“Run away! Run away!”
I cry immediately, nodding, and run after her. In two seconds she is a bus’ length ahead of me.
The crazies chasing after us hoot & holler: “None shall escape from the Dolphin Masters!”
Running on the sand in a panic is hard. It’s like you’re running in slow motion. My foot trips on a large shell and I hit the sand – my head landing in a family of tiny, wet, shiny black crabs that dance in my hair.
I jump up shrieking and spinning around, slapping myself on the face and punching my hair, trying desperately to get the crabs off my person.
I take a ready stance (a kind of half-crouch) and brace myself and POP my eyes open.
I am surrounded by fifteen Dolphin Masters.
The costumes are open-mouthed, yet I can’t see the humans inside. Their costumes are thick, and honestly look quite uncomfortable. Their electric guitars – Fenders – dangle at their sides by black, furry straps. No one moves. Their dolphin eyes are round and eerie – poorly made and crooked.
The waves hush.
The group parts, making way for a naked woman, painted in a glitter-based blue that shimmers, gloriously. She wears the decapitated, hallowed head of a real dolphin. A Dolphin Master guides her at all times, for she is blind while wearing the dolphin head.
She holds her hands out in front of her while walking in tiny baby steps, scratching the air. Her guide stands her before me, and then something beautiful happens. The Dolphin Masters take hold of their guitars and play Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin, although the sound is a tad retarded and sad, seeing how their instruments have no power.
She crosses her arms.
“For the endangerment of the holy ones – meaning dolphins – the punishment is…YOU DIE NOW.”
She makes to point at me, but aims a little too low, if you know what I mean.
Her guide corrects her.
“The punishment is death. How plead you, ma’am?”
“I…”
“Silence, leaky anus! You filth of swine! Oh, man.”
I want to run away. Can I outrun them? I wait for my move. Like the answer to every problem: Timing is everything.
The Dolphin Queen, as they call her in the Midweek newspaper, walks toward me, blindly.
She trips and falls like a dull slap.
Her dolphin head rolls off and she begins to squirm and bounce on the sands like a fresh baby while making annoying pig sounds.
She springs up before me and crosses her arms as if nothing happened.
“Now you see my true face, ma’am.”
I want to say that I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll anger her.
She brings her crossed arms higher to cover her breasts.
“Destructors, destroy!”
“No! I’m sorry!”
“Silence, man!”
The Dolphin Masters make bear-like sounds and raise their guitars for the attack. The Queen laughs with her head reeled back and I PUSH her angrily while drooling madly. She falls back into the arms of her guide. The Dolphin Queen points at my retreating bulk and SCREAMS.
“Waaaaaaaaaaaah!”
The others run after me, many of them falling because running on sand is hard.
Each time one of them falls, I hear a high-pitched shrill, like a baby pig being squeezed by a proud muscleman.
A voice calls me:
“Rubs! This is Polly! I’m in the parking lot! I want to help you! Hurry!”
I run after her voice.
“God, help meeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Now! Right now!”
I see her in the van and I hop inside.
The Dolphin Masters throw their guitars through the windows. The headlights sweep across the parking lot and land on two, female, 80-year-old Dolphin Masters, squatting on the road, undressing quickly and flinging mad poop at us, which thud against the windshield like moist sandwiches.
Polly grinds her teeth and leans into the wheel.
“GO!”
She steps on the gas and the Dolphin Masters jump out of the way – their aged breasts jiggling. They land tough on the road and roll under cars. As we jet into the night, I look in the rearview mirror to see them jumping up and down and shaking her fists at us, crying.
The van is furious.
Polly exhales.
We look at each other.
I begin to cry.
“I’m so sorry.”
She opens her mouth to say something lovely, then looks to the road AND SHRIEKS.
“Whaaaat!”
THE VAN FLIES INTO A DOLPHIN MASTER GIVING US THE MIDDLE FINGER AND DESTROYS THE FIEND.
Its body rolls OVER the van with the noise of many pigs’ feet.
The van screeches to a halt.
