero looked in and immediately saw Yo-Yo Ramirez naked as the day is long. A shock of horror swept across her face, and the sexy curvaceous Latina pointed at him.
"¡Mi Dios! El Guako!"
The Guak had stolen Travis' canary yellow cab and was hauling ass through The City towards the barrio. The Guak thought that maybe cruising at close to 100mph wasn't the wisest of ideas. It would sure have sucked to be stopped by the cops on the way to confront his once best friend. But the head wound he gave Travis caused blood to smear all over the hood. Attention was already drawn to the cab so fuck it.
The cab's speed allowed our hero to reach the barrio in record time. The Guak cut on to Lemon Street and continued to race, ignoring the traffic lights and stop signs and went crazy with his horn. His apartment building, Oslo The World's Smartest Cat's apartment building, was only half a block away, and The Guak could see a trademark lowrider of Los Fuegos Pollos parked across the street with two gangbangers behind it playing craps. They looked up to see the taxi barreling down on them at full speed. They sprang up and tried to run, but it was too late for the cholos; the cab collided into the back of the lowrider with the pair caught between the two vehicles. The men died immediately upon impact.
The Guak, who was smart enough to have buckled up as he rocketed down the streets of The City, was spared the brunt of the crash due to the cab's safety belt. He quickly unbuckled and exited the Crown Vic. Across the street, in front of the building our hero once called home, stood four more Los Fuegos Pollos staring in disbelief at what just happened to their homeboys. They did not realize it was The Guak who murdered their amigos until he charged towards them. One of them was punched in the throat, his windpipe crushed the second he snapped out of his paralyzing astonishment. Another reached for the semi-automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his low-hanging jeans. Our hero wrapped one of his mighty mitts around his neck and grabbed a handful of hair with the other. He pulled until the gangbanger's head became separated from the rest of his body. A torrent of blood erupted from his neck. A cholo pointed his pistol at The Guak who countered by hurling the previous victim's head at him. The head connected with El Fuego Pollo's own head which threw off his aim. The barrage of bullets ventilated the other breathing homeboy. Or he was breathing before the bullets tore through his heart. Our hero shortened the gap between him and the gunman in an instant. The Guak grabbed his wrist and stepped behind him, twisting and cracking the Latino man's arm as he did so. Our hero grabbed the other wrist and violently yanked its arm behind him as well. The Guak kicked the gangbanger's legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. Our hero placed his foot between the gunman's shoulder blades and pushed down while he pulled up and back on his arms until they were torn from their sockets. The cholo wailed like a banshee until he was silenced by a stomp to the back of the neck.
Our hero kicked the severed head down Lemon Street before he bolted up the stoop to the front door. It was locked so he ripped it from its frame. The Guak chucked the door behind him, and he heard it hit a car. He reckoned it was the Camry. Regardless of the vehicle's make and model, the impact of the door hitting it set off the car's alarm. The Guak chuckled and then proceeded up the stairs. The thuds of his march were not as impressive in the cheap Velcro sneakers as they would if he was wearing his shit kickers, but they were still loud enough that The Guak knew Oslo would hear them. Slowly, deliberately, he climbed up the stairs.
The Guak stood in front of the door of the fourth floor apartment he once called home. He knew the door would be locked with a dead bolt, and he knew that wouldn't stop him. He kicked the door hard, causing the frame to split and the door to violently swing open. The impact disconnected the door from its hinges.
Our hero looked in and immediately saw Yo-Yo Ramirez naked as the day is long. A shock of horror swept across her face, and the sexy curvaceous Latina pointed at him.
"¡Mi Dios! El Guako!"
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Part XXVII: Travis' Big Night
Harry Guakomoli had been dead for six months, and Travis really couldn't care less. Sure, The Guak was helpful when they were both gunning for the same son of a bitch and they would join forces. Well, Travis would gun for him while The Guak used his fists, feet, head, and the occasional improvised weapon when it was time for violence.
It was always time for violence for Travis. It was the only thing the mongrels understood. These thugs didn't understand anything else. So they had to pay...and pay dearly.
No, The Guak's absence merely meant Travis didn't have a self-righteous blowhard to act as a target when the vigilante sent the drug pushers and flesh peddlers to Hell with his twin Glocks.
Travis prowled the streets for prey in his cab: a 1998 canary yellow Crown Vic. The degenerates and lowlifes never suspected a taxi cruising the 'hoods looking for the creeps that taint and sully this once great city. This once great nation. The limp-wristed politicians and their minions in the police force were too soft to do what needed to be done. If they were hard enough to make the tough choices and take action they were corrupt. Just as bent as the whores and skinners and methheads and skunk pussies they should have bee fighting to eliminate.
Travis was alone in his crusade. Sure, there was The Guak and his negress girlfriend. Uppity bitch. Then Guakomoli traded her in for that fucking cat. One brown pussy for another. Travis had spent hours coming up with that. His cleverness made him chuckle.
Laughter did not come easily for Travis. He lead a joyless existence; there was no time for mirth in this street soldier's one-man war against the killers, pimps, fairies, rapists, dope-peddling shines, and the rest of The City's trash. Travis was a hard rain washing over this modern day Sodom. His deluge of hot lead will cleanse the streets. Yes, he was God's lonely hand of justice.
But Travis' forlornness was about to end. He had a date with destiny. He was going to march up to Leisure and shoot the creep in the sack, then the gut, and finally in his fucking head.
The vigilante would take Lily away from the abuse and depravity and make her pure again. His plan was to take her to Driscoll's and treat her to a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. Then take her home to the efficiency apartment he shared with his mother. The next morning a Justice Of The Peace would make the pair man and wife. The plan was perfect, the only snag would be Travis fighting the temptation to consummate their righteous union before they were to be wed.
It was only half an hour until showtime. Travis leaned on the hood of his cab feeling like the shit. His trademark mohawk, aviator shades, and ratty Army coat were in attendance as always, but he also needed to impress his dream girl, his bride-to-be, his Lily. God's lonely hand of justice accomplished this by wearing a tight short-sleeved tan button-up shirt and a fat mahogany tie. The slacks, also mahogany in color, clung snugly to his lower body. He had been doing fifty pushups and fifty pullups every day since early summer, and he wanted to show off his physique to his beloved.
It had been a long Friday night for Travis, and before his murdering of Leisure and rescuing of Lily he shot the breeze with fellow hacks Warlock, Cole Snorter, and Crackerjack. He worked hard, and soon he would kill hard then play hard.
But then there he was. Travis rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He was not: standing before him, in hobo clothes, was The Guak. Travis stared at the walking dead man, mouth agape. Said walking dead man walked right over to the cabbie/exterminator.
"Travis," stated The Guak. "A word."
Travis' fellow drivers looked at The Guak's stone cold countenance and Travis' own expression of shock and terror. The men decided to let the crime fighters have their space and entered the diner.
"How? What?" asked Travis beside himself. "How can this be? I was at your funeral."
"I had a funeral?" The Guak was amused.
"Yeah, it was put on by your fairy priest friend and a bunch of spics."
Travis noticed he had hit a nerve as The Guak clenched and unclenched his fists and clenched them again.
"No offense," Travis lied. He couldn't figure out if the walking dead man was a queer or just a race traitor. Probably both.
"I need to borrow your cab," said The Guak as he barely managed to control his wrath.
"No can do, man. I'm swinging by Leisure's soon and picking up Lily. We've got a date, and I need my wheels."
"I understand," The Guak said. "Tell me about your dream girl."
"She's the salt of the earth, my Lily," began Travis. "But with a real potty mouth too. I love that about her. Long dirty blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Perky tits. So young, so innocent."
"Sweet, my man," responded The Guak. "How young is the little darling?"
"She'll be fourteen in November."
"Yum! Do you have a picture of the lucky lady?"
"Yeah! I've got a few on my phone!"
Travis was a lot of things: driven, hardcore, bat shit crazy. But intelligent was not a quality God's lonely hand of justice possessed. He should have suspected The Guak was putting on a ruse; our hero had always voiced his disapproval of Travis' predilection towards teenage girls. The Guak had called him a pervert, a pedophile, and a sick fuck. But Travis was blinded by the fact someone finally expressed positive interest in his predisposition towards underage flesh. Except for Oslo. That fucking cat was always trying to move in on his action. The lunatic gunman, to put it bluntly, was a fucking idiot. He surmised no untoward action against him as he dug around in his military-issued coat pocket for his cellular telephone, which doubled as a treasure trove of photographs of jail bait in various stages of undress.
The lightning quick elbow hit Travis hard. He felt his face crack as the strongest man he knew smashed it in. The crime fighter/cab driver/statutory rapist was knocked off his feet from the blow, hitting his mohawked head on the car's hood, the fender, and finally the asphalt of Driscoll's parking lot. It did not take long for the the blood to begin seeping out of his noggin. The Guak stook his hand into his victim's pocket and withdrew Travis' phone and car keys.
"What the fuck, man?!" Travis exclaimed as he gargled his own blood.
"I should have done this a long time ago, and I'm disgusted with myself that I didn't."
Our hero crushed the cell phone with his hand. Tiny bits of plastic and electronics fell to the ground and landed in the puddle of Travis' head blood. Then The Guak stomped hard on the groin of God's lonely hand of justice. Our hero always felt attacking another man's genitals was strictly forbidden. The Guak was just as dirty a fighter as the next guy when forced, but he still had something of a code. No going after the junk. Yet in that one instance he made an exception. A broken dick and ruptured nuts would ensure Travis would not be sticking it to minors any time soon.
"Thanks for the car, shitheel," our hero said through clenched teeth as he made his way to the cab's driver's side front door.
"But-but-but I was going to kill Leisure tonight," lamented Travis as more blood poured from his cranium.
"Maybe when I get back we'll do a team-up."
It was always time for violence for Travis. It was the only thing the mongrels understood. These thugs didn't understand anything else. So they had to pay...and pay dearly.
No, The Guak's absence merely meant Travis didn't have a self-righteous blowhard to act as a target when the vigilante sent the drug pushers and flesh peddlers to Hell with his twin Glocks.
Travis prowled the streets for prey in his cab: a 1998 canary yellow Crown Vic. The degenerates and lowlifes never suspected a taxi cruising the 'hoods looking for the creeps that taint and sully this once great city. This once great nation. The limp-wristed politicians and their minions in the police force were too soft to do what needed to be done. If they were hard enough to make the tough choices and take action they were corrupt. Just as bent as the whores and skinners and methheads and skunk pussies they should have bee fighting to eliminate.
Travis was alone in his crusade. Sure, there was The Guak and his negress girlfriend. Uppity bitch. Then Guakomoli traded her in for that fucking cat. One brown pussy for another. Travis had spent hours coming up with that. His cleverness made him chuckle.
Laughter did not come easily for Travis. He lead a joyless existence; there was no time for mirth in this street soldier's one-man war against the killers, pimps, fairies, rapists, dope-peddling shines, and the rest of The City's trash. Travis was a hard rain washing over this modern day Sodom. His deluge of hot lead will cleanse the streets. Yes, he was God's lonely hand of justice.
But Travis' forlornness was about to end. He had a date with destiny. He was going to march up to Leisure and shoot the creep in the sack, then the gut, and finally in his fucking head.
The vigilante would take Lily away from the abuse and depravity and make her pure again. His plan was to take her to Driscoll's and treat her to a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. Then take her home to the efficiency apartment he shared with his mother. The next morning a Justice Of The Peace would make the pair man and wife. The plan was perfect, the only snag would be Travis fighting the temptation to consummate their righteous union before they were to be wed.
It was only half an hour until showtime. Travis leaned on the hood of his cab feeling like the shit. His trademark mohawk, aviator shades, and ratty Army coat were in attendance as always, but he also needed to impress his dream girl, his bride-to-be, his Lily. God's lonely hand of justice accomplished this by wearing a tight short-sleeved tan button-up shirt and a fat mahogany tie. The slacks, also mahogany in color, clung snugly to his lower body. He had been doing fifty pushups and fifty pullups every day since early summer, and he wanted to show off his physique to his beloved.
It had been a long Friday night for Travis, and before his murdering of Leisure and rescuing of Lily he shot the breeze with fellow hacks Warlock, Cole Snorter, and Crackerjack. He worked hard, and soon he would kill hard then play hard.
But then there he was. Travis rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He was not: standing before him, in hobo clothes, was The Guak. Travis stared at the walking dead man, mouth agape. Said walking dead man walked right over to the cabbie/exterminator.
"Travis," stated The Guak. "A word."
Travis' fellow drivers looked at The Guak's stone cold countenance and Travis' own expression of shock and terror. The men decided to let the crime fighters have their space and entered the diner.
"How? What?" asked Travis beside himself. "How can this be? I was at your funeral."
"I had a funeral?" The Guak was amused.
"Yeah, it was put on by your fairy priest friend and a bunch of spics."
Travis noticed he had hit a nerve as The Guak clenched and unclenched his fists and clenched them again.
"No offense," Travis lied. He couldn't figure out if the walking dead man was a queer or just a race traitor. Probably both.
"I need to borrow your cab," said The Guak as he barely managed to control his wrath.
"No can do, man. I'm swinging by Leisure's soon and picking up Lily. We've got a date, and I need my wheels."
"I understand," The Guak said. "Tell me about your dream girl."
"She's the salt of the earth, my Lily," began Travis. "But with a real potty mouth too. I love that about her. Long dirty blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Perky tits. So young, so innocent."
"Sweet, my man," responded The Guak. "How young is the little darling?"
"She'll be fourteen in November."
"Yum! Do you have a picture of the lucky lady?"
"Yeah! I've got a few on my phone!"
Travis was a lot of things: driven, hardcore, bat shit crazy. But intelligent was not a quality God's lonely hand of justice possessed. He should have suspected The Guak was putting on a ruse; our hero had always voiced his disapproval of Travis' predilection towards teenage girls. The Guak had called him a pervert, a pedophile, and a sick fuck. But Travis was blinded by the fact someone finally expressed positive interest in his predisposition towards underage flesh. Except for Oslo. That fucking cat was always trying to move in on his action. The lunatic gunman, to put it bluntly, was a fucking idiot. He surmised no untoward action against him as he dug around in his military-issued coat pocket for his cellular telephone, which doubled as a treasure trove of photographs of jail bait in various stages of undress.
