Hello Devilfish! by Ron Dakron

geeraa and run at her. Leave a shot of cheap rye and some towels on the sideboard, boys—if I survive I’m gonna need them. Survive? Hah—I’ll be lucky to die in one piece. Give mom a kiss and dad a gat—put a candle in the window and a shiv up your butt—me, I’m going in .

/ 25 /
    Did we make lewd tangled love? Got me—I passed out within microseconds. Squid twats are stanky . Till much later I sat up like a drunk rocket. Was I dead yet? Happy stupid hoping! Nope—just choking on undersea slime. Which I spit out and glanced around for escape routes—that damned kraken would rear her fugly butt any second and demand more nooky. You know the rule—you bone it, you own it. But instead I bumped into a much naked chick. And not just any nude girl—this one was a stark fetal pink. She glowed like God’s tongue. “You do love me,” she traced a hand down my biceps, “but why you got such weak arms?”
    â€œYou should talk,” I laughed, “you only got one.” ’Cause her other arm was lopped off neat at the shoulder.
    â€œNo—I’ve got eight. Or is it ten? It was eight. God dammit—those silly gangstas must’ve chopped one off,” she pointed at dead Yakuza. Actually everyone in here—bartenders, beer gnomes, sake hoes, and sloshed pilots—was killed except us. “Grrr, grrr,” she growled, “they cut off my tentacle!”
    â€œYour which what?” I was mondo confused—I need more brain for big knowing!
    â€œMy tentacle , dumb butt!” she screeched, ow.
    â€œUuuuurt?” I cocked my head like a cartoon dog.
    â€œYou still don’t get it,” that pink lass sulked, “I’m her .”
    â€œHer who?” I wiped gangsta goo off my ankle.
    â€œI’m Squidra, ” she punched my shoulder, ow.
    â€œNah—I don’t think so,” I scoped her up and down, “can’t be. Really?” Whoever she was, she was hotter than fried gold.
    â€œYour kiss changed me,” she licked her lips even pinker.
    â€œYeah,” I shrugged, “I do have this spiritual effect on chicks, and—”
    â€œNo, dufus,” she punched me harder, ow ow, “you changed me into a human .”
    â€œUm, I’m not sure how that works—” and why did she morph, anyway? Was it my smoochy human-growth hormone spunk what changed her? Was it fairies with goofer dust and Grimm pedigrees? Who cares—make something up. “And look here,” that girl slapped her chest, “I got happy tits!”
    â€œThey are happy,” I admired them. But even more than their upward lilt—more than their handy size and fragrant weight—they were this garish, DayGlo delirium-tremens baby elephant pink like the rest of her. She was a candy gestalt mixed from sleep and peach nougat with black fuzz sprinkles on her yummy puss. “Let’s have more nooky,” she cooed—and yep—she was def Squidra. My big ritual sex dick cured her—I am a hot weenie god! Pink girl, you’re an unkempt vision—let’s apply! Plus she still smelled like an unwashed ocean—that’s how I knew she was her. “You seem surprised,” Squidra giggled, grabbing my arm—ow—way too hard. “Oops,” she grinned that trick smile, “I’m still way stronger than you, blue mansu.” It was her smile what clinched it—you only see grins like that on drowned babies and anthropomorphic squids—that primordial smirk, the smile that splits the world alive. It’s how wolves sneer when they smell gored ponies. It’s how lightning beams when it spots a lone golfer. “Maybe we should get out of here,” Squidra giggled, “want me to carry you?”
    â€œWith one arm? Good luck,” I scowled. Hey, at least she ain’t taller than me—or that dead pilot whose bloody raincoat I draped around