My head bumps against the dashboard and I fly back in my seat, screaming as it reclines and throws me off.
Polly hops out of the car and slides open the side door.
THUNDER in the clouds.
Polly puts her hand over my mouth and puts a silencing finger to her scared lips.
“Thunder…thunder in the clouds.”
I nod.
“Oh, heinous omen.”
She grabs a baseball bat. We walk to the van’s rear and hold hands as our faces turn sour.
There, in the middle of the road, under a drizzle of rain, the Dolphin Master stands, head bowed, its back to us, swaying from left to right.
Polly walks toward it, dragging me along as she readies to hit the Dolphin Master with the bat. Its plastic waist wrinkles as it sways over and over again, arms swinging. I can see through the back of Polly’s wet scalp: The closer she gets, the wider she grins.
THUNDER and the sky FLASHES.
The Dolphin Master looks up and jumps and takes off for the shopping center.
Polly raises a commanding finger into the moist air as lightning explodes the sky – says, “Pursue!”
She runs after the Dolphin Master and goes “Roarrr!” and I follow her, waving my arms in the air, yelling at her to be careful not to run into the mini-lake.
She jumps over a tiny hill into the night and I lose sight of her. I am depressed, and stop, struggling to breathe – my hands on my knees.
“Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Oh!”
…silence…
…pitter-patter of rain…
Then…
POLLY: “Gaaaaaah!”
SPLASH!
I run toward her voice, to the lake.
The mall lights bounce and snake on the surface of the lake. Polly is wrestling with the Dolphin Master. Her hands squeak over the costume, trying to latch on. Polly head butts it in the face. The dolphin puts her in a headlock.
It looks at me – frozen – as they sink sink sink, disappearing under the lake.
Stillness.
Cars in the distance.
Tiny figures on sidewalks, carrying shopping bags.
I kneel down to the edge of the lake.
I see my waving reflection.
A HAND SPLASHES OUT AND GRABS MY HAIR.
I yell out like a girl and slap my hands over Polly’s wrist, hauling her out from the lake as she pulls out the Dolphin Master.
We lay on the dirt, muddy and tired, our chests struggling and bothered.
Except for the Dolphin Master.
It rests there.
Motionless.
PART THREE
“The Wonderful World of Amputees”
(A note from the editor: “Hello. The original section of this book was found to be too disgusting. The following has been edited to please the casual reader. Mahalo.)
WE PUT THE CORPSE in the back of the van and drive around, aimlessly, frightened. I don’t know where she’s driving. Does she even know? I work up the courage to say something, and ask her what we are going to do with this body.
For a long time she doesn’t say anything – the street lights passing over her face. Is she ignoring me? Is she mad at me?? I think she’s mad at m
e.
I lean back in my seat, always remembering that there’s a corpse right behind me, on the ground, rocking with the van.
But what if it wasn’t on the ground?
What if I turn around and find it standing up? Ready to eat me?
I make to look behind me when Polly opens her mouth.
“Mr. Snake can help us.”
She makes the call, and from what I can gather, we are to drive over to his house, the main movie set in Aina Haina, pronto.
He is alone in the house, topless, in his Angelina Jolie boxers, and helps us carry the body into the attic. That was a bitch, getting it up there, as you can imagine.
Mr. Snake kicks up a few, large, dusty floorboards and stuffs the body under. Polly asks if we should take whoever it is out of the dolphin costume first. Mr. Snake says no:
“Ziplocs the smell in better.”
He then throws a plastic bag over the thing’s head and wraps it with wire. I want to throw up. I didn’t want to before, but now I do, so there.
I excuse myself and hightail it across the attic, jumping down the attic ladder and speed-walking into the bathroom.
After doing the nasty, I wash up and stand in the dim, silent hallway, leaning on a wall, gathering my thoughts.
I think about the time I went to Pink Cadillac, during 8o’s night. I smoked my 1st Hookah that day – a large water contraption with flavored tobacco. Mmm. Peppermint Vodka. And then weeks later, mmm, sour Apple.
Oh! And before I forget: Mmm. Liquid Cocaine. A magical, alcoholic beverage with pineapple.
