Judson Michael Agla

DEAD DOG DAY

The leftover evidence of last night’s macabre massacre of debauchery was seemingly crawling furiously out to sea and with the same determination back on up on to the beach. There was no grace this afternoon; it was going to be a new vicious form of sodomy.

I was laying half on and half through the holes in my lounge chair, somewhat conscious but mostly unconscious. I had a field of vision somewhere between the angle of my sunglasses and my bucket hat, I was clutching a mostly empty bottle of rum, and I had fallen into a worrisome self-induced atrophy horrified with the thought of that barbecuing sun creeping around my sunglasses and shooting a powerfully concentrated beam of unshaded light into one of my eyes that would then manifest into a horrific chain of events leading to the eventuality which included my brain savagely slamming itself into the sides of my skull like a hyena tripping balls in a small enclosure.

Cautiously I began to raise my arm to plug the bottle into my mouth, moving almost robotically, careful not to move too abrasively, bringing on the inevitable beginnings of what could have been the worst hangover I’ve ever experienced. The plan was to get just enough rum into me so I wouldn’t die when I attempted to move.

After recovering the ability to swing my head sluggishly from side to side, anxiety started to set in as everything I hoped didn’t happen, actually did. There were bottles of every size shape and color, bodies strewn out prostrate all over the beach, hopefully still alive (I’d been getting heat about that lately), piñatas busted open coming in on the surf still spewing out pills syringes and dildos of remarkable size, as such would require hospitalization immediately after insertion. Party favors; wallets, purses, wigs, clothing, all sorts of luggage and a small herd of donkeys painted up with foul slogans, butterflies and flowers, swastikas and peace symbols, and some very dangerous incantations from the Necronomicon, who were roaming the beach looking as stunned as I was.

I regained some motor skills and with that; fell straight through the already doomed lounge chair, the aluminum supports crushing and bending around me. I was fucking trapped without any cigarettes or hope for help from the preferably not but probably dead people on the beach. I started to feel some sensitivity in my body when the realization that I had vomited shit and pissed all over myself came to mind.

I had managed to squirm and shuffle around a bit when I noticed my old faithful bag of angry rats to my right who were pretty fucking angry, given the fact that they were beginning to drown in the surf. I reached over and using the bag of angry rats for leverage I managed to pull myself from the clutches of that abyss of plastic plaid and aluminum.

Struggling to stand I swung the rats over my shoulder; I felt like I wrestled a fucking bear and lost horribly, looking at my shack I could see where this confrontation might have occurred. It was completely leveled, a sort of wrath of god without prejudice type of leveled” FUCK ME “.

The undead started to rise around me; crippled, desultory, disoriented and thoroughly lobotomized holding their heads trying to stop their own brains from not killing them. They were all damb lucky they weren’t decapitated or cannibalized; the island was full of head hunters and crazed experimental surgeons who had been expelled from their countries because of the bizarre horrific dark alley atrocities committed without consent or appreciation, they were always on the prowl; bodies, dead or alive, as long as they could carry them without drawing too much attention. We also had a black market where human organs of any value were tossed around, bought, sold, and packaged up to mail off to someone who would be having a very macabre Christmas, it was like a butcher shop for exotic meats, for all I knew, it may have been our largest export.

There were many ways to die on the island, hence the bag of angry rats I carried without falter, everywhere I went. Nobody is going to fuck around with someone fucked up enough to walk around with a bag of angry rats, the intimidation factor is enough for anyone to steer clear and be on their way. I’ve only had to use it a few times which have become the whispers of dark subterranean legends on the island. In all truth; it’s an unproportioned massacre, I’ve never seen the body being torn apart like that with pieces of skin and bone exploding out beyond any discernable radius, intestines strewn around the bars and streets hanging from the ceilings, tourists being killed off with projectile pieces of skull and cartilage. Most people get kind of religious after seeing that.

I stumbled over to where the shack had met its end; it was a dump, I mean it was actually a real “DUMP”, I built the thing using found materials from the “DUMP” which was about a hundred feet away, I don’t know if I was technically living IN the “DUMP”, but it didn’t matter anyway I wasn’t going to go up to town and look for the city plans at this fucking point.

I was still shitting myself as I made my way to the crime scene (the sort of Voodoo type of debauchery I was involved in had the unfortunate random side effect of incontinence) and I could see the grenade holes strewn across the beach; no doubt it was Dems handy work. Dem was our local demolitions expert; officially retired but he sure loved to light up a party. What he was infamously noted for was tossing homemade mini sticks of dynamite out from our local spot “The Corpses Cantina” into the street at passing tourists, I saw one get his fucking hand blown off once, but it was all good fun.