The lightning quick elbow hit Travis hard. He felt his face crack as the strongest man he knew smashed it in. The crime fighter/cab driver/statutory rapist was knocked off his feet from the blow, hitting his mohawked head on the car's hood, the fender, and finally the asphalt of Driscoll's parking lot. It did not take long for the the blood to begin seeping out of his noggin. The Guak stook his hand into his victim's pocket and withdrew Travis' phone and car keys.
"What the fuck, man?!" Travis exclaimed as he gargled his own blood.
"I should have done this a long time ago, and I'm disgusted with myself that I didn't."
Our hero crushed the cell phone with his hand. Tiny bits of plastic and electronics fell to the ground and landed in the puddle of Travis' head blood. Then The Guak stomped hard on the groin of God's lonely hand of justice. Our hero always felt attacking another man's genitals was strictly forbidden. The Guak was just as dirty a fighter as the next guy when forced, but he still had something of a code. No going after the junk. Yet in that one instance he made an exception. A broken dick and ruptured nuts would ensure Travis would not be sticking it to minors any time soon.
"Thanks for the car, shitheel," our hero said through clenched teeth as he made his way to the cab's driver's side front door.
"But-but-but I was going to kill Leisure tonight," lamented Travis as more blood poured from his cranium.
"Maybe when I get back we'll do a team-up."
Monday, November 14, 2011
Part XXVI: A Conversation of Death and Rebirth and Other Things (Part II)
Harry Guakomoli gazed into the dark doe eyes of Dinah. He had always been a sucker for a pretty face. Before our hero had always been able to play it cool, not letting the objects of his affection (and lust) know they had him hook, line, and sinker. But there was something about this one that he felt incredibly drawn towards, and it was getting harder for The Guak to maintain the front.
"It's too bad you're not going to stay. We did a lot to put you back together again, Humpty Dumpty. Even that perfect set of teeth that brute Sasquatch smashed up is back."
The Guak, for the first time, ran his tongue along his teeth and Dinah was right. The jagged shards of busted enamel were gone and replaced with his original pearly whites.
"As good as new," she continued. "Where's the love, ingrate?"
"I got killed by a mad scientist who promised to fix me," answered The Guak still fixated on those big brown eyes. "I'm not eager to get involved with another one."
Dinah giggled.
"Dr. Triangle is a weird one," the lady said. "But I'm not sure if he's crazed."
Dinah reached into the pocket of her rubber jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. She put her cigarette in her mouth and kept it in place with her full crimson lips while she jotted something down. Dinah tore off the sheet and put the pad and pen back into the pocket. The woman took a drag off her vanilla-flavored cigarette before finally taking it from her lips.
"Here," Dinah said as she handed The Guak the slip of paper. Her small pale hands were dwarfed by our hero's ham-sized mitts. "I know the doctor can be off-putting and hard to take, so if you change your mind you can call me directly."
The Guak looked at the note.
"What's this address under your number? Who's Yvonne?"
"When you weren't ejaculating all over yourself in your sleep you often mumbled something about your mother," Dinah replied. "About wanting to know who she was. Talk to Yvonne. She might be able to give you some insight."
"Hmm. I need to go."
"I understand," Dinah said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Go home. Change out of these clothes. Find mi cucaracha."
"There's something you should know," she said after taking another drag and exhaling. "Not only were you dead, but you were also declared dead. Your last will and testament read, your assets given away. The cat owns your building and has shacked up with that hot senorita you gave the business to,"
The Guak clenched his fists. Though he had only one night with the vivacious Yo-Yo Ramirez, he had intended to rekindle the romance. That our hero's best friend had swooped in, in The Guak's own bed at that, pissed him off.
"Not only that," Dinah continued. "But it looks like he's in cahoots with Los Fuegos Polos. They've taken back the barrio, and it's not pretty, The Guak. The whole neighborhood looks like a war zone. Except for Oslo's building. He spends all day and night chugging forties."
Our hero felt the searing heat of rage start in his belly and grow. The frenzy spread quickly until it consumed him.
"I...I need to get over there," our hero uttered through clenched teeth.
"It's 3am on a Saturday. Driscoll's Diner is right around the corner," Dinah pointed out. "Travis is there."
The Guak stormed off towards the street to find Travis. And then Oslo.
"Hey, The Guak."
Our hero spun around to face the beguiling creature.
"Give me a call when you're ready for me," Dinah said with a wink.
"It's too bad you're not going to stay. We did a lot to put you back together again, Humpty Dumpty. Even that perfect set of teeth that brute Sasquatch smashed up is back."
The Guak, for the first time, ran his tongue along his teeth and Dinah was right. The jagged shards of busted enamel were gone and replaced with his original pearly whites.
"As good as new," she continued. "Where's the love, ingrate?"
"I got killed by a mad scientist who promised to fix me," answered The Guak still fixated on those big brown eyes. "I'm not eager to get involved with another one."
Dinah giggled.
"Dr. Triangle is a weird one," the lady said. "But I'm not sure if he's crazed."
Dinah reached into the pocket of her rubber jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. She put her cigarette in her mouth and kept it in place with her full crimson lips while she jotted something down. Dinah tore off the sheet and put the pad and pen back into the pocket. The woman took a drag off her vanilla-flavored cigarette before finally taking it from her lips.
"Here," Dinah said as she handed The Guak the slip of paper. Her small pale hands were dwarfed by our hero's ham-sized mitts. "I know the doctor can be off-putting and hard to take, so if you change your mind you can call me directly."
The Guak looked at the note.
"What's this address under your number? Who's Yvonne?"
"When you weren't ejaculating all over yourself in your sleep you often mumbled something about your mother," Dinah replied. "About wanting to know who she was. Talk to Yvonne. She might be able to give you some insight."
"Hmm. I need to go."
"I understand," Dinah said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Go home. Change out of these clothes. Find mi cucaracha."
"There's something you should know," she said after taking another drag and exhaling. "Not only were you dead, but you were also declared dead. Your last will and testament read, your assets given away. The cat owns your building and has shacked up with that hot senorita you gave the business to,"
The Guak clenched his fists. Though he had only one night with the vivacious Yo-Yo Ramirez, he had intended to rekindle the romance. That our hero's best friend had swooped in, in The Guak's own bed at that, pissed him off.
"Not only that," Dinah continued. "But it looks like he's in cahoots with Los Fuegos Polos. They've taken back the barrio, and it's not pretty, The Guak. The whole neighborhood looks like a war zone. Except for Oslo's building. He spends all day and night chugging forties."
Our hero felt the searing heat of rage start in his belly and grow. The frenzy spread quickly until it consumed him.
"I...I need to get over there," our hero uttered through clenched teeth.
"It's 3am on a Saturday. Driscoll's Diner is right around the corner," Dinah pointed out. "Travis is there."
The Guak stormed off towards the street to find Travis. And then Oslo.
"Hey, The Guak."
Our hero spun around to face the beguiling creature.
"Give me a call when you're ready for me," Dinah said with a wink.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Part XXVI: A Conversation of Death and Rebirth and Other Things (Part I)
Harry Guakomoli watched as the woman stepped into the light. She was short; The Guak had close to a foot in height on her. Her complexion was a flawless milky white, and her long raven locks obscured much of her big brown chocolate eyes. The lady's waist-length black rubber jacket was zipped and clung tightly to her petite frame, as did her gray pleated skirt. Black nylons and knee-high combat boots completed the ensemble. The Guak thought her eyeliner was a little too thick, but overall he really liked the cut of her jib.
"So tell me, The Guak," said the woman. "What's it like to die?"
"Who are you?"
The woman brought the cigarette to her dark crimson, nearly black, lips. Our hero noticed her fingernails were painted a similar shade. She took a long drag from her smoke. The strong smell of vanilla permeated the still air of the alley. She parsed her lips and and exhaled as slowly and deliberately as she inhaled
"I asked you first."
"Well," our hero replied, less than pleased with the woman's rejoinder. "Do you mean what did it feel like melting to death?"
"No," she started to clarify. "What did you experience after you died, but before we brought you back?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she asked. She stepped closer to The Guak until there was only a foot separating them. She stared up into his green eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"I remember burning alive and then spending a lot of time dreaming."
"They were naughty dreams too," she said with a smirk. "You had a mind-numbing number of nocturnal emissions."
Like I mentioned in the previous chapter, dear reader, The Guak never felt embarrassment; while the word was in his vocabulary it was an emotion he had never experienced. But right then, right there, the man came dangerously close.
"Well..." he said before trailing off.
"It's okay," the lady reassured him. "I realize those things have minds of their own."
She took another long drag. The vanilla smoke rolled out of her mouth and ascended into the face of our hero.
"Speaking of ejaculate," the woman continued. "Did you know you're sterile? A couple of girls on the staff are bummed out by this discovery. Another is happy; she's allergic to latex. And one of the men is disappointed as well curiously enough."
"And which one are you?" The Guak inquired.
"I'm the man of course."
"Now answer my question: who are you?" asked The Guak.
"I'm Dinah."
"So tell me, The Guak," said the woman. "What's it like to die?"
"Who are you?"
The woman brought the cigarette to her dark crimson, nearly black, lips. Our hero noticed her fingernails were painted a similar shade. She took a long drag from her smoke. The strong smell of vanilla permeated the still air of the alley. She parsed her lips and and exhaled as slowly and deliberately as she inhaled
"I asked you first."
"Well," our hero replied, less than pleased with the woman's rejoinder. "Do you mean what did it feel like melting to death?"
"No," she started to clarify. "What did you experience after you died, but before we brought you back?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she asked. She stepped closer to The Guak until there was only a foot separating them. She stared up into his green eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"I remember burning alive and then spending a lot of time dreaming."
"They were naughty dreams too," she said with a smirk. "You had a mind-numbing number of nocturnal emissions."
Like I mentioned in the previous chapter, dear reader, The Guak never felt embarrassment; while the word was in his vocabulary it was an emotion he had never experienced. But right then, right there, the man came dangerously close.
"Well..." he said before trailing off.
"It's okay," the lady reassured him. "I realize those things have minds of their own."
She took another long drag. The vanilla smoke rolled out of her mouth and ascended into the face of our hero.
"Speaking of ejaculate," the woman continued. "Did you know you're sterile? A couple of girls on the staff are bummed out by this discovery. Another is happy; she's allergic to latex. And one of the men is disappointed as well curiously enough."
"And which one are you?" The Guak inquired.
"I'm the man of course."
"Now answer my question: who are you?" asked The Guak.
"I'm Dinah."
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Part XXV: Frank and Harry
Harry Guakomoli stepped out of the recovery room and into a hulking brute of a man. He had a few inches on The Guak's modestly impressive seventy-four inches of height and slightly more bulk. His auburn hair appeared freshly buzzed. His bushy beard easily contained as much hair as the rest of his head, if not more. The Guak sized him up: his black combat fatigues suggested career soldier who couldn't play nice.
"Move it," The Guak growled.
"Make me," snarled the man in response.
Bushy cracked his neck and then his knuckles, causing our hero to notice his right forefinger was missing. Bullshit posturing. The Guak was looking forward to breaking him.
"Have it your way, Trigger," said The Guak as he clenched his fist and pulled back his arm.
"Nownowgentlemen," Dr. Lawrence Triangle said as he stepped into the hallway and stood behind our hero.. "Frank, please be so kind as to escort Mr. Guakomoli out of the facility. Gently."
Frank neither moved a muscle nor made a sound.
"Now, Mr. Guakomoli, in the sweatshirt pocket is a cellphone with only one number programmed into it: mine. If you change your mind, and I hope you do, do not hesitate to call me."
"Sure. Whatever," The Guak replied. He did not take his eyes off of Frank.
The stare down between Frank and our hero continued in icy silence for nearly a minute before Triangle's apparent subordinate stepped aside and motioned down the hallway.
"That way."
Our hero was always reluctant to put his back to a man eager to scrap, but The Guak reckoned Frank was obedient and in control of himself enough to not try something unless provoked. And while The Guak badly wanted to provoke the grunt, he wanted out of this sterile whatever-it-was even more.
The pair walked down the hallway, The Guak in front and Frank closely behind him. Our hero could feel the seething, barely contained, hatred beating down on him. They walked in silence save for the one time the soldier barked "left" and twice "right" as they changed direction. The Guak passed several metal doors, all unmarked. He was tempted to ask Frank what were behind the doors or, better yet, try to enter one to see what would happen. But our hero simply wasn't in the mood to force feed the goon his testicles.
The Guak and Frank ascended a flight of cement steps that ended at another metal door.
"Hold up," Frank ordered.
The Guak did not care for the other man's tone but stepped to the side nonetheless, fighting his urge to rip Frank's ears off.
Frank withdrew some small black electronic device from his utility belt. An image flickered on a previously unseen screen. Frank tapped the screen a few times. Our hero attempted to sneak a peak, but his escort blocked The Guak from getting a visual with his shoulder.
"God dammit," Frank muttered under his breath before opening the door and exiting.
Our hero followed Frank out the door and into an alleyway. It was night and the narrow alley was dimly lit.
"L.T. said you were not to smoke this close to the entrance," Frank growled into the darkness.
From the shadows of a nearby set of metal stairs the ember of a cigarette being drawn flared followed by the barely audible slow exhale. The Guak distinctly smelled vanilla.
"Blow me. Since I'm not allowed to smoke inside I need to go outside, and I'm not walking around the block," a throaty feminine voice responded from the shadows. Now leave us. I want to talk with The Guak alone."
"The fuck you are," Frank retorted. "I'm not leaving you alone with this monster."
"Yes, you are. That's an order, soldier boy. Now respect the rank, bitch."
Frank stood quietly. His rage threatened to finally erupt, but instead the military man turned around and went back through the door, slamming it behind him.
A woman stepped out from under the cover of darkness and into the light. The Guak was finally able to put a face to the voice as short woman in her early thirties with alabaster skin and waist-length straight glossy black hair emerged from out of the shadows.
"Okay, The Guak. Let's talk."
"Move it," The Guak growled.
"Make me," snarled the man in response.
Bushy cracked his neck and then his knuckles, causing our hero to notice his right forefinger was missing. Bullshit posturing. The Guak was looking forward to breaking him.
"Have it your way, Trigger," said The Guak as he clenched his fist and pulled back his arm.
"Nownowgentlemen," Dr. Lawrence Triangle said as he stepped into the hallway and stood behind our hero.. "Frank, please be so kind as to escort Mr. Guakomoli out of the facility. Gently."