A disturbing sound wakes me from dreamland: Sounds of lovemaking and things being knocked over. Grr! That whore. Flirting with me then eating Mr. Snake’s finger food. Oh, she’s such a whore!
Whatever. Fuck it. Let’s see if there’s any booze in the kitchen.
Huzzah! I’m so pissed.
Whore.
I open the refrigerator and sure enough – a bottle of UV Blue.
I inhale, roll all my problems into a ball, and toast with a sigh.
“L'chiam.”
I drink from the bottle and go numb for a bit.
“That’s good cake.”
I feel the stiff one-eye on me. I look to my right.
A large, fat, Japanese man in a Hawaiian shirt stares at me through the front, sliding glass door, breathing heavily and misting up the glass, his eyes wide & insane. My heart goes Ack!
I stare back. He writes in the fog with his beefy pinky, backwards so I can understand…
Pain.
Feet running up the front stairs.
More fat Japanese men in Hawaiian shirts appear behind the first man, who snarls and spits on the glass and PULLS the sliding door open with a mighty SLAM! They all storm in. They carry black briefcases and mugs of steaming coffee. A short, fattish, muscle-bound Polynesian man pushes through the crowd and approaches me. A silver whistle half the size of his head dangles from his neck.
This fellow asks to see Mr. Snake. He has a womanish voice, although I have no intention of laughing.
I point and (gladly) tell them where he is. The fatty blows on the whistle in quick TOOT TOOT TOOTS and everyone runs down the hallway and up the attic ladder.
I can hear Polly:
“Jesus H. Christ! The Porn Mafia!”
There’s more yelling & screaming and the sounds of glass shattering and umbrellas opening and heavy things being thrown through walls.
Mr. Snake dangles out from the attic door in an upside-down sit-up, his arms clawing the air, screeching, “Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!” with his tongue swinging from his mouth.
So many beefy hands reach down and grab his man-boobs. He squeals like a chased pig and is pulled up. Polly yells at them to be gentle. There is the whirr of an irate buzz-cutter.
Seconds later, Mr. Snake falls from the attic, naked, and rolls down the hallway like crumpled paper. His penis is erect, his eyes are bloodshot and black and blue, his arms are bent at impossible angles, and his hair has been shaved off.
A wind chime has been stapled to his testicles, though, amazingly, no blood is seen.
This poor fellow uses his chin to crawl toward me with his mouth pooling. There’s a hideous clucking sound coming from his throat. He doesn’t blink. I wonder if he can even see through those thick, red eyes.
The gigantic Hawaiian men jump down from the attic, in slow motion. They fold their arms across their chests as they coolly walk after Mr. Snake. A naked Polly falls down onto the hallway with a comical yelp, jumping to her feet and pushing through the mob. She flies her body down over Mr. Snake to protect him. A Hawaiian man picks her up by the ankle and covers his eyes so as to not see her vagina region, because he’s a gentleman.
I eye a knife in a tall glass of water, on the table.
The tiny man bites his nails, looking at his watch over and over. Mr. Snake and Polly are brought to his attention – held in the air by their feet, wiggling like confused fishies and whining.
“Weeeeee! Weeeeeeeee!” they complain.
Tiny man walks behind them and slaps their buttocks, violently, while grunting in anger.
He stands before Mr. Snake, who’s crying in an extreme way. His drool bubbles and runs down into his nostrils and marinates his red eyes.
The tiny man takes hold of Mr. Snake’s cheeks with one hand.
“You owe us a movie, you leaky anus you.”
Mr. Snake responds in a calm, friendly voice, “Are you mad at me?”
“No, not mad…just greatly disturbed.”
“The film will be done soon. Count on it.”
“It’s not how long it’s taking that disturbs me.”
“Oh?”
“No. It’s the fact that you didn’t follow my instructions about the fair usage of amputees. What were you thinking, leaky anus? You knew I’d come down and complain.”
“Sorry, I’m diabetic.”