I set down the bag and let the rats go for a run, I usually feed them a little P.C.P. at parties, it gives them a nice little bump and makes them particularly ferocious. Gazing around with glossy eyes I discerned that there were extra pieces laying in and around the catastrophe zone; white painted wood planks covering greased up machine parts broken and scattered arbitrarily with a very distinct odor of gasoline, with closer inspection I found all the evidence I needed to put this conundrum to rest, a fucking prop.

Someone or some “thing” had driven a boat straight up on to the beach and into my bloody shack; there was no corpse or pieces of a corpse to be found anywhere so the fuck must have buggered off somewhere. Just then a very extremely coordinated and furious extraterrestrial bolt from the great blue sky came down like a sledgehammer of the gods exploding straight through my skull and into my brain. I had officially without any doubt began what was to most probably be the worst hang over I’ve ever had, death was on the table, self-induced or otherwise, dehydration levels were off the scale, my brain was attacking me from the inside; literally, psychologically and philosophically, I was working with the I.Q. of one the little monkeys that hang around town throwing their feces at tourists. I was legally retarded; I wouldn’t be making any educated decisions for days, I would never actually fully recover without some deviation, other people shoot people like me out of “basic humane sympathy”, people in my state become government property and ushered off to “area 51”stuck in closets with decomposing aliens.

It was a “Dead Dog Day” as it goes; here on the island. I’ve never known the origin of that saying and everybody seems to have their own version, I’ve always envisioned a dog, too beaten and whipped to crawl across a road in the unrelenting boiling hot sun, where sits a huge bucket of cool fresh water, hours later in total anguish and torment the dog a quarter way across when a huge truck comes speeding by and flattens the dogs head with brains and skull fragments bursting out like a macabre biological jet engine exploding at full velocity. The horrifying punchline of this specific version is that the dog doesn’t die; he just keeps squirming and gyrating being cooked by both sun and searing hot concrete trying to make his way across the road, occasionally getting hit, his body a disintegrating atrocity, and however strong his determination he never makes it to the other side, and he never stops.

I rummaged through all the sealed rubber bags I could find (always store your important shit in rubber bags; everything on the island always sinks at one point or another) looking for a pack of cigarettes and anything that I could summon up the ingenuity to make fire with. Having scored my booty I plunked down on the engine casing; ironically being the only object in one piece. As I sat smoking away I shifted my weight a little and received a horribly acute stabbing sensation right into my left testicle, keeping my balance as I was almost thrown to the dirt I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of boat keys “FUCK ME”.

On the island it was an unwritten; unspoken, semi-criminal but perfectly acceptable behavior to steal other people’s boats and I was one of the more infamous abusers of the “let it slide” understanding that most of the islanders had, having to frequently steal boats themselves; small children could hot wire a boat before they could even kick a ball or throw a grenade. The interior of the island was sick with jungle and virtuously untraversable; aside from a few side roads and a number of leftover WW2 (unmapped) mine fields so you had to travel by water if you were going to get anywhere.

Back in the 1950’s some rich expatriate hiding from what most people who end up here are hiding from; commissioned the construction of a fleet of life-boats to address the issue of transportation and to protect the islanders during the unpredictable but inevitable bi-annual sinking of the island. It still happened these days; twice a year the fucking island would sink into the ocean on random dates, it would fill up in a matter of chaotic horrifying hours and just as it came, after about a half hour it would all drain right back into the ocean with everything that wasn’t tied down or too heavy to move. This expatriate must have been in it thick because shortly after arriving he gathered up a bunch of his “men” and set them on an impossible titanic mission to go out and erase all evidence of the island whether breaking into map stores or infiltrating secret libraries they had to erase the island with no evidence that they’d ever been there, he called them R.A.M.’s (Reassessing Agents of Maps) and sent them out to the four corners of the globe, I’ve never seen the island on any map or heard of anyone who has so they must have done the job, the expatriate died of syphilis five months after he arrived.