Frank neither moved a muscle nor made a sound.
"Now, Mr. Guakomoli, in the sweatshirt pocket is a cellphone with only one number programmed into it: mine. If you change your mind, and I hope you do, do not hesitate to call me."
"Sure. Whatever," The Guak replied. He did not take his eyes off of Frank.
The stare down between Frank and our hero continued in icy silence for nearly a minute before Triangle's apparent subordinate stepped aside and motioned down the hallway.
"That way."
Our hero was always reluctant to put his back to a man eager to scrap, but The Guak reckoned Frank was obedient and in control of himself enough to not try something unless provoked. And while The Guak badly wanted to provoke the grunt, he wanted out of this sterile whatever-it-was even more.
The pair walked down the hallway, The Guak in front and Frank closely behind him. Our hero could feel the seething, barely contained, hatred beating down on him. They walked in silence save for the one time the soldier barked "left" and twice "right" as they changed direction. The Guak passed several metal doors, all unmarked. He was tempted to ask Frank what were behind the doors or, better yet, try to enter one to see what would happen. But our hero simply wasn't in the mood to force feed the goon his testicles.
The Guak and Frank ascended a flight of cement steps that ended at another metal door.
"Hold up," Frank ordered.
The Guak did not care for the other man's tone but stepped to the side nonetheless, fighting his urge to rip Frank's ears off.
Frank withdrew some small black electronic device from his utility belt. An image flickered on a previously unseen screen. Frank tapped the screen a few times. Our hero attempted to sneak a peak, but his escort blocked The Guak from getting a visual with his shoulder.
"God dammit," Frank muttered under his breath before opening the door and exiting.
Our hero followed Frank out the door and into an alleyway. It was night and the narrow alley was dimly lit.
"L.T. said you were not to smoke this close to the entrance," Frank growled into the darkness.
From the shadows of a nearby set of metal stairs the ember of a cigarette being drawn flared followed by the barely audible slow exhale. The Guak distinctly smelled vanilla.
"Blow me. Since I'm not allowed to smoke inside I need to go outside, and I'm not walking around the block," a throaty feminine voice responded from the shadows. Now leave us. I want to talk with The Guak alone."
"The fuck you are," Frank retorted. "I'm not leaving you alone with this monster."
"Yes, you are. That's an order, soldier boy. Now respect the rank, bitch."
Frank stood quietly. His rage threatened to finally erupt, but instead the military man turned around and went back through the door, slamming it behind him.
A woman stepped out from under the cover of darkness and into the light. The Guak was finally able to put a face to the voice as short woman in her early thirties with alabaster skin and waist-length straight glossy black hair emerged from out of the shadows.
"Okay, The Guak. Let's talk."
Monday, November 7, 2011
Part XXIV: Back To Life. Back To Reality.
Harry Guakomoli woke up in a hospital bed but not in a hospital. It was a small room with cement walls, floor, and ceiling, It reminded The Guak of a cell in a prison...or an asylum. A catheter connected to an IV drip ran into each arm.
Our hero was groggy and confused but first things first. The needles in his arms had to fucking go. He reached over to his left arm with his right and grabbed the tube sticking out of his forearm.
"I can remove those for you, Mr. Guakomoli," a voice called from outside our hero's peripheral before he could yank out the PVC tube.
The Guak turned his head to see a short skinny man standing in the doorway. His long platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His faux turtleneck and slacks were both black and mostly hidden under a crisp white lab coat. The man crossed over to the hero and slowly removed one catheter and then the other.
"Do I know you?" The Guak asked.
"No, no you do not," answered the man, a broad grin plastered to his pale face. "I'm Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle, and I hope we get to know each other better."
"I'm not into dudes."
Our hero had nothing against homosexuality. Shit, he had even dabbled in it briefly while in The Pink before he decided it just wasn't his bag. Despite The Guak's indifference, he found it best to nip this in the bud. So to speak.
"Oh no no nonono," said Dr. Triangle, his speech briefly accelerating before slowing backing down to a normal level. "I meant my team and I spent a great amount of time, effort, and resources bringing you back from the dead."
"So I really died?" The Guak asked with skepticism.
"Oh, yes!" Triangle exclaimed. The Guak found the doctor's enthusiasm off-putting. "You melted, Mr. Guakomoli. Literally. We were not able to find any of you at the explosion site, but we recovered some teeth and blood after your skirmish with Sasquatch McGillicuddy. And we collected some of your pubic hairs from your bathroom toilet and head hairs from a comb."
"You were in my apartment?" The Guak asked angrily.
"Wellllllllllllllll, yes. We were unable to acquire any samples of you at Neuneuschwanstein so I had an operative conduct some clandestine hair collecting."
"I need to get out of this fucking bed."
"Of course. Stretching is good. On the night stand beside you you will find some clothes: sweatshirt, dungarees, and the like. They are not the most fashionable, but we are operating on a limited budget. I shall turn my back to you so that you may have some privacy while making yourself presentable."
And Dr. Lawrence Triangle did just that. He stepped back towards the doorway and turned his back to The Guak. Our hero, who then just realized he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, in one quick motion swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down to the floor. He landed on his feet and immediately crumpled, falling to the cement floor.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Triangle said after hearing the loud thud and some strong words from The Guak. "Your muscles have atrophied due to disuse. Actually, those particular muscleshaveneverbeenusedbutIca
"Stay where you are!" The Guak barked. Already he found the doctor annoying and wanted him dead.
Our hero slowly pulled himself back up to his feet and began the arduous task of getting dressed. Triangle was in no way lying about the attire being less than chic: a black hooded Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a ratty pair of pleated blue jeans, and gray Velcro sneakers. The Guak was hardly one to adhere to the latest trends, but after looking at himself in the mirror our hero, possibly for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment.
"Tell me, doctor," said The Guak. "How did you do it? How did you supposedly bring me back from the dead?"
"You know, Mr. Guakomoli. I do not rightly know. We tried a number of disciplines: hermetic hedge magic, Babylonian sha etemmu black arts, Renaissance-era nigramancy, Haitian vodou, bushmandemoncraftandweevenutil
"Ugh. Now you're boring me."
"Apologies. A large part of your resurrection was due to your incrediblehealingcapabilities.
The Guak's eyes had already glazed over; the night of his death was spent listening to the babbling of one whack job doctor, and our hero was not eager to spend his first waking moment with the ramblings of another. The Guak had already tuned out Dr. Triangle, but there was something the fast-talker mentioned that set him off. In one rapid motion our hero slammed Triangle against the wall and wrapped his ham-sized mitt around the man's throat. Triangle, understandably, was shocked and terrified..
"Say it, piss ant," The Guak growled. "I know what 'special' is code for, so just say it, egghead. Call me retarded."
"What?!" Triangle cried with an even greater expression of surprise on his face. "Nonononononono! ThatwasnotwhatIwasimplyingatal
"Shut. Up."
Dr. Lawrence Triangle did what he was told. The Guak stared into his eyes and tightened his grip. The doctor was perspiring profusely, sweat streaming down into his platinum eyebrows before they absorbed as much as they could and dripped into his eyes. Our hero sneered as the much smaller man's face began to turn purple.
"Please," Triangle struggled to get out. "Please believe me."
The Guak's sneer turned into a malicious grin.
"I do believe you. I wanted to see what happened first: someone to save your annoying ass or you piss yourself. But I'm tired of this game."
Our hero released his grip around the doctor's neck and took a step back. Triangle dropped to his knees and desperately gasped for breath.
"And I'm tired of you," The Guak said while he looked down at the scientist. "How do I get out of here?"
"Wait, you're leaving? You can't leave."
"Are you threatening me?" asked The Guak as he clenched his fists. "I thought I just proved I could snap you like a twig. Maybe I should rip off your scalp and wear it as a chapeau."
Our hero didn't know what a chapeau was, or how he knew it was a word, but he said it and it appeared to work.
"No, that is not what I meant," Triangle responded as he got back on his feet. "There is a war on the horizon, Harry, may I call you 'Harry?' and we spent an awful lot of our resources bringing you back."
"I never asked you to bring me back from the dead. That's on you. But thanks, I guess, Larry. Can I call you 'Larry?'"
"Actually, it is Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle."
"Actually, I don't fucking care."
The Guak stepped out of the recovery room.
Our hero was groggy and confused but first things first. The needles in his arms had to fucking go. He reached over to his left arm with his right and grabbed the tube sticking out of his forearm.
"I can remove those for you, Mr. Guakomoli," a voice called from outside our hero's peripheral before he could yank out the PVC tube.
The Guak turned his head to see a short skinny man standing in the doorway. His long platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His faux turtleneck and slacks were both black and mostly hidden under a crisp white lab coat. The man crossed over to the hero and slowly removed one catheter and then the other.
"Do I know you?" The Guak asked.
"No, no you do not," answered the man, a broad grin plastered to his pale face. "I'm Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle, and I hope we get to know each other better."
"I'm not into dudes."
Our hero had nothing against homosexuality. Shit, he had even dabbled in it briefly while in The Pink before he decided it just wasn't his bag. Despite The Guak's indifference, he found it best to nip this in the bud. So to speak.
"Oh no no nonono," said Dr. Triangle, his speech briefly accelerating before slowing backing down to a normal level. "I meant my team and I spent a great amount of time, effort, and resources bringing you back from the dead."
"So I really died?" The Guak asked with skepticism.
"Oh, yes!" Triangle exclaimed. The Guak found the doctor's enthusiasm off-putting. "You melted, Mr. Guakomoli. Literally. We were not able to find any of you at the explosion site, but we recovered some teeth and blood after your skirmish with Sasquatch McGillicuddy. And we collected some of your pubic hairs from your bathroom toilet and head hairs from a comb."
"You were in my apartment?" The Guak asked angrily.
"Wellllllllllllllll, yes. We were unable to acquire any samples of you at Neuneuschwanstein so I had an operative conduct some clandestine hair collecting."
"I need to get out of this fucking bed."
"Of course. Stretching is good. On the night stand beside you you will find some clothes: sweatshirt, dungarees, and the like. They are not the most fashionable, but we are operating on a limited budget. I shall turn my back to you so that you may have some privacy while making yourself presentable."
And Dr. Lawrence Triangle did just that. He stepped back towards the doorway and turned his back to The Guak. Our hero, who then just realized he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, in one quick motion swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down to the floor. He landed on his feet and immediately crumpled, falling to the cement floor.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Triangle said after hearing the loud thud and some strong words from The Guak. "Your muscles have atrophied due to disuse. Actually, those particular muscleshaveneverbeenusedbutIca
"Stay where you are!" The Guak barked. Already he found the doctor annoying and wanted him dead.
Our hero slowly pulled himself back up to his feet and began the arduous task of getting dressed. Triangle was in no way lying about the attire being less than chic: a black hooded Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a ratty pair of pleated blue jeans, and gray Velcro sneakers. The Guak was hardly one to adhere to the latest trends, but after looking at himself in the mirror our hero, possibly for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment.
"Tell me, doctor," said The Guak. "How did you do it? How did you supposedly bring me back from the dead?"
"You know, Mr. Guakomoli. I do not rightly know. We tried a number of disciplines: hermetic hedge magic, Babylonian sha etemmu black arts, Renaissance-era nigramancy, Haitian vodou, bushmandemoncraftandweevenutil
"Ugh. Now you're boring me."
"Apologies. A large part of your resurrection was due to your incrediblehealingcapabilities.
The Guak's eyes had already glazed over; the night of his death was spent listening to the babbling of one whack job doctor, and our hero was not eager to spend his first waking moment with the ramblings of another. The Guak had already tuned out Dr. Triangle, but there was something the fast-talker mentioned that set him off. In one rapid motion our hero slammed Triangle against the wall and wrapped his ham-sized mitt around the man's throat. Triangle, understandably, was shocked and terrified..
"Say it, piss ant," The Guak growled. "I know what 'special' is code for, so just say it, egghead. Call me retarded."
"What?!" Triangle cried with an even greater expression of surprise on his face. "Nonononononono! ThatwasnotwhatIwasimplyingatal
"Shut. Up."
Dr. Lawrence Triangle did what he was told. The Guak stared into his eyes and tightened his grip. The doctor was perspiring profusely, sweat streaming down into his platinum eyebrows before they absorbed as much as they could and dripped into his eyes. Our hero sneered as the much smaller man's face began to turn purple.
"Please," Triangle struggled to get out. "Please believe me."
The Guak's sneer turned into a malicious grin.
"I do believe you. I wanted to see what happened first: someone to save your annoying ass or you piss yourself. But I'm tired of this game."
Our hero released his grip around the doctor's neck and took a step back. Triangle dropped to his knees and desperately gasped for breath.
"And I'm tired of you," The Guak said while he looked down at the scientist. "How do I get out of here?"
"Wait, you're leaving? You can't leave."
"Are you threatening me?" asked The Guak as he clenched his fists. "I thought I just proved I could snap you like a twig. Maybe I should rip off your scalp and wear it as a chapeau."
Our hero didn't know what a chapeau was, or how he knew it was a word, but he said it and it appeared to work.
"No, that is not what I meant," Triangle responded as he got back on his feet. "There is a war on the horizon, Harry, may I call you 'Harry?' and we spent an awful lot of our resources bringing you back."
"I never asked you to bring me back from the dead. That's on you. But thanks, I guess, Larry. Can I call you 'Larry?'"
"Actually, it is Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle."
"Actually, I don't fucking care."
The Guak stepped out of the recovery room.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Part XXIII: The Pink's Backdoor
Harry Guakomoli was floating around through space contemplating what door to open and enter next. The Guak was not sure how long he had spent in this astral wonderland: days, months, years?
What he did know was that the last thing he remembered was rocketing through the air while rapidly incinerating, The feeling of his skin melting then sloughing off his body was hands down the most painful thing he had ever experienced. Thereupon his world turned black.
Then The Guak was in the fuchsia spongy cavernous room known as The Pink, the home of Filthy O'Possum, the patron saint of dirty dreams. O'Possum also claimed to be our hero's ancestor, though The Guak found this claim highly dubious.
Flithy O'Possum, wearing nothing but a green silk robe and an assortment of gold chains and rings, sat atop his throne of human sex organs watching his two "assistants," Ginger and Ebony. The young voluptuous ladies were on all fours facing away from each other reenacting a scene from Requiem For A Dream. O'Possum looked bored.
