Read Hello Devilfish! for Free Online Page B

way I’ll cop any decent grub—these puny hands are worthless! They’re as weak as newborn crabs. Awww, come on—was my groovy Devilfish bod really history? Really? I’ll never demolish another megapolis? Never chew more orphans into groaning salsa? Whoever dreamed up civilization was stone nuts. Did I really swap a lifetime of lethal bliss for this—a pudgy gut and silly knees? Apparently so—Hello Bitch Fest! And goodbye nutsack—my new human balls barely swing! Was it really just yesterday I boiled out of bleak seas, my carbide bod arcing like a sleek blue boner? Back then I fucked the sun into a jillion spermy splinters—now I stumble around like some gimp Muppet. Are we insane yet? Hold on to your winkie and find out. And then—thank you Allah—I saw a gas station.
    It’s like they say—when in Rome don’t eat relics and when in Tokyo blow shit up. And when I waddled past a beer-lit minimart—and spied that leaking gas pump—I let loose with a wild geeraa! A cry what once torched the sky with lurid fire—and now only stank the joint up with ape breath. “Hey, you—naked blue gaijan!” some pump jockey shambles over. “Go back to gaijan town!”
    â€œGaijan? What?” I puzzle. Oh, right— gaijan are foreigners. And blue pyro nude ones def count. “Leave now!” he brandishes a broom. Great—I’ve devolved into some wuss any Ronin janitor can kung fu with cheap housewares. Hello Impotent Rage! Meaning I’d better duck that flailing broom and figure out how to snuff him. It’s what a Devilfish does! Even a morphed monkey one. Look, I don’t tell you how to work—let’s have a sick lifestyle! It’s called Lifestyle Job. “Blue gaijan!” that pump jockey spits at me, “shoo!” Fucko—what’s he so ticked about? I ain’t even blown anything up yet. I can haz glory?
    Anyway, so I’m batting that swooshing broom away with my useless arms— useless is a totally human word—when aha! I spy a dropped Bic lighter. What sort of skull-fucker strews lighters around a gas station? Some biped with a death wish, mwah ha ha—so let’s grant it! As I smack a pump handle loose till it spews yummy gas. Hey, someone’s gotta commit—meaning me when I duck manic bushido straw, flick that lighter on, toss it at fumes and run. Till I stop a half block away and dance a crude jig—mostly wagging my junk like a tail—when this Girl Scout giggles. At what—that delish petrol fireball? That crispy gas jockey screeching around? Nope. “Hot dog! Blue hot dog!” she points at my bare dangler. “Look, Mommy—I can see his thing .”
    Oh right—pants! I not wearing any. “Wait, I can explain,” I mutter as that crowd closes in, their wicked fish knives already out—to slice off my pervy balls! What—really? You guys don’t bone your own kids? Get with the program—nature’s just a galactic prick spewing wet stars into raped space—Hello Devilfish! I can see why no one carpools with me. Plus eeek, don’t chop my eensy human peener off—I might need it! Seems it’s a monkey spark plug for revving guilt and hate. Like just now when—who else—Squidra shows up! Screeching bon mots and choking streetcars into bloody rust—she probably spotted that gas station blaze and knew it was me. “Mr. Demon Fish—where are you—” she gurgles while the crowd goes Oooooo and gawks up at her schlumping rump. Which was my cue to um, disappear. Note to self—stay away from Girl Scouts, fish knives, and hulking squids. And while you’re up maybe grab some pants too.

/ 12 /
    What doesn’t kill you almost kills you—Hello Devilfish! Today class, we’re gonna deconstruct the cancer narrative—it’s gnarly chemo fun! Jeez, I hate these sappy fables where Betty