If I wasn’t to die today I would have to gather a small but very specific group of supplies; first was some really spiced dark rum, about two or three bottles which were already secured in an old nonfunctional chest freezer which was one of the possessions I had that was still standing, secondly, a shit load of clonazepam and Tylenol 3’s, the ones with the codeine, I should probably crush them down to a powder and take it in the nose but I really wanted to avoid any superfluous extremes. I needed garbage trucks of cigarettes and an adequate amount of fire making equipment, finally one or two “Fucking Fucked up Fuckers” an extra special cocktail that only ascended from “The Corpses Cantina”, it started off with a 16oz blood rare steak, the brains of a mostly extinct unmentionable animal that may or may not be on the endangered species list, a clusterfuck of hallucinogenic roots, mushrooms and insects and as far as the real truth goes; nobody really knows.

THE IRRESISTIBLE NEED TO SUCK MANIFEST FROM THE ONGOING SLAUGHTER OF WORDS AND IDEAS, ALSO REFERRED TO AS CHAPTER TWO

As it goes I would have to message the cantina for my cocktails to be delivered, as I would never make it into town without a surprising newly evolving gift of super flight or a splitting up of the atoms Star Trek type of transportation device. We had a message service here called “The Monkey Chain”; for years the islanders have trained some of the smaller monkeys, (the ones that throw feces at tourists in town) to perform all sorts of abominable tricks and tasks some homicidal some slightly crossing the lines of pedophilia, and they all knew how to use guns with expert marksmanship. “The Monkey Chain” was a mail and shipping delivery system owned; performed and governed by the monkeys themselves. All I had to do was whistle in a particular way and a representative would bounce on by picking up the message and whatever the going rate was; depending on the dangers traversed along the way, the size, weight and legality of the object shipped, but generally the monkeys would take a wad of crumpled up “Canadian Tire” money any day.

The monkey came by as I was ineffectively attempting to create a sort of tent like canopy thing; I had already made up a grave/bed out of flat firm pieces of the disaster but still needed that fucking sun off me. The monkey took the message and some cash for the cantina; I hustled him into accepting a handful of rusty 38 caliber bullets that had been soaked in salt water for months but still worked most of the time. The monkey sauntered off but not without chucking a little slimy chunk of feces in my face.

The entire concentrated empire of monkeys and other species of simians on the island beat the human population 4 to 1; this, in itself demanded a great deal of acceptance and fearful respect. “MONKEYS THROW SHIT”; they’ve been throwing shit since before the dawn of man, who I suspect through their own shit for a while along the evolutionary trail. It was something that you just had to expect; at some points during the day, every day, you’d have shit thrown at you and after a while islanders just got used to it, it gets so that you hardly notice it, nobody complains, nobody cares; it’s like living next to a railroad and somehow adjusting your senses so that you never notice when the wretched things scream by.

As it goes; about ten years ago, some of the more charismatic and abstract thinking monkeys managed to get a book published in Sweden where it was translated misguidedly believing it was a new age Arabesque/Southern Caribbean language crossover of symbols and claw marks scratched into bark by Pigmies explaining the do’s and don’ts about dieting in the rain forest. The monkeys were rightfully pissed and tried to get it pulled from the shelves until they found out that it was a best seller in some war stricken 3rdworld countries and the money started coming in. The actual book wasn’t bad; it was called “The Deciphering and Literalizing of different Styles and Forms of Feces Throwing in accordance to the English Language”. Every piece of shit thrown means something and the monkeys did a hell of a job in the making of this book; unfortunately it was scratched into bark and completely illegible, I did catch some of the few nuances and a definite style emerging, but in all honesty I really didn’t understand a word of it.

I had managed to rig up a minimalistic desultory type of shelter for my temporary hospitalization; the sail from the “borrowed” boat acted as a canopy held up by a mix-match of some precariously fashioned poles, ores, a hockey stick, three rifles, some rusted pipes, rope, and a lot of wiring used in place of actual rope. The bed had evolved a little, in that it was now covered in life-jackets and dirty cloths, I even made up an easy to reach bed side table out of an old wood up-turned soft drink box, everything was thoughtfully placed with the precise purpose of me not having to move anything but my arms; cigarettes, lighters and matches, books, writing materials, all my pills with a facility to crush them for nasal ingestion if it came down to that, an extremely exorbitant amount of bottles full of rum and still quite enough room for my cocktail delivery, which was coming directly.

I guzzled the “Fucking Fucked up Fuckers”cocktail and lay back onto my make-shift casket; cigarette lit, pills taken, rum opened up with book in hand and a feeling of a slightly removed velocity in my brains bouncing exercises. I managed to drift off after smoking a joint the size and elegant manufacturing of which could be presented to royalty. The dreams/nightmares I couldn’t recall but I woke screaming bloody murder; having no clue of who I was or how I managed to get into that person’s body “FUCK”.