The Guak, liquefying only a second ago, was then in the warm embrace of The Pink's squishy floor. O'Possum yawned and looked up to see his descendent lying on the ground a few feet away.
"Hot damn! It's The motherfucking Guak!" O'Possum exclaimed. His ennui rapidly changed to excitation. "I was dreading you were dead!"
"I think I was," replied The Guak, confused. "Or I still am."
"No, no, no," our hero's alleged ancestor retorted while he shook his head. "The Pink is for the living, my boy."
"I'm not your boy." The Guak instinctively clenched his fists.
"Whoa, man!" O'Possum held his palms out to show he meant no harm. "Put those mitts away! I meant no offense. I'm just excited to see the last of my line!"
Filthy O'Possum stood up and stepped off the breast-shaped dais and crossed over to The Guak, stepping over his girls in the process. He stood in front of The Guak and smiled broadly, showing off his diamond-encrusted platinum grill.
"Before you wake up do you want to get your rocks off?"
The Guak indeed wanted to get his rocks off and told Filthy O'Possum as much. So O'Possum obliged him. Over and over and over again.
It was obvious something was not right; The Guak did not wake up. While it was impossible to accurately gauge time in The Pink, the amount of fornication our hero indulged in without a break of conscious reality was not natural.
The Guak was not the only person Filthy O'Possum visited with naughty dreams so Filthy assigned his descendent an aide, a buxom Blasian with long platinum hair named Fantasia to guide him through the many rooms of carnal delight that comprised The Pink. Before long our hero was so well-versed in exploring and traversing The Pink his guide was no longer needed except when she was the moment's object of desire.
Filthy O'Possum told The Guak it took a special mind to traverse The Pink, to consciously pick and choose what fantasies to explore. Most sleepers could only indulge themselves in naughty acts plucked from fragments of their subconscious minds with few or no options, even individuals who spent large chunks of their existences in the world of dreams, Only the truly gifted can move from dirty dream to dirty dream via The Pink's backdoor. This, of course, was said with a chuckle. O'Possum theorized that given enough time our hero could learn to invade...er...visit...the sexy dreams of others.
At first The Guak thought The Pink was the greatest thing ever, but eventually the wonderland lost its appeal. All he could do was screw. In fact, whenever he attempted to engage in non-sexy conversation the other party would always steer the exchange back to fucking. The Guak had become bored of The Pink.
To encounter this intense feeling of ennui our hero would engage in acts the vanilla-minded people of the world would consider kinky at best and depraved at worst. And that worked for a while, falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole of wanton debauchery, He finally learned the meaning of a Tijuana Knife Fight after participating in one. This left him disgusted with himself, but not so grossed out he didn't try it for a second time. And a third. After the sixth time he decided to hang up his cuchillo for good.
After that The Guak took a time-out. A prolonged period of celibacy. Boredom be damned! He resisted entering the rooms for as long as he could before the boredom became too much to bear. It may have been hours or days or weeks. Maybe just minutes; it was impossible to tell. The Guak needed to visit The Pink's backdoor. The scene our hero was envisioning in his head, the one that would break his bout of chastity, took place in The Wild West. He was to be a marauding desperado stopping into town to visit the local brothel with lust in his heart and groin. There he would procure the talents of hussy-for-hire Diane Lane, a saucy minx who was getting along in years but was still as spicy as any sarsaparilla. Yes, Diane Lane would see to all of gunslinger Harry Guakomoli's lascivious needs. US Marshall Josh Brolin would be bound and gagged and forced to watch his wife service his most hated of enemies. John Brolin would cry as The Guak desecrated Diane Lane's temple. Then our hero thought of adding Fantasia to the mix as another harlot.
And, speak of the devil, at that moment the busty Fantasia, The Guak's frequent dream lover and former guide to The Pink's backdoor, appeared beside him.
"I was only thinking of adding you," The Guak growled, though, in all honesty, the appearance of the Blasian bombshell made him forget all about his Diane Lane-Josh Brolin fantasy.
"Bad news, baby," Fantasia said as she pouted. "Something's happening. It's time for you to go, but first Filthy wants to talk to you. I miss you already."
And with that a pink starfish manifested close to the pair with a pop. The Guak was suddenly pulled roughly by some unseen force towards the echinoderm. Closer and closer our hero was yanked towards it. Upon closer inspection The Guak noticed the starfish's madreporite was replaced by a dark circle of nothingness.
Now what the fuck is a "madreporite?" The Guak thought to himself right before being sucked into the void. He saw nothing but impenetrable shadow before being shot out of a hole in the ground of Filthy O'Possum's pink cavernous chamber. Filthy was once again sitting on his throne watching Ebony and Ginger, this time naked and wrestling in a pool of whipped cream and cherries. Ebony appeared to have the upper hand.
"What's going on?" asked a confused The Guak.
"I got my girls doing some sexy wrestling," snapped Filthy. "What the fuck does it look like?"
"No, about something happening? Fantasia says I'm leaving."
"Right. You've been out for a long time,and for some reason you're regaining consciousness. It's time to return to the real world. But I have a funny feeling about this, Guak. Keep your wits about you."
"Thanks," replied The Guak. "I will."
"You're welcome back anytime, man," Filthy O'Possum said with a smile. "And remember to find a way to break that curse that Jezebel of a mother put on you. The world needs more Filthys running around."
And with that The Guak was sucked back into the starfish curious and a bit concerned with what awaited him on the other end.
What he did know was that the last thing he remembered was rocketing through the air while rapidly incinerating, The feeling of his skin melting then sloughing off his body was hands down the most painful thing he had ever experienced. Thereupon his world turned black.
Then The Guak was in the fuchsia spongy cavernous room known as The Pink, the home of Filthy O'Possum, the patron saint of dirty dreams. O'Possum also claimed to be our hero's ancestor, though The Guak found this claim highly dubious.
Flithy O'Possum, wearing nothing but a green silk robe and an assortment of gold chains and rings, sat atop his throne of human sex organs watching his two "assistants," Ginger and Ebony. The young voluptuous ladies were on all fours facing away from each other reenacting a scene from Requiem For A Dream. O'Possum looked bored.
The Guak, liquefying only a second ago, was then in the warm embrace of The Pink's squishy floor. O'Possum yawned and looked up to see his descendent lying on the ground a few feet away.
"Hot damn! It's The motherfucking Guak!" O'Possum exclaimed. His ennui rapidly changed to excitation. "I was dreading you were dead!"
"I think I was," replied The Guak, confused. "Or I still am."
"No, no, no," our hero's alleged ancestor retorted while he shook his head. "The Pink is for the living, my boy."
"I'm not your boy." The Guak instinctively clenched his fists.
"Whoa, man!" O'Possum held his palms out to show he meant no harm. "Put those mitts away! I meant no offense. I'm just excited to see the last of my line!"
Filthy O'Possum stood up and stepped off the breast-shaped dais and crossed over to The Guak, stepping over his girls in the process. He stood in front of The Guak and smiled broadly, showing off his diamond-encrusted platinum grill.
"Before you wake up do you want to get your rocks off?"
The Guak indeed wanted to get his rocks off and told Filthy O'Possum as much. So O'Possum obliged him. Over and over and over again.
It was obvious something was not right; The Guak did not wake up. While it was impossible to accurately gauge time in The Pink, the amount of fornication our hero indulged in without a break of conscious reality was not natural.
The Guak was not the only person Filthy O'Possum visited with naughty dreams so Filthy assigned his descendent an aide, a buxom Blasian with long platinum hair named Fantasia to guide him through the many rooms of carnal delight that comprised The Pink. Before long our hero was so well-versed in exploring and traversing The Pink his guide was no longer needed except when she was the moment's object of desire.
Filthy O'Possum told The Guak it took a special mind to traverse The Pink, to consciously pick and choose what fantasies to explore. Most sleepers could only indulge themselves in naughty acts plucked from fragments of their subconscious minds with few or no options, even individuals who spent large chunks of their existences in the world of dreams, Only the truly gifted can move from dirty dream to dirty dream via The Pink's backdoor. This, of course, was said with a chuckle. O'Possum theorized that given enough time our hero could learn to invade...er...visit...the sexy dreams of others.
At first The Guak thought The Pink was the greatest thing ever, but eventually the wonderland lost its appeal. All he could do was screw. In fact, whenever he attempted to engage in non-sexy conversation the other party would always steer the exchange back to fucking. The Guak had become bored of The Pink.
To encounter this intense feeling of ennui our hero would engage in acts the vanilla-minded people of the world would consider kinky at best and depraved at worst. And that worked for a while, falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole of wanton debauchery, He finally learned the meaning of a Tijuana Knife Fight after participating in one. This left him disgusted with himself, but not so grossed out he didn't try it for a second time. And a third. After the sixth time he decided to hang up his cuchillo for good.
After that The Guak took a time-out. A prolonged period of celibacy. Boredom be damned! He resisted entering the rooms for as long as he could before the boredom became too much to bear. It may have been hours or days or weeks. Maybe just minutes; it was impossible to tell. The Guak needed to visit The Pink's backdoor. The scene our hero was envisioning in his head, the one that would break his bout of chastity, took place in The Wild West. He was to be a marauding desperado stopping into town to visit the local brothel with lust in his heart and groin. There he would procure the talents of hussy-for-hire Diane Lane, a saucy minx who was getting along in years but was still as spicy as any sarsaparilla. Yes, Diane Lane would see to all of gunslinger Harry Guakomoli's lascivious needs. US Marshall Josh Brolin would be bound and gagged and forced to watch his wife service his most hated of enemies. John Brolin would cry as The Guak desecrated Diane Lane's temple. Then our hero thought of adding Fantasia to the mix as another harlot.
And, speak of the devil, at that moment the busty Fantasia, The Guak's frequent dream lover and former guide to The Pink's backdoor, appeared beside him.
"I was only thinking of adding you," The Guak growled, though, in all honesty, the appearance of the Blasian bombshell made him forget all about his Diane Lane-Josh Brolin fantasy.
"Bad news, baby," Fantasia said as she pouted. "Something's happening. It's time for you to go, but first Filthy wants to talk to you. I miss you already."
And with that a pink starfish manifested close to the pair with a pop. The Guak was suddenly pulled roughly by some unseen force towards the echinoderm. Closer and closer our hero was yanked towards it. Upon closer inspection The Guak noticed the starfish's madreporite was replaced by a dark circle of nothingness.
Now what the fuck is a "madreporite?" The Guak thought to himself right before being sucked into the void. He saw nothing but impenetrable shadow before being shot out of a hole in the ground of Filthy O'Possum's pink cavernous chamber. Filthy was once again sitting on his throne watching Ebony and Ginger, this time naked and wrestling in a pool of whipped cream and cherries. Ebony appeared to have the upper hand.
"What's going on?" asked a confused The Guak.
"I got my girls doing some sexy wrestling," snapped Filthy. "What the fuck does it look like?"
"No, about something happening? Fantasia says I'm leaving."
"Right. You've been out for a long time,and for some reason you're regaining consciousness. It's time to return to the real world. But I have a funny feeling about this, Guak. Keep your wits about you."
"Thanks," replied The Guak. "I will."
"You're welcome back anytime, man," Filthy O'Possum said with a smile. "And remember to find a way to break that curse that Jezebel of a mother put on you. The world needs more Filthys running around."
And with that The Guak was sucked back into the starfish curious and a bit concerned with what awaited him on the other end.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Part XXII: El Relampago Sangriento
Harry Guakomoli had been dead for six months, and La Diabla had fulfilled her promise. The barrio was once again the exclusive territory of Los Fuegos Polos.
Los Fuegos Polos experienced little resistance in their power play; The Guak had cleared the neighborhood of anything resembling an organized criminal organization, whether it be classified as gang, crew, posse, syndicate, ring, or cartel. It was safe to walk the barrio, even in the dead of night. That came to an end after The Guak's death when La Diabla, fresh out of prison, opted to take back what she thought was hers.
The barrio's business proprietors suffered greatly at the invasion; pooling their savings to provide a burial plot for The Guak's non-existent corpse had left them short on the exuberant sums the deadly chola demanded. A destructive demonstration soon followed. La Diabla, while both beautiful and ruthless, lacked the ability to envision the big picture. The business owners had to spend all their money to rebuild their shops, leaving Los Fuegos Polos without racketeering revenue. It took the gang three months to start collecting protection money. This resulted in several challenges to her leadership. While she dispatched all of her rivals with ease, it still sullied her reputation.
The barrio, once a beacon of hope in a sea of desolation, was submerged in a cloak of shadow and desperation. The sole exception was the apartment building on the corner of Poncho Villa Avenue and Lemon Street, the home of Oslo The World's Smartest Cat.
Oslo had stood by and let Los Fuegos Polos retake the barrio. The death of The Guak had cast the former four-legged fury down into a nadir. When La Diabla launched what she dubbed El Relampago Sangriento Oslo sat on the stoop of his newly acquired apartment building and drank himself into a stupor the likes of which he had never experienced before, and let me tell you, gentle reader, this cat had been in some serious stupors. The World's Smartest Cat didn't, and couldn't, lift a paw to prevent the carnage that swept his 'hood.
Yet the building was spared the destruction of El Relampago Sangriento. La Diabla issued an edict that the structure and its inhabitants were not to be touched. The crew leader claimed it was out of respect for her late great adversary, but this was always said with a smirk. No, the real reason was to remind Oslo he was a failure, a drunk that got to live out his pathetic existence only because la chola willed it.
One particularly chilly September night Oslo awoke in the wee hours of the morning on the stoop with a pounding headache and a nasty case of cotton mouth. He slowly dragged himself up the stairs to the fourth floor vomiting a few times along the way. The World's Smartest Cat stumbled into The Guak's apartment. His apartment. He crawled into The Guak's bed. His bed. And nestled up beside the sleeping naked form of Yo-Yo Ramirez.
Yo-Yo had been trying to break The World's Smartest Cat out of his funk for months now but to no avail. But at the least the lovely senorita got to live rent-free in the only safe building in the barrio while he drank himself to death!
"You smell of cerveza y vomito, Senor Gato," Yo-Yo murmured.
"It's because that's what I've been fuckin' lyin' in for the past ten hours, mi cucharacha," retorted Oslo matter-of-factly. "Now go back to sleep."
But sleep would not be something neither The World's Smartest Cat nor the lovely Latina would experience for the remainder of the night. The roar of a car engine followed by a loud crunch of metal smacking into metal. Several obscenities shouted in Spanish followed by gunfire. Then silence.