“I will be sending some appropriate actors over, seeing how you failed to provide your own. I suggest you use them. This is an untouched market. This is a virgin market. Thar be gold here! Now what’s the matter with you?”
“Uhg. Blood rushing down into my upside-down face. Uhg!”
The tiny man leans in close to him and says: “Now your punishment. I saw this in Spiderman.”
He kisses Mr. Snake’s upside-down mouth. The Hawaiian men all go “Aww” and look at each other, smiling. Some of them are smoking rollem’ up cigarettes.
The tiny man releases his lip-lock with a POP and puts his hand to his dizzy head. Mr. Snake swings back and forth in the air, and then weeps with quivering lips.
“Oh, hot Jesus…The Kiss of Herpes!”
“There is no cure for herpes. And there are many different kinds.”
Mr. Snake jiggles his body in anger, the wind chime chiming.
“I want to kiss my children in the future! You bastard!”
The tiny man laughs.
Polly spits into his mouth.
He is surprised.
“Human saliva is not clean like a dog’s.”
Polly spits into his mouth.
“How dare you give him herpes?? You’ve ruined everything!”
“You want some too, faggit?!”
“Please, no. Forgive me on this fateful night. Now I will say good day to you, sir.”
Fatty bows and puts on a pair of shades, although it’s nighttime.
“Now I will leave you, Mr. Snake, so you may complete your film.”
“Yessssssssm.”
The tiny man tips his invisible hat.
“Goodbye, Polly.”
“Goodbye, kind sir.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Snake.”
“Goodbye, Boseefus.”
Mr. Snake and Polly are set carefully on the ground, and they sniffle as the Porn Mafia exit.
I walk out from the kitchen and calmly lock the sliding glass door, watching as their Saturn automobiles disap
pear into thick night, brake lights blinking red.
I look to the carpet and see that Mr. Snake and Polly have fallen fast asleep in each other’s arms.
The room sighs.
Goddamnit.
In the morning, Mr. Snake wakes up screeching and mad. He instructs Polly to squeeze his hands and for me to call an ambulance.
We get to Straub Hospital. The three female doctors tell us that our friend is crazy, and that their primary concern is for his testicles. They ask how a wind chime was stapled to them, and we tell them that he fell down some stairs. The doctors look at us suspiciously, and then walk into a room with double doors.
Polly and I sit alone in the waiting room.
We say nothing. I purposefully try to breathe as quietly as possible.
Within fifteen minutes, a joyous Mr. Snake, wearing patient’s clothes, is released in a motorized wheelchair that’s controlled by his chin. His arms are in slings. A baseball cap from the 90’s with a rainbow and the words GO BOWS on it covers his bald head!
We drive back to the house/set to get back to work. The crew is already there, and it doesn’t take long for the place to be filled with more unnecessary adult actors and actresses. I’m getting used to this. A nude mother, breastfeeding a weeping baby, sits on the carpet, legs crossed, in front of the TV, watching a documentary on The Travel Channel about the world’s most scariest places.
What’s the world’s #1 most scariest place on my list?
Haystack Landing, just north of San Francisco in the town of Petaluma, California.
From now on Mr. Snake will have to direct strictly from his motorized wheelchair…and he seems fine by it, showing off his new wheels to everyone in the living room by lifting the front wheels into the air and spinning around really fast.
He goes a little too far back and falls over. Everyone gasps and says “Sorry, sorry” for some reason, helping him as he crawls, moaning, into his wheelchair.
Once upright & stable, the fat cat jumps on his lap. Mr. Snake touches it.
“I love cats, because they’re quiet.”
At one o’clock exact, a line of amputees are standing outside the sliding glass door. There appears to be a total of 10 of them: 5 women with no legs, 5 men with no arms – who have graciously carried the girls on their shoulders. They have all brought their own robes, which they are wearing, barefoot. As I let them in, I hear the roar of a large vehicle, zoom zoom zooming off into the distance.
After a long introduction by Mr. Snake about the politics and hazards of the porn industry and how important it is to be very very careful of herpes, we all get ready for the film’s shot-out-of-order 5th love scene.