As disorientation and self-loathing came in with the relentless tides; sitting up, clearing my eyes of sand, salt water and monkey shit, I saw, standing before me, a petrified, shaking, gelatinously covered, shadow of one of my better friends in the realms of debauchery ”Captain Edgar”.

Captain Edgar wasn’t a captain at all; he couldn’t paddle, steer, start, swim or barely even get into a boat out of fear and an acute sense of unbalance. Plain and simple; he liked to pretend he was a pirate, he had these black t- shirts with the “Jolly Roger” printed on them for every day of the weak, he had an eye patch which he randomly wore over a different eye depending on mood and time of day, he carried a lightsaber that was hardly ever lit up due to the salt water getting into the batteries and he spoke in a dreamed up version of what he thought pirates might sound like; for this, we really got on his case so he localized speaking that way to the touristy sections of town.

“What the FUCK”; he was standing in front of me stark naked, shivering, crying and vomiting a little. The gelatinous goo he had been covered in was unfortunately the digestive fluid of one of the many giant carnivorous plants growing in and around the jungle and it was a surreal arduous task to succeed in escaping its clutches on your own, most people carry a grenade or two for this specific purpose and for any other tight situations that inevitably arise on the island. I set him down gently like a mangy puppy I just kicked and felt bad about, he was speaking in tongues and was obviously out of his mind far beyond the everyday madness of his general persona, I wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, which was actually a louse ridden tarp in the midst of disintegration that I pulled out of the dump.

After filling him up on rum; pills, grass, and a pack of cigarettes his frenzied demeanor started to throttle down and decipherable words began to emerge; disjointedly at first but soon enough the words manifested into full sentences and I could see through his fiery blood shot eyes into his shattered mind that he was beginning to realize where he was, who he was with, and had under benevolent duress accepted that this particular dimension was the spot he was supposed to be in.

“FUCK ME”; here I was, half dead and trying to endure the kind of damage to my brain that only a few homicidal deranged nazi surgeons could ever even conceive of, and I’ve got to workshop through whatever misadventures had come upon my cohort while in all likelihood his brain was covertly transplanted with a jellyfish.

Upon reaching semi-composure and constitution with the pills and rum finally succeeding in carrying out their jobs Captain Edgars ethereal self popped back inside, no doubt with its own collection of tales of the macabre, but now with all extraterrestrial components of his personality back in place I began to listen without any sympathetic or empathetic curiosity. I wanted him well enough to survive his day and I wanted him the fuck gone.

He started out with the carnivorous plant story when I drifted away, having been in that particular situation before, as have most if not all the islanders, I just couldn’t take another perpetually spinning broken record of an experience that everyone on the island has fucking been through. He went on about some situation in town where some idiotic drunk tourist went off “old west style” blasting his snub nose revolver demanding to be compensated for a handful of worthless rusty bullets some monkey had sold him. I began to start nodding off, Edgar’s story turning into a kaleidoscope of bewildering sounds, until hearing that unmistakably worrisome word that indicates the inevitable incursion of law and order and white bread, a puritan invasion into a surreal land where everyone is hiding from something, where there wasn’t a legal object; event, sexual exploit, book or other writings, paintings, substances of any sort, machines or items that at some point might be called machines anywhere on the island. The curtain was going to be opened and a destructive deviant wizard was going to pop out with vicious ambitions, there were guerillas positioned all over the jungle, Voodoo cabarets, whore houses that allowed unspeakable and impossible incorporeal sex parties, some of which were affiliated with a few monkey unions who were trying to get their shitty little paws into everything as of late, everybody had stashes of guns, drugs and other antiquated munitions; we weren’t just talking about grenade launchers and dynamite, we had tanks, howitzers, functional missile silos with malfunctioning and mostly missing launch controls, cannibals and head hunters and any and everything we didn’t want the “COAST GUARD” to find.

“FUCK”; I understood the politics of the island at the level of a retarded child in kindergarten, but I do know that there were very secretive, back alley cut throat, end up disappeared or decapitated or both, kind of channels in place that kept certain organizations and sovereignties away.

Captain Edgar was looking pretty horrified pointing his finger to the entrance of the bay where a cruise ship had run aground; there were “COAST GUARD” rescue boats everywhere, they even had a goddamn helicopter, and how the fuck didn’t I even see it? It was in clear site for the entire afternoon. This whole disastrous event; this exhibition on fire, the wolves are at the door with claws, laws and a pair of keys.