Both Oslo and Yo-Yo raced to the front window to see the commotion. A yellow taxi rear-ended a candy apple red 1948 Chevy Fleetline lowrider. The cab's driver door was wide open, and the Crown Vic was unoccupied. Pinned between the cab and the lowrider were the lifeless bodies of two members of Los Fuegos Polos, indicated by the crew's black bandanas with red flames. Lying in the street were four more dead gangbangers. One was decapitated and one was missing his arms. But no sign of who committed such acts of brutality.
The pair heard the splintering of wood come from the vicinity of the stoop before the building's front door flew into a Camry. This set off the car alarm. Despite the alarm's blaring The World's Smartest Cat could hear the slow heavy thuds of someone marching up the stairs with determination. Moments later Yo-Yo also heard someone approach.
"Someone's coming, Senor Gato!" exclaimed Senorita Ramirez.
"No shit, stupido," replied Oslo. "Here's the plan in case the muthafucka barges in. I'll be by the door, and you'll stand in the middle of the room in all your exquisitely naked glory. He'll see those killer mams of yours, and that's when I pounce."
"I don't know, Senor Gato. That sounds muy peligroso."
"Now you listen to me, hood rat," Oslo hissed. He had no idea what "muy peligroso" meant, but he knew back sass when he heard it. "This shit bag is killin' muthafuckas and rippin' doors off and now he's comin' this way. Now do what I say or, one way or the other, your free ride comes to an end. You feel me, mamacita?"
"Si, Senor Gato," Yo-Yo replied softly.
The pair took their positions: Oslo beside the door and Yo-Yo in the center of the room. The World's Smartest Cat motioned for the curvaceous Latina to put her hands behind her back and thrust her breasts outward. Yo-Yo complied without protest.
The door to the apartment was kicked open, causing the hinges to break apart. Yo-Yo screamed and pointed to the figure in the doorway.
"Mi Dios! El Guako!"
Los Fuegos Polos experienced little resistance in their power play; The Guak had cleared the neighborhood of anything resembling an organized criminal organization, whether it be classified as gang, crew, posse, syndicate, ring, or cartel. It was safe to walk the barrio, even in the dead of night. That came to an end after The Guak's death when La Diabla, fresh out of prison, opted to take back what she thought was hers.
The barrio's business proprietors suffered greatly at the invasion; pooling their savings to provide a burial plot for The Guak's non-existent corpse had left them short on the exuberant sums the deadly chola demanded. A destructive demonstration soon followed. La Diabla, while both beautiful and ruthless, lacked the ability to envision the big picture. The business owners had to spend all their money to rebuild their shops, leaving Los Fuegos Polos without racketeering revenue. It took the gang three months to start collecting protection money. This resulted in several challenges to her leadership. While she dispatched all of her rivals with ease, it still sullied her reputation.
The barrio, once a beacon of hope in a sea of desolation, was submerged in a cloak of shadow and desperation. The sole exception was the apartment building on the corner of Poncho Villa Avenue and Lemon Street, the home of Oslo The World's Smartest Cat.
Oslo had stood by and let Los Fuegos Polos retake the barrio. The death of The Guak had cast the former four-legged fury down into a nadir. When La Diabla launched what she dubbed El Relampago Sangriento Oslo sat on the stoop of his newly acquired apartment building and drank himself into a stupor the likes of which he had never experienced before, and let me tell you, gentle reader, this cat had been in some serious stupors. The World's Smartest Cat didn't, and couldn't, lift a paw to prevent the carnage that swept his 'hood.
Yet the building was spared the destruction of El Relampago Sangriento. La Diabla issued an edict that the structure and its inhabitants were not to be touched. The crew leader claimed it was out of respect for her late great adversary, but this was always said with a smirk. No, the real reason was to remind Oslo he was a failure, a drunk that got to live out his pathetic existence only because la chola willed it.
One particularly chilly September night Oslo awoke in the wee hours of the morning on the stoop with a pounding headache and a nasty case of cotton mouth. He slowly dragged himself up the stairs to the fourth floor vomiting a few times along the way. The World's Smartest Cat stumbled into The Guak's apartment. His apartment. He crawled into The Guak's bed. His bed. And nestled up beside the sleeping naked form of Yo-Yo Ramirez.
Yo-Yo had been trying to break The World's Smartest Cat out of his funk for months now but to no avail. But at the least the lovely senorita got to live rent-free in the only safe building in the barrio while he drank himself to death!
"You smell of cerveza y vomito, Senor Gato," Yo-Yo murmured.
"It's because that's what I've been fuckin' lyin' in for the past ten hours, mi cucharacha," retorted Oslo matter-of-factly. "Now go back to sleep."
But sleep would not be something neither The World's Smartest Cat nor the lovely Latina would experience for the remainder of the night. The roar of a car engine followed by a loud crunch of metal smacking into metal. Several obscenities shouted in Spanish followed by gunfire. Then silence.
Both Oslo and Yo-Yo raced to the front window to see the commotion. A yellow taxi rear-ended a candy apple red 1948 Chevy Fleetline lowrider. The cab's driver door was wide open, and the Crown Vic was unoccupied. Pinned between the cab and the lowrider were the lifeless bodies of two members of Los Fuegos Polos, indicated by the crew's black bandanas with red flames. Lying in the street were four more dead gangbangers. One was decapitated and one was missing his arms. But no sign of who committed such acts of brutality.
The pair heard the splintering of wood come from the vicinity of the stoop before the building's front door flew into a Camry. This set off the car alarm. Despite the alarm's blaring The World's Smartest Cat could hear the slow heavy thuds of someone marching up the stairs with determination. Moments later Yo-Yo also heard someone approach.
"Someone's coming, Senor Gato!" exclaimed Senorita Ramirez.
"No shit, stupido," replied Oslo. "Here's the plan in case the muthafucka barges in. I'll be by the door, and you'll stand in the middle of the room in all your exquisitely naked glory. He'll see those killer mams of yours, and that's when I pounce."
"I don't know, Senor Gato. That sounds muy peligroso."
"Now you listen to me, hood rat," Oslo hissed. He had no idea what "muy peligroso" meant, but he knew back sass when he heard it. "This shit bag is killin' muthafuckas and rippin' doors off and now he's comin' this way. Now do what I say or, one way or the other, your free ride comes to an end. You feel me, mamacita?"
"Si, Senor Gato," Yo-Yo replied softly.
The pair took their positions: Oslo beside the door and Yo-Yo in the center of the room. The World's Smartest Cat motioned for the curvaceous Latina to put her hands behind her back and thrust her breasts outward. Yo-Yo complied without protest.
The door to the apartment was kicked open, causing the hinges to break apart. Yo-Yo screamed and pointed to the figure in the doorway.
"Mi Dios! El Guako!"
Monday, October 3, 2011
Part XXI: Yo-Yo A Go-Go
Harry Guakomoli had left Yo-Yo Ramirez alone in his crib. The night before the hero of the barrio had beheaded a mastodon of a man with his bare hands. The voluptuous Latina rewarded such a visceral display of manliness with sex. The Guak was far from the worst lover Yo-Yo had taken, but the carnal act was softer than she had anticipated. He fucks like a girl she thought to herself.
The following afternoon The Guak took a phone call and then immediately got dressed and left the apartment. When asked why he was leaving The Guak merely said he had an appointment and called the comely Miss Ramirez la cucaracha. Bastard.
Upon The Guak's exit Yo-Yo peered out the window facing the street. He was talking to that disgusting cat. A stretch Escalade pulled up in front of the building, and the driver was revealed to be a tall buxom blonde clad in a black leather catsuit with matching boots. No woman is that tall, busty, and beautiful, she thought to herself. I bet she was born a man. The chauffeur opened the rear passenger's side door, waited until The Guak and Oslo climbed into the ride, and shut the door behind them. She returned to the driver's seat and the stretch slowly pulled away.
Yo-Yo waited until the Escalade was out of sight and strolled over to the crumpled pile of her clothes on the floor beside the bed.She extracted a hot pink cell phone from the ass pocket of her daisy dukes and fired off a text message. The missive was answered within a minute, and a text exchange between Yo-Yo and her mystery correspondent transpired. Then she erased the entire conversation from her phone's memory.
The woman sighed and flipped the phone lid shut. She meandered into the kitchen oblivious that she was passing exposed windows in all her naked glory and peeked into the fridge. Nothing but bottle after bottle after bottle of St. Ides malt liquor. And two sticks of butter and a half-empty squeeze bottle of spicy brown mustard.
The cupboards were not much better. Several packages of Nutter Butters, brown sugar Pop Tarts, and a few cans of Beefaroni. A disgusted look grew on her face.
She returned to the bedroom and turned on the television. Yo-Yo wasn't a fan of idiot boxes, but she needed to do something to pass the time, and this loser with the smashed teeth did not strike her as much of a reader. She did not want to wait for The Guak to return, but an order was an order.
Yo-Yo sat through three hours of mind-numbing reality programming; the vapid family of celebrities famous for being famous, rednecks wrestling skunks, the fourth season premiere of Class Clowns, the riveting story of a clown college in Poughkeepsie.
The lady was bored and hungry. The bathroom was disgusting, the toilet covered in pubes, the tub and the shower curtain covered in soap scum, mildew, and mold. There were several back issue of Cat Fancy stacked in a corner, their pages stuck together. Please let that be due to the cat.
Though she knew it was forbidden, Yo-Yo couldn't help but fall asleep. A little after midnight she was awakened by her phone's ringtone, a few bars of "Jenny From The Block." God I hate that fucking song, she thought before checking the number of the incoming call and answering.
"Belize is the only English-speaking country in Central America," Yo-Yo, still half-asleep, breathed into the receiver. She gave the phrase to indicate that she was the "real" Yo-Yo Ramirez, and that she was alone. Her normal Puerto Rican-tinged accent vanished. "No, I was just resting my eyes...yes, I understand...Rendezvous Point J in an hour."
Yo-Yo flipped the phone shut and crawled out of the bed. She put on the restraining apparatus that was her black bra and its matching thong. Then the black baby tee emblazoned with a reproduction of the cover of rapper Pit Bull's Planet Pit album. She slid into the tight denim short shorts and finally slipped on her hot pink low top Chuck Taylors. Yo-Yo went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Being a hoochie mama is NOT what I signed up for. Please let this meeting mean I can drop this cover.
She discovered a spare set of house keys on the kitchen table, locked the doors, and exited the building through the front door. Yo-Yo stopped by a bodega that kept late hours and purchased a soy-based protein bar and a Crank Juice "energy" drink. The cashier mentioned an explosion at that derelict castle up on the bluff. Maschinemensch's compound. She gobbled up the bar and pounded the drink before even leaving the store.
Yo-Yo headed towards her apartment but first briefly stopped at the stoop of her building to chat up a mariachi band as they came home from a night of carousing. Earlier in the evening they had performed at the bar mitzvah for Fyvush Gonzales, thus causing all seven men to have holes burning in their pockets.
Yo-Yo Ramirez, if that was her real name (it wasn't!), entered her apartment satisfied that witnesses saw her leave The Guak's place and enter hers. She stripped out of her embarrassing hood rat get-up (though she thought the sneakers were cute) and changed into a black hoodie and matching yoga pants. She tied back her long unruly ebony mane into a ponytail. She tied up her black sneakers after slipping them on.
The lovely Latina stepped out of her living room window and onto the fire escape and proceeded to scale UP the building to the roof. She sprinted twenty feet and leaped off the side. Yo-Yo flew through the air before landing on the roof of the adjacent building. And she didn't stop there, using leaps, hand sprints, flips, and rolls to traverse the roofs of the neighborhood. Soon Yo-Yo had crossed half the barrio. Using ledges and a drain pipe she easily dropped down the six stories to the ground of the alley below.
"I am a goddess," Yo-Yo muttered under her breath.
Her final destination was still a couple of blocks away so Yo-Yo pulled up her hood and, posing as a jogger, ran to La Iglesia De La Madre Sagracia. She walked into the church and looked around. Seeing no one Yo-Yo stepped into the confessional and lowered her hood.
"You're late, mamacita," a throaty, bordering on sultry, woman's voice emanated from behind the screen.
"Don't me call that," Yo-Yo hissed.
"Be honest, Yolanda. Part of you likes playing the hood rat."
"What is it that you want?" Yo-Yo had been there one minute and this bitch was already getting on her nerves.
"Right. That's enough pleasantries for one night," replied the mystery woman. "Guakomoli is no longer in play...at least for now. Maschinemensch went rogue and decided to carry out his plan. The one that we nixed."
"Jesus."
"Exactly. But he fucked up and got himself exploded. Now we're trying to --"
"Wait," interjected Yo-Yo sniffing. "Are you smoking in the confessional?"
"Maybe," the woman answered before taking a long exaggerated drag. "Isn't it deliciously naughty?"
"No," Yo-Yo replied with a crinkled nose. "It's vile."
"Whatever, prude. Anyway, The Guak is out of the picture so we have a new assignment for you."
"Finally!" exclaimed Yo-Yo with relief. "How do women wear this stuff and keep their dignity?"
"Don't hang up those hot pants yet, honey. The man is fascinated by the cat. He finds it to be an anomaly that he wants to keep tabs on. You need to keep tabs on."
"But-but-but," said Yo-Yo as she realized her joy was fleeting. "The cat is sexist and crass, and he smells! Holy shit does that cat smell!"
"Your orders are clear. You are to get close to the cat and remain close. You are to do whatever it takes."
"You want me to fuck a cat?!" asked Yo-Yo incredulously.
"You're a smart girl, Yolanda. Think outside the box, your box in this case. But do whatever you takes," the woman behind the screen answered. "If Armageddon is near like we fear we need to be prepared. We all need to make sacrifices. This is your sacrifice."
Yo-Yo said nothing.
"Your silence means you understand, and that you will comply. Good girl. I need to leave, and you are to wait here for three minutes. No one is to see us together. Then you are to return to Guakomoli's apartment. I know this is hard for you, but your dedication to the cause will be rewarded. I promise."
Nothing more was said between the two. Yo-Yo heard the confessional door open and close. Then the sound of heels on hard wood before there was nothing but silence. Still seated in the booth, she buried her face in her hands.
"Shit."
The following afternoon The Guak took a phone call and then immediately got dressed and left the apartment. When asked why he was leaving The Guak merely said he had an appointment and called the comely Miss Ramirez la cucaracha. Bastard.
Upon The Guak's exit Yo-Yo peered out the window facing the street. He was talking to that disgusting cat. A stretch Escalade pulled up in front of the building, and the driver was revealed to be a tall buxom blonde clad in a black leather catsuit with matching boots. No woman is that tall, busty, and beautiful, she thought to herself. I bet she was born a man. The chauffeur opened the rear passenger's side door, waited until The Guak and Oslo climbed into the ride, and shut the door behind them. She returned to the driver's seat and the stretch slowly pulled away.
Yo-Yo waited until the Escalade was out of sight and strolled over to the crumpled pile of her clothes on the floor beside the bed.She extracted a hot pink cell phone from the ass pocket of her daisy dukes and fired off a text message. The missive was answered within a minute, and a text exchange between Yo-Yo and her mystery correspondent transpired. Then she erased the entire conversation from her phone's memory.
The woman sighed and flipped the phone lid shut. She meandered into the kitchen oblivious that she was passing exposed windows in all her naked glory and peeked into the fridge. Nothing but bottle after bottle after bottle of St. Ides malt liquor. And two sticks of butter and a half-empty squeeze bottle of spicy brown mustard.
The cupboards were not much better. Several packages of Nutter Butters, brown sugar Pop Tarts, and a few cans of Beefaroni. A disgusted look grew on her face.
She returned to the bedroom and turned on the television. Yo-Yo wasn't a fan of idiot boxes, but she needed to do something to pass the time, and this loser with the smashed teeth did not strike her as much of a reader. She did not want to wait for The Guak to return, but an order was an order.
Yo-Yo sat through three hours of mind-numbing reality programming; the vapid family of celebrities famous for being famous, rednecks wrestling skunks, the fourth season premiere of Class Clowns, the riveting story of a clown college in Poughkeepsie.
The lady was bored and hungry. The bathroom was disgusting, the toilet covered in pubes, the tub and the shower curtain covered in soap scum, mildew, and mold. There were several back issue of Cat Fancy stacked in a corner, their pages stuck together. Please let that be due to the cat.
Though she knew it was forbidden, Yo-Yo couldn't help but fall asleep. A little after midnight she was awakened by her phone's ringtone, a few bars of "Jenny From The Block." God I hate that fucking song, she thought before checking the number of the incoming call and answering.
"Belize is the only English-speaking country in Central America," Yo-Yo, still half-asleep, breathed into the receiver. She gave the phrase to indicate that she was the "real" Yo-Yo Ramirez, and that she was alone. Her normal Puerto Rican-tinged accent vanished. "No, I was just resting my eyes...yes, I understand...Rendezvous Point J in an hour."
Yo-Yo flipped the phone shut and crawled out of the bed. She put on the restraining apparatus that was her black bra and its matching thong. Then the black baby tee emblazoned with a reproduction of the cover of rapper Pit Bull's Planet Pit album. She slid into the tight denim short shorts and finally slipped on her hot pink low top Chuck Taylors. Yo-Yo went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Being a hoochie mama is NOT what I signed up for. Please let this meeting mean I can drop this cover.
She discovered a spare set of house keys on the kitchen table, locked the doors, and exited the building through the front door. Yo-Yo stopped by a bodega that kept late hours and purchased a soy-based protein bar and a Crank Juice "energy" drink. The cashier mentioned an explosion at that derelict castle up on the bluff. Maschinemensch's compound. She gobbled up the bar and pounded the drink before even leaving the store.
Yo-Yo headed towards her apartment but first briefly stopped at the stoop of her building to chat up a mariachi band as they came home from a night of carousing. Earlier in the evening they had performed at the bar mitzvah for Fyvush Gonzales, thus causing all seven men to have holes burning in their pockets.
Yo-Yo Ramirez, if that was her real name (it wasn't!), entered her apartment satisfied that witnesses saw her leave The Guak's place and enter hers. She stripped out of her embarrassing hood rat get-up (though she thought the sneakers were cute) and changed into a black hoodie and matching yoga pants. She tied back her long unruly ebony mane into a ponytail. She tied up her black sneakers after slipping them on.
The lovely Latina stepped out of her living room window and onto the fire escape and proceeded to scale UP the building to the roof. She sprinted twenty feet and leaped off the side. Yo-Yo flew through the air before landing on the roof of the adjacent building. And she didn't stop there, using leaps, hand sprints, flips, and rolls to traverse the roofs of the neighborhood. Soon Yo-Yo had crossed half the barrio. Using ledges and a drain pipe she easily dropped down the six stories to the ground of the alley below.
"I am a goddess," Yo-Yo muttered under her breath.
Her final destination was still a couple of blocks away so Yo-Yo pulled up her hood and, posing as a jogger, ran to La Iglesia De La Madre Sagracia. She walked into the church and looked around. Seeing no one Yo-Yo stepped into the confessional and lowered her hood.
"You're late, mamacita," a throaty, bordering on sultry, woman's voice emanated from behind the screen.
"Don't me call that," Yo-Yo hissed.
"Be honest, Yolanda. Part of you likes playing the hood rat."
"What is it that you want?" Yo-Yo had been there one minute and this bitch was already getting on her nerves.
"Right. That's enough pleasantries for one night," replied the mystery woman. "Guakomoli is no longer in play...at least for now. Maschinemensch went rogue and decided to carry out his plan. The one that we nixed."
"Jesus."
"Exactly. But he fucked up and got himself exploded. Now we're trying to --"
"Wait," interjected Yo-Yo sniffing. "Are you smoking in the confessional?"
"Maybe," the woman answered before taking a long exaggerated drag. "Isn't it deliciously naughty?"
"No," Yo-Yo replied with a crinkled nose. "It's vile."
"Whatever, prude. Anyway, The Guak is out of the picture so we have a new assignment for you."
"Finally!" exclaimed Yo-Yo with relief. "How do women wear this stuff and keep their dignity?"
"Don't hang up those hot pants yet, honey. The man is fascinated by the cat. He finds it to be an anomaly that he wants to keep tabs on. You need to keep tabs on."
"But-but-but," said Yo-Yo as she realized her joy was fleeting. "The cat is sexist and crass, and he smells! Holy shit does that cat smell!"
"Your orders are clear. You are to get close to the cat and remain close. You are to do whatever it takes."
"You want me to fuck a cat?!" asked Yo-Yo incredulously.
"You're a smart girl, Yolanda. Think outside the box, your box in this case. But do whatever you takes," the woman behind the screen answered. "If Armageddon is near like we fear we need to be prepared. We all need to make sacrifices. This is your sacrifice."
Yo-Yo said nothing.
"Your silence means you understand, and that you will comply. Good girl. I need to leave, and you are to wait here for three minutes. No one is to see us together. Then you are to return to Guakomoli's apartment. I know this is hard for you, but your dedication to the cause will be rewarded. I promise."
Nothing more was said between the two. Yo-Yo heard the confessional door open and close. Then the sound of heels on hard wood before there was nothing but silence. Still seated in the booth, she buried her face in her hands.
"Shit."
Friday, September 16, 2011
Part XX: Remembering A Righteous Dude
Harry Guakomoli did not want a funeral or a wake or a memorial of any kind; the man always felt dwelling on the past was a waste of time. What was done was done. His desire to be forgotten was explicitly laid out in his last will and testament, the reading of which was dutifully carried out by its executor, Cornelius Watson, junior partner of the law firm Hildebrandt & Finklestein.
Oslo did not attend the reading of The Guak's will. The death of his friend, a death he squarely blamed on himself, did not sit well with The World's Smartest Cat. He spent his days on the stoop getting soused off of malt liquor and lying in his own sick. This was not much different than how he spent his days before his best friend's demise. Just the reason for getting fucked up.
The Guak left his sidekick the apartment building in which he dwelled and a modest allowance to spend on "liquors, Nutter Butters, and the occasional visit to the cat house of his choosing." Oslo suspected his friend had some money squirreled away; his crime-fighting partner did not hold down a job yet never worried about food nor lodging.
Despite The Guak's wishes, many residents of The City's barrio decided to hold a memorial service for their fallen hero nonetheless. It was conducted at the neighborhood cemetery at a plot paid for by local businesses and adorned with a headstone purchased at cost by city councilwoman Constance Ortega.
Since a body was never found there was some debate concerning what should be buried in its stead, if anything. Finally a consensus was reached that some of The Guak's favorite possessions would be placed in a box in its place. Some of these prized knick-knacks were a pair of his shit-kickers, an autographed photo of Charo post-coitus ("Cuchi-cuchi, mi rey! Amor, Charo"), and an original vinyl pressing of 2 Live Crew's As Nasty As They Wanna Be.
The World's Smartest Cat did not want to attend the service, feeling that it was improper for The Guak's murderer to be present, but Yo-Yo Ramirez would have none of that. She bathed the feline for the first time in ages, the Latin beauty took great care in washing off the vomit, motor oil, grime, tears, and whatever else had caked in his fur.
At the service Yo-Yo, stunning in a black ankle-length dress, held Oslo in her arms, and, despite his feelings of self-loathing, the former sidekick situated his head between her left breast and silky arm and found himself purring.
Oslo looked around at the assembly of mourners. It appeared the entire barrio was there to pay their respects to their protector. Father Bruce, who kept the title despite being defrocked some years before after photographs surfaced of him performing a happy ending with his mouth on a masseur named Bobby Dunning, gave the eulogy. The address was notable for its mind-numbing length (it clocked it at over two hours) and its syphilis-fueled anti-Semitic off-topic tangents.
The Los Fuegos Polos crew, driven out of the barrio by The Guak and Oslo, and before the cat, Tugboat Jones, was in attendance. The gangbangers wore dark suits and their trademark black bandanas emblazoned with red flames. They were there at the insistence of their leader, La Diabla. The deadly chola was recently released from prison due to some absurd technicality and chose to pay her respects to her fallen foe.
A few years prior The Guak rescued Dylan, Trevor, and Cody, collectively known as Laser Canopy, from a burning ten-scooter pile-up. The band decided to honor their savior in song. They played a short fifteen-minute set, ending with an ironic mid-tempo rendition of Clapton's "Tears In Heaven." Oslo glared at their wide ties and skinny jeans and wanted to force-feed them their dark thick-rimmed glasses.
Notably absent was the aforementioned Tugboat Jones. Last Oslo heard the vigilante was still in The City; he merely relocated to Bridgeside. The Guak refused to explain the how and the why behind the crime-fighting duo's parting of ways, but the subject always infuriated him so The World's Smartest Cat opted to live up to his sobriquet and left well enough alone. But in attendance was Tugboat's lady friend, the always fly and foxy Nubia Zulu. Fly and foxy in a terrifying bad-ass mama sort of way. She stood with arms crossed under her bosom clad in a black leather halter top. Her black jeans clung tightly to her curves and tucked into combat boots. Her perfect afro-puffs remained in place despite the occasional gust of wind.
Standing close to Nubia yet not close enough to incur her wrath was another street-level anti-hero. His name was Travis, last name unknown, and not even The Guak's death was cause enough for him to deviate from his normal attire of aviator glasses, camouflage jacket, well-worn blue jeans (which he called "dungarees"), and black high-top Converse All-Stars. The Guak and Travis would occasionally join forces to take down local kingpins and their minions. Oslo always enjoyed these team-ups, but The Guak found Travis off-putting; the mohawked ass-kicker had a penchant for teenage prostitutes. Oslo liked his fruit under ripe but would always get pissy due to Travis' unwillingness to share.
Father Bruce's eulogy was making Oslo sleepy, though the five 40 oz. bottles of St. Ides he chugged before the service may also had played a part. But someone out of the corner of his eye snapped the feline back to full consciousness: the lieutenant from the rubble-filled crater that was once Neuneuschwanstein. The man was decked out in a slate-colored suit, his platinum locks cascaded off his shoulders. To his right stood a petite woman with raven hair done up in a pair of braids. The World's Smartest Cat figured the shawty couldn't have been more than two or three inches taller than five feet. She was as pale as the lieutenant but a hell of a lot easier on the eyes.On the other side of that fast-talking son of a bitch stood another man, lanky and six and a half feet tall. He had a darker complexion than his two companions but just barely. His rose-colored glasses protected his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. The top of his bald head glistened, clearly demonstrating that it was recently waxed. Oslo snickered.
But The World's Smartest Cat cut short the snarky thoughts running through his brain when he remembered his first encounter with the lieutenant. What Oslo had done to Frank and wondered if there would be any retaliation. For the remainder of the memorial he never took his eyes off the trio. He wondered what would happen if they did make a move on him. He imagined ripping out the jugulars of the men Roadhouse-style and then fucking the girl to spare her a similar fate.
Yet there would be no retaliation...at least that day.
"And so we bid a fond farewell to Harry Guakomoli, one righteous dude," spoke Father Bruce as he wrapped up his eulogy. "Perhaps even the most righteous dude of them all. May he spend the Afterlife violently cornholing every dead Yid bastard and Zionist cunt on the planet. Amen."
The crowd could not disperse quickly enough. And as La Diabla left she stated it was time to retake the barrio.
Oslo did not attend the reading of The Guak's will. The death of his friend, a death he squarely blamed on himself, did not sit well with The World's Smartest Cat. He spent his days on the stoop getting soused off of malt liquor and lying in his own sick. This was not much different than how he spent his days before his best friend's demise. Just the reason for getting fucked up.
The Guak left his sidekick the apartment building in which he dwelled and a modest allowance to spend on "liquors, Nutter Butters, and the occasional visit to the cat house of his choosing." Oslo suspected his friend had some money squirreled away; his crime-fighting partner did not hold down a job yet never worried about food nor lodging.
Despite The Guak's wishes, many residents of The City's barrio decided to hold a memorial service for their fallen hero nonetheless. It was conducted at the neighborhood cemetery at a plot paid for by local businesses and adorned with a headstone purchased at cost by city councilwoman Constance Ortega.
Since a body was never found there was some debate concerning what should be buried in its stead, if anything. Finally a consensus was reached that some of The Guak's favorite possessions would be placed in a box in its place. Some of these prized knick-knacks were a pair of his shit-kickers, an autographed photo of Charo post-coitus ("Cuchi-cuchi, mi rey! Amor, Charo"), and an original vinyl pressing of 2 Live Crew's As Nasty As They Wanna Be.