A while ago I surmised that some of the more “elite” islanders rich in physical wealth like property and precious metals, those that excel in the dirty playgrounds of commerce, those with an obscene amount of ammunition and massive murder machines that literally eat the ammunition and spit it back out. Homicidal Projectiles choose their own course; their ass gets blasted off and velocity manifests into a momentary consciousness within the metal itself, they know where they’re going, homicidal projectiles choose their own course.

Anyway I’m talking about “payoffs”; even an island such as ours needs an outside source of incoming cash, grass or ass. The ocean liner company “Oceanic Falls” was the only cruise line that came to the island aside from the stray ships that get lost and end up in our bay; which was a very risky kind of bad news for them, due to the shaky trigger fingers perched on the high ground, however, we have not as of yet caused any international incidents.

Oceanic Falls was on the verge of bankruptcy; they had a small fleet of cruise ships all fucked up and sinking, hence the irony of its name. It was the cheapest vacation available with deep sub-level amenities such as; the absence of sea worthy life boats, busted shitters replaced with buckets, food rations from WW2 served up on paper party plates and plastic forks, no plastic spoons or knives mind you; just the forks, the pumps rumbled viciously day and night to keep the boats afloat due to the lack of funds and personnel to actually fix the holes. The repair crews had left the company with advice from their union’s years ago; duct tape and inept unschooled uncertified welders were the only things keeping the boats afloat, shit houses on the water with the stench of impending doom following in their wake.

So the deal was that Oceanic Falls was the only ship line that was permitted on the island. Oceanic Falls agreed not to disclose the whereabouts of the island or what unspeakable atrocities happened there and we wouldn’t report any possible infractions seen or heard about the condition of their boats. Unfortunately this “Deal” was based on the misguidedly tenuous belief that all would go as planned; the ship running ashore wasn’t planned, the coast guards presence wasn’t planned and the gruesome manifesting consequences of this catastrophic event were most certainly not planned.

As it goes; asses are asses and I’ve got to worry about mine. I’ve got a painted herd of donkeys that aren’t leaving; dangerously huge dildos, copious amounts of pills, other drugs that require syringes, and syringes, all erupting from probably once obscene pedophiliac themed piñatas. I was concerned that, all pieced together, the evidence would point to a super-perverted mass abomination of animal rights and possible investigations into any solicitous activities concerning children. But; who the hell was going to check out the dump, I mean the stench and fumes at this time of day were a biological hazard, and being the dump it was nicely tucked away at the far end of the beach next to where the jungle began.

My thoughts turned back onto Captain Edgar who was caught in the surf curled up in the fetal position next to one of the donkeys who seemed to take a liking to him; the donkey was licking his face and was setting himself up to do some unmentionable things. As I dragged his ass up to the shack/canopy/hospitable thing Captain Edgar began to cough up some horrifying truths about the previous night.

Pointing at the mayhem going on at the entrance of the bay, he said in a very meek fashion “We crashed that boat”. At the very same moment of Edgar’s confession there was slight stir behind us on the edge of where the beach meets the trees; where a man wearing full on jungle –battle camouflage with all the bells and whistles, his face painted with a tiger stripe design, a helmet geared up with night vision, a menagerie of grenades representing every nation that ever smuggled or sold arms were pinned all over him, strapped with huge desert eagle side arms and carrying an M16 over one shoulder and an AK47 over the other, “JESUS FUCK”, he was a walking museum piece, a collective aberration sporting a piece of every war that was ever fought anywhere.

It was “DEM” of course; the third member of our viciously demented little crew and consensual contributor to mostly all of our unspeakable debaucherous behaviors, such as, thefts, property damage and destruction, potential homicide (unproven), the blowing up of things arbitrarily, general crimes against humanity and that unfortunate night with the cow and the parachute which we all felt really “REALLY” bad about. “What do you guys remember about last night and this clusterfuck in the bay?” Dem calmly asked as he looked over our two living corpses, we all squatted in a circle like the chiefs of some warrior clan going over the strategical intricacies of some integral insurrection. “FUCK”, in all reality we all feel into heaps onto whatever was flat and wouldn’t explode; and our conversation resembled apes trying to sign words the other apes didn’t know, an extravagant “still life” of atrophy and self-abuse unable to decipher the numbers that led to the equal sign.

It took a lot of time, pills, and rum but we finally pieced together the most probable version of the prior night’s events. We figured that, by morning at least, we’d all be held up in some third world jail; no passports, no money, no booze, and no chance of reaching the civilized world; I’d have to find someone to take care of my angry rats.

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