The World's Smartest Cat did not want to attend the service, feeling that it was improper for The Guak's murderer to be present, but Yo-Yo Ramirez would have none of that. She bathed the feline for the first time in ages, the Latin beauty took great care in washing off the vomit, motor oil, grime, tears, and whatever else had caked in his fur.
At the service Yo-Yo, stunning in a black ankle-length dress, held Oslo in her arms, and, despite his feelings of self-loathing, the former sidekick situated his head between her left breast and silky arm and found himself purring.
Oslo looked around at the assembly of mourners. It appeared the entire barrio was there to pay their respects to their protector. Father Bruce, who kept the title despite being defrocked some years before after photographs surfaced of him performing a happy ending with his mouth on a masseur named Bobby Dunning, gave the eulogy. The address was notable for its mind-numbing length (it clocked it at over two hours) and its syphilis-fueled anti-Semitic off-topic tangents.
The Los Fuegos Polos crew, driven out of the barrio by The Guak and Oslo, and before the cat, Tugboat Jones, was in attendance. The gangbangers wore dark suits and their trademark black bandanas emblazoned with red flames. They were there at the insistence of their leader, La Diabla. The deadly chola was recently released from prison due to some absurd technicality and chose to pay her respects to her fallen foe.
A few years prior The Guak rescued Dylan, Trevor, and Cody, collectively known as Laser Canopy, from a burning ten-scooter pile-up. The band decided to honor their savior in song. They played a short fifteen-minute set, ending with an ironic mid-tempo rendition of Clapton's "Tears In Heaven." Oslo glared at their wide ties and skinny jeans and wanted to force-feed them their dark thick-rimmed glasses.
Notably absent was the aforementioned Tugboat Jones. Last Oslo heard the vigilante was still in The City; he merely relocated to Bridgeside. The Guak refused to explain the how and the why behind the crime-fighting duo's parting of ways, but the subject always infuriated him so The World's Smartest Cat opted to live up to his sobriquet and left well enough alone. But in attendance was Tugboat's lady friend, the always fly and foxy Nubia Zulu. Fly and foxy in a terrifying bad-ass mama sort of way. She stood with arms crossed under her bosom clad in a black leather halter top. Her black jeans clung tightly to her curves and tucked into combat boots. Her perfect afro-puffs remained in place despite the occasional gust of wind.
Standing close to Nubia yet not close enough to incur her wrath was another street-level anti-hero. His name was Travis, last name unknown, and not even The Guak's death was cause enough for him to deviate from his normal attire of aviator glasses, camouflage jacket, well-worn blue jeans (which he called "dungarees"), and black high-top Converse All-Stars. The Guak and Travis would occasionally join forces to take down local kingpins and their minions. Oslo always enjoyed these team-ups, but The Guak found Travis off-putting; the mohawked ass-kicker had a penchant for teenage prostitutes. Oslo liked his fruit under ripe but would always get pissy due to Travis' unwillingness to share.
Father Bruce's eulogy was making Oslo sleepy, though the five 40 oz. bottles of St. Ides he chugged before the service may also had played a part. But someone out of the corner of his eye snapped the feline back to full consciousness: the lieutenant from the rubble-filled crater that was once Neuneuschwanstein. The man was decked out in a slate-colored suit, his platinum locks cascaded off his shoulders. To his right stood a petite woman with raven hair done up in a pair of braids. The World's Smartest Cat figured the shawty couldn't have been more than two or three inches taller than five feet. She was as pale as the lieutenant but a hell of a lot easier on the eyes.On the other side of that fast-talking son of a bitch stood another man, lanky and six and a half feet tall. He had a darker complexion than his two companions but just barely. His rose-colored glasses protected his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. The top of his bald head glistened, clearly demonstrating that it was recently waxed. Oslo snickered.
But The World's Smartest Cat cut short the snarky thoughts running through his brain when he remembered his first encounter with the lieutenant. What Oslo had done to Frank and wondered if there would be any retaliation. For the remainder of the memorial he never took his eyes off the trio. He wondered what would happen if they did make a move on him. He imagined ripping out the jugulars of the men Roadhouse-style and then fucking the girl to spare her a similar fate.
Yet there would be no retaliation...at least that day.
"And so we bid a fond farewell to Harry Guakomoli, one righteous dude," spoke Father Bruce as he wrapped up his eulogy. "Perhaps even the most righteous dude of them all. May he spend the Afterlife violently cornholing every dead Yid bastard and Zionist cunt on the planet. Amen."
The crowd could not disperse quickly enough. And as La Diabla left she stated it was time to retake the barrio.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Part XVIII: The Bearded Lady And The Baby Guak (The Guak, The Origin Part 2)
Harry Guakomoli was only two days old and already an orphan. His father, an alligator wrestler in the employ of Colonel Carl's Roving Spectacle-O-Rama, died in his sleep the day after his baby boy's birth. The Guak's mother, who also performed in the traveling carnival as nudie dancer, claimed the culprit was Filthy O'Possum, patron saint of naughty dreams. Colonel Carl, who was neither a colonel nor named Carl, was already suspicious of the woman due to her role as a voodoo priestess. The death of one of his stars was the proverbial straw that proverbially broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back, The colonel accused our hero's mother of murdering his father. Instead of alerting the authorities, Colonel Carl meted out his own special brand of carny justice and handed the stripper burned at the stake.
Colonel Carl's Spectacle-O-Rama disbanded right then and there. Everyone present knew the law of the land, but after the voodoo priestess' blood-curdling screams and the smell of her burning flesh, the carnies lost their appetite for carny justice and the show's ringleader.
The colonel ordered, threatened, and finally begged for the Roving Spectacle-O-Rama's performers and crew to stay, but not a single soul was interested.
But the question remained: what to do with the orphaned infant. Finding themselves unemployed was hard enough, but before the boy's mother breathed her last breath she uttered something in a long-forgotten tongue directed at the fruit of her loins. Though no one in attendance spoke the language, they knew from the spite and malice in her voice she had placed a hex on her newborn son.
There was talk of leaving The Baby Guak to the gators and the incestuous cannibalistic swampfolk, but the babe's namesake, Harriet the bearded lady, agreed to take him as her ward.
Bearded lady and baby left the soggy fetid Louisiana bayou for the urban decay of The City. They made their way north by hitchhiking, and Harriet learned the meaning of "ass, gas, or grass: no one rides for free" only too well. She also had this sneaking suspicion they were being followed. Memories of the voodoo lady's curse crept into her brain. Thoughts of the priestess invaded Harriet's dreams, twisting and turning them into horrific nightmares,
Harriet woke up every night screaming. She would be drenched in sweat, though it is unknown if said perspiration came from the misery inflicted upon her by Mr. Sandman or because she was a rotund woman with glandular problems covered in a thick chestnut-colored shag. The leading theory suggests it was a combination of the two. Her screams would wake up The Baby Guak who would then belt out some screams of his own. After a month of this nightly occurrence the pair were evicted from the flop house where they had taken up residence.
The bearded lady could no longer take the punishment, punishment she blamed on her young charge. To her it was obvious The Baby Guak had to go. In the dead of night Harriet approached St. Hedwig's House for Children, an orphanage. Her corpulent form jiggled as Harriet waddled towards the steps to the front door. Her voluminous near gelatinous posterior threatened to defy gravity and break free of the stained lavender stretch pants that struggled to contain it. Her chubby sausage fingers gripped a wicker basket that contained our infant hero. Harriet set the basket down on the concrete steps.
"Don't give that boy to those nuns," a cold voice flatly stated from behind.
Harriet shrieked and jumped as the voice cut through the silence. The bearded lady spun around to find another large woman standing a dozen feet from her, her dark chocolate skin was completely covered save for her wrinkled face. An ill-fitting black overcoat clung to her doughy body. A red bandana kept her long greasy black dreadlocks from getting in her face. Her pupils constricted despite the near-darkness. She smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. In the stranger's gloved hand were the straps of an over-stuffed duffel bag.
"What the fuck, bitch?! Tryin' ta give me a heart attack?!" Harriet snapped.
"I am sorry, nice lady. I just wanted to suggest that you don't give your boy to those nuns. They will pollute his mind with lies," said the stranger. Despite her smile she spoke with no emotion.
"Yeah? You gunna take 'im off my hands? If not, fuck off."
"If you are offering, nice lady, then I am accepting."
Harriet eyed the strange woman with apprehension. She wanted, needed, to unload the source of her agony, and she needed to do it immediately, but Harriet wasn't a cold-hearted monster. She couldn't leave The Baby Guak with some stranger hanging out in front of an orphanage at night. She was probably a bag lady and definitely on the drugs.
The strange woman noticed the reluctance plastered on Harriet's furry countenance. She held the duffel bag out to her.
"I am prepared to offer you $343 for the boy."
"I-I-I can't sell him...I don't even know you."
"I am prepared to offer you $2100 for the boy."
$2100 was a lot of money for Harriet. She had been surviving by selling her flesh to men with a specific kink. Unfortunately, not many johns get off on fat hairy women. With $2100 and no burdensome baby, she could start over. Make a better life for herself.
"There's $2100 in that bag?"
"Yes, nice lady. Come and investigate for yourself."
The stranger placed the duffel bag on the ground and stepped back. Harriet scurried over to the bag, unzipped it, and peered inside. Crammed into the bag were crumpled-up wads of filthy twenty, ten, five, and one dollar bills. Harriet crinkled her nose.
"This fuckin' money is fuckin' gross!" Harriet said in disgust.
"Dirty currency spends the same as clean currency. Do we have ourselves an agreement, nice lady?"
"You bet your black ass we do! FUCK YEAH!" Harriet squealed in delight. She zipped the duffel shut and, although the stranger held the bag with apparent ease, the bearded lady could barely lift the thing. "What the fuck is in this thing bitch?"
The strange woman made her way to the steps of the orphanage and grabbed the basket occupied by The Baby Guak.
"At the bottom is $343 comprised of quarters, nice lady," the woman answered. "Best of luck, Harriet Morgan. Your soul will forever be tainted by the smell of roasting flesh and stained with the mambo's screams.
The stranger, with our infant hero in tow, walked away into the night.
A year later a wicker basket is found on the front steps of St. Hedwig's House for Children. Inside the basket The Baby Guak slept.
Colonel Carl's Spectacle-O-Rama disbanded right then and there. Everyone present knew the law of the land, but after the voodoo priestess' blood-curdling screams and the smell of her burning flesh, the carnies lost their appetite for carny justice and the show's ringleader.
The colonel ordered, threatened, and finally begged for the Roving Spectacle-O-Rama's performers and crew to stay, but not a single soul was interested.
But the question remained: what to do with the orphaned infant. Finding themselves unemployed was hard enough, but before the boy's mother breathed her last breath she uttered something in a long-forgotten tongue directed at the fruit of her loins. Though no one in attendance spoke the language, they knew from the spite and malice in her voice she had placed a hex on her newborn son.
There was talk of leaving The Baby Guak to the gators and the incestuous cannibalistic swampfolk, but the babe's namesake, Harriet the bearded lady, agreed to take him as her ward.
Bearded lady and baby left the soggy fetid Louisiana bayou for the urban decay of The City. They made their way north by hitchhiking, and Harriet learned the meaning of "ass, gas, or grass: no one rides for free" only too well. She also had this sneaking suspicion they were being followed. Memories of the voodoo lady's curse crept into her brain. Thoughts of the priestess invaded Harriet's dreams, twisting and turning them into horrific nightmares,
Harriet woke up every night screaming. She would be drenched in sweat, though it is unknown if said perspiration came from the misery inflicted upon her by Mr. Sandman or because she was a rotund woman with glandular problems covered in a thick chestnut-colored shag. The leading theory suggests it was a combination of the two. Her screams would wake up The Baby Guak who would then belt out some screams of his own. After a month of this nightly occurrence the pair were evicted from the flop house where they had taken up residence.
The bearded lady could no longer take the punishment, punishment she blamed on her young charge. To her it was obvious The Baby Guak had to go. In the dead of night Harriet approached St. Hedwig's House for Children, an orphanage. Her corpulent form jiggled as Harriet waddled towards the steps to the front door. Her voluminous near gelatinous posterior threatened to defy gravity and break free of the stained lavender stretch pants that struggled to contain it. Her chubby sausage fingers gripped a wicker basket that contained our infant hero. Harriet set the basket down on the concrete steps.
"Don't give that boy to those nuns," a cold voice flatly stated from behind.
Harriet shrieked and jumped as the voice cut through the silence. The bearded lady spun around to find another large woman standing a dozen feet from her, her dark chocolate skin was completely covered save for her wrinkled face. An ill-fitting black overcoat clung to her doughy body. A red bandana kept her long greasy black dreadlocks from getting in her face. Her pupils constricted despite the near-darkness. She smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. In the stranger's gloved hand were the straps of an over-stuffed duffel bag.
"What the fuck, bitch?! Tryin' ta give me a heart attack?!" Harriet snapped.
"I am sorry, nice lady. I just wanted to suggest that you don't give your boy to those nuns. They will pollute his mind with lies," said the stranger. Despite her smile she spoke with no emotion.
"Yeah? You gunna take 'im off my hands? If not, fuck off."
"If you are offering, nice lady, then I am accepting."
Harriet eyed the strange woman with apprehension. She wanted, needed, to unload the source of her agony, and she needed to do it immediately, but Harriet wasn't a cold-hearted monster. She couldn't leave The Baby Guak with some stranger hanging out in front of an orphanage at night. She was probably a bag lady and definitely on the drugs.
The strange woman noticed the reluctance plastered on Harriet's furry countenance. She held the duffel bag out to her.
"I am prepared to offer you $343 for the boy."
"I-I-I can't sell him...I don't even know you."
"I am prepared to offer you $2100 for the boy."
$2100 was a lot of money for Harriet. She had been surviving by selling her flesh to men with a specific kink. Unfortunately, not many johns get off on fat hairy women. With $2100 and no burdensome baby, she could start over. Make a better life for herself.
"There's $2100 in that bag?"
"Yes, nice lady. Come and investigate for yourself."
The stranger placed the duffel bag on the ground and stepped back. Harriet scurried over to the bag, unzipped it, and peered inside. Crammed into the bag were crumpled-up wads of filthy twenty, ten, five, and one dollar bills. Harriet crinkled her nose.
"This fuckin' money is fuckin' gross!" Harriet said in disgust.
"Dirty currency spends the same as clean currency. Do we have ourselves an agreement, nice lady?"
"You bet your black ass we do! FUCK YEAH!" Harriet squealed in delight. She zipped the duffel shut and, although the stranger held the bag with apparent ease, the bearded lady could barely lift the thing. "What the fuck is in this thing bitch?"
The strange woman made her way to the steps of the orphanage and grabbed the basket occupied by The Baby Guak.
"At the bottom is $343 comprised of quarters, nice lady," the woman answered. "Best of luck, Harriet Morgan. Your soul will forever be tainted by the smell of roasting flesh and stained with the mambo's screams.
The stranger, with our infant hero in tow, walked away into the night.
A year later a wicker basket is found on the front steps of St. Hedwig's House for Children. Inside the basket The Baby Guak slept.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Part XVII: Big Max vs. Bon Scott
Harry Guakomoli was not given much of a breather before it once again became action time. Several flood lights, situated atop the castle and compound wall, simultaneously turned on, causing the entire courtyard to shine with a yellow glow.
And then the rumbling started. One side of Castle Neuneushwanstein began shaking violently. Soon the entire facade crumbled apart. The Guak squinted at the tall shape that was behind the wall (before it came crashing down of course).
"You have got to me shitting me," The Guak grumbled.
Across the courtyard stood a mechanical facsimile of Maximillian Maschinemensch, twenty feet tall and naked as the day its inspiration was born (and thankfully not anatomically correct!). Two large smokestacks started at its back and ran skyward before ending a foot above the shoulders. Large plumes of black exhaust billowed out from them. Its belly was clear, revealing Doktor Klaus Maschinemensch seated with a long knobbed gear shift in each hand. The madman yanked the left lever as aggressively as his frail body would allow and a microphone attached to a cord dropped from the cockpit's ceiling.
"YOU THINK YOU ARE SO CLEVER UND STRONG UND MORE CLEVER, HERR GUAKOMOLI," the doctor's voice boomed via a speaker located in the robot's mouth. "BUT I VILL BE TRIUMPHANT! I VILL NOT LET MY LIFE'S WORK BECOME UNDONE BY A CHARRED SELF-RIGHTEOUS ZWIEBELKOPF!"
The Guak glared and snarled. He had no idea how the doctor made it to his robot created in his dead son's image, and at that point he couldn't care less. Our hero charged and quickly closed the gap between him and the source of his rage in a matter of seconds. Our hero leaped into the air towards the doctor. But this story's major antagonist foresaw this course of action and caught The Guak with the robot's left hand with surprising swiftness.
"YOU DISAPPOINT ME," Doktor Maschinemensch said. "SO VERY VERY PREDICTABLE. IT IS AS IF YOU ARE NOT EVEN TRYING. A SHAME REALLY."
The doctor pushed the right lever forward, and The Guak felt the hand's grip tighten. Slowly he felt himself getting crushed, and he realized he wouldn't be long for this world if he didn't act fast. Our hero started to pound the wrist like a gorilla, raising his fist high above his head before sending it crashing down below. For a normal man the blows would have little or no effect, but this is The Motherfucking Guak I'm talking about here. Our hero's sledgehammer fists cracked the shell and soon he would make a big enough hole so he could reach in and start yanking out wires. If only the doctor did not come to the same conclusion...
"I THINK NOT! PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT AS STUPID AS YOU LOOK!"
The Guak took umbrage at that remark. He was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination, yet nothing about his visage gave any clue at to his intelligence (or lack thereof). But soon his only thought was oh, shit! as the doctor threw him.
Our hero soared through the sky thirty feet before hitting the cobblestone ground and bounced, skidded, and rolled another fifteen.
"Fuuuuck," our hero said. This seriously sucked for The Guak,and for a few seconds he laid prone. Everything hurt. He just wanted to be home and cared for by that la cucaracha caliente, Yo-Yo Ramirez. That sounded nice.
The Guak's wishes came to an abrupt end by a loud thud mere feet from his head. He opened his eyes to see a large rock crash even closer. It broke apart upon impact, and it sent dust and small pebbles into his eyes. They were already irritated by the gas fumes that permeated the night air. This bullshit made it worse.
Our hero sat up to eye Doktor Maschinemensch in MechaMaximillian pick up another large stone from the pile that was once the castle wall and hurled it at The Guak. This projectile would have been a bull's-eye had he not rolled out of the way.
The Guak sprung to his feet only to have another rock land squarely in the gut. He doubled over and began to vomit immediately. One final stone nailed his left foot, and our hero felt every bone pulverized.
The Guak realized he was a goner.
But in the near distance he heard the rev of an engine. The Guak turned around to see a pair of headlights enter the courtyard. As the vehicle came closer our hero recognized it as the stretch Escalade from before, and it raced towards the doctor and his robotic shell.
Oslo stuck his small brown oily feline head out of the driver's window.
"Bon Scott, boss! Bon muthafuckin' Scott!"
Bon Scott was the lead singer for Australian hard rock band AC/DC from 1974 until his departure in 1980. By that I mean his departure from this earthly realm; after a night of carousing in London, Scott suffocated on his own puke and died. The Guak loved the song "T.N.T." and a code phrase was born.
As soon as our hero had uttered "Bon Scott" in the ballroom, Oslo raced as quickly as he could throughout Neuneuschwanstein looking for something combustible. His ego had been bruised, and he felt unworthy of "the world's smartest cat" moniker. The sidekick needed to redeem himself. Oslo wasn't having much luck but then noticed two of those android henchmen carrying the crackpot doctor as they sped down a hallway.
"Der Guak und Ingrid are in the courtyard, meine Jungs!" Doktor Maschinemensch had shrieked excitedly. "Bring me to mein grosse Roboter!"
Then it dawned on Oslo: that disgusting Escalade with all them delicious liquors. A plan had been hatched in the brain of the world's smartest cat.
"Bon Scott, boss! Bon muthafuckin' Scott!"
Oslo jumped out of the improvised warhead and ran for cover.
The Guak realized what was about to happen and cursed audibly. He jumped up and hobbled as fast as he could on his crushed foot.
Docktor Maschinemensch noticed seconds later. The gas fumes that permeated the courtyard. The incredible amount of petrol required to power the massive MechaMaximillian. And the premium octane fuel in the Escalade. It had been filled just a few hours before. Mein Gott! the doctor thought to himself. I just had to have Achtzehn fuel das Auto tonight in case I had a sudden need for Moons Over My Hammy! Und all those high-end spirits!
The Escalade was a second away from impact, and there was nothing the mad scientist could do about it. The big galoot and his four-legged friend got him, and they got him but good.
"Schiesse," Doktor Maschinemensch whispered.
The ostentatious white stretch Cadillac Escalade collided into the gigantic robot.
Because I'm TNT. I'm dynamite. And I'll win the fight. I'm a power-load. Watch me explode.
And explode it did. The gaudy whip and creepy robotic construct, and it's even creepier occupant, blew up instantly. Your humble narrator is by no means a scientist, but I'm guessing the explosion had some serious megatonnage to it.
Unfortunately for The Guak, Oslo had no idea our hero's foot was crushed into thousands of little bits, which resulted in a serious lack of mobility. Even filled to the gills with adrenaline and rage and piss and vinegar, The Guak could only move so fast, and it wasn't fast enough. Our hero was caught in the blast radius and was sent flying.
The Guak sailed through the air, completely engulfed in flames. He was seconds from burning to death. He felt his skin and muscle and fat and organs and everything else begin to liquefy.
This is the same thing my mother felt right before she died.
That was the last thought Harry Guakomoli had right before he rocketed headfirst into the outer stone wall. Our hero's body fell twenty feet to the cobblestone ground. The raging inferno consumed his unmoving body and refused to let go.
The End.
And then the rumbling started. One side of Castle Neuneushwanstein began shaking violently. Soon the entire facade crumbled apart. The Guak squinted at the tall shape that was behind the wall (before it came crashing down of course).
"You have got to me shitting me," The Guak grumbled.
Across the courtyard stood a mechanical facsimile of Maximillian Maschinemensch, twenty feet tall and naked as the day its inspiration was born (and thankfully not anatomically correct!). Two large smokestacks started at its back and ran skyward before ending a foot above the shoulders. Large plumes of black exhaust billowed out from them. Its belly was clear, revealing Doktor Klaus Maschinemensch seated with a long knobbed gear shift in each hand. The madman yanked the left lever as aggressively as his frail body would allow and a microphone attached to a cord dropped from the cockpit's ceiling.
"YOU THINK YOU ARE SO CLEVER UND STRONG UND MORE CLEVER, HERR GUAKOMOLI," the doctor's voice boomed via a speaker located in the robot's mouth. "BUT I VILL BE TRIUMPHANT! I VILL NOT LET MY LIFE'S WORK BECOME UNDONE BY A CHARRED SELF-RIGHTEOUS ZWIEBELKOPF!"
The Guak glared and snarled. He had no idea how the doctor made it to his robot created in his dead son's image, and at that point he couldn't care less. Our hero charged and quickly closed the gap between him and the source of his rage in a matter of seconds. Our hero leaped into the air towards the doctor. But this story's major antagonist foresaw this course of action and caught The Guak with the robot's left hand with surprising swiftness.
"YOU DISAPPOINT ME," Doktor Maschinemensch said. "SO VERY VERY PREDICTABLE. IT IS AS IF YOU ARE NOT EVEN TRYING. A SHAME REALLY."
The doctor pushed the right lever forward, and The Guak felt the hand's grip tighten. Slowly he felt himself getting crushed, and he realized he wouldn't be long for this world if he didn't act fast. Our hero started to pound the wrist like a gorilla, raising his fist high above his head before sending it crashing down below. For a normal man the blows would have little or no effect, but this is The Motherfucking Guak I'm talking about here. Our hero's sledgehammer fists cracked the shell and soon he would make a big enough hole so he could reach in and start yanking out wires. If only the doctor did not come to the same conclusion...
"I THINK NOT! PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT AS STUPID AS YOU LOOK!"
The Guak took umbrage at that remark. He was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination, yet nothing about his visage gave any clue at to his intelligence (or lack thereof). But soon his only thought was oh, shit! as the doctor threw him.
Our hero soared through the sky thirty feet before hitting the cobblestone ground and bounced, skidded, and rolled another fifteen.
"Fuuuuck," our hero said. This seriously sucked for The Guak,and for a few seconds he laid prone. Everything hurt. He just wanted to be home and cared for by that la cucaracha caliente, Yo-Yo Ramirez. That sounded nice.
The Guak's wishes came to an abrupt end by a loud thud mere feet from his head. He opened his eyes to see a large rock crash even closer. It broke apart upon impact, and it sent dust and small pebbles into his eyes. They were already irritated by the gas fumes that permeated the night air. This bullshit made it worse.
Our hero sat up to eye Doktor Maschinemensch in MechaMaximillian pick up another large stone from the pile that was once the castle wall and hurled it at The Guak. This projectile would have been a bull's-eye had he not rolled out of the way.
The Guak sprung to his feet only to have another rock land squarely in the gut. He doubled over and began to vomit immediately. One final stone nailed his left foot, and our hero felt every bone pulverized.
The Guak realized he was a goner.
But in the near distance he heard the rev of an engine. The Guak turned around to see a pair of headlights enter the courtyard. As the vehicle came closer our hero recognized it as the stretch Escalade from before, and it raced towards the doctor and his robotic shell.
Oslo stuck his small brown oily feline head out of the driver's window.
"Bon Scott, boss! Bon muthafuckin' Scott!"
Bon Scott was the lead singer for Australian hard rock band AC/DC from 1974 until his departure in 1980. By that I mean his departure from this earthly realm; after a night of carousing in London, Scott suffocated on his own puke and died. The Guak loved the song "T.N.T." and a code phrase was born.
As soon as our hero had uttered "Bon Scott" in the ballroom, Oslo raced as quickly as he could throughout Neuneuschwanstein looking for something combustible. His ego had been bruised, and he felt unworthy of "the world's smartest cat" moniker. The sidekick needed to redeem himself. Oslo wasn't having much luck but then noticed two of those android henchmen carrying the crackpot doctor as they sped down a hallway.
"Der Guak und Ingrid are in the courtyard, meine Jungs!" Doktor Maschinemensch had shrieked excitedly. "Bring me to mein grosse Roboter!"
Then it dawned on Oslo: that disgusting Escalade with all them delicious liquors. A plan had been hatched in the brain of the world's smartest cat.
"Bon Scott, boss! Bon muthafuckin' Scott!"
Oslo jumped out of the improvised warhead and ran for cover.
The Guak realized what was about to happen and cursed audibly. He jumped up and hobbled as fast as he could on his crushed foot.
Docktor Maschinemensch noticed seconds later. The gas fumes that permeated the courtyard. The incredible amount of petrol required to power the massive MechaMaximillian. And the premium octane fuel in the Escalade. It had been filled just a few hours before. Mein Gott! the doctor thought to himself. I just had to have Achtzehn fuel das Auto tonight in case I had a sudden need for Moons Over My Hammy! Und all those high-end spirits!
The Escalade was a second away from impact, and there was nothing the mad scientist could do about it. The big galoot and his four-legged friend got him, and they got him but good.
"Schiesse," Doktor Maschinemensch whispered.
The ostentatious white stretch Cadillac Escalade collided into the gigantic robot.
Because I'm TNT. I'm dynamite. And I'll win the fight. I'm a power-load. Watch me explode.
And explode it did. The gaudy whip and creepy robotic construct, and it's even creepier occupant, blew up instantly. Your humble narrator is by no means a scientist, but I'm guessing the explosion had some serious megatonnage to it.
Unfortunately for The Guak, Oslo had no idea our hero's foot was crushed into thousands of little bits, which resulted in a serious lack of mobility. Even filled to the gills with adrenaline and rage and piss and vinegar, The Guak could only move so fast, and it wasn't fast enough. Our hero was caught in the blast radius and was sent flying.
The Guak sailed through the air, completely engulfed in flames. He was seconds from burning to death. He felt his skin and muscle and fat and organs and everything else begin to liquefy.
This is the same thing my mother felt right before she died.
That was the last thought Harry Guakomoli had right before he rocketed headfirst into the outer stone wall. Our hero's body fell twenty feet to the cobblestone ground. The raging inferno consumed his unmoving body and refused to let go.
The End.
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