Judson Michael Agla

Dead Dog Day, Part 2

We’d only snoozed through our ferociously tormented wrath of god hangovers for a couple of hours when all sorts of clusterfucking fuckery began to manifest around us, and if I were to use the most convenient comparisons, I would say our combined usefulness was equivalent to that of a single fucking pineapple. The beach was still shit loaded with criminal paraphernalia and the goddamn donkeys seemed to have settled the fuck in. Where’d they fucking come from anyway? There’s got to be some fuck who has an odd problem with disappearing livestock, how can you not miss twelve fucking jackasses? And who were the hippy douchebags that had painted them all up like that? Goddamn fucks, I should find them, go ape-shit and slaughter their fucking asses, but who’s got time for that cleaver-wielding shit right now? We’ve got a semi-catastrophe about to unfold on our hands, so I’ve got to be on my game. Now, where’d I put that fucking PCP?

I staggered through the wreckage of what was once my home as the motherfucking tide came in. We were practically comatose and there was shit piled up everywhere, no canopy, no makeshift fucking bed, just piles of shit on piles of shit. I began to look around for my supplies, my drugs, my goddamn cigarettes, my fucking rum, I could barely walk, I was still hallucinating, and these fucking heaps of shit were almost completely untraversable. I cut myself about a thousand fucking times staggering through this insipid mountainous terrain, but I did at least manage to scrounge all of my recreational requirements after god knows how long it took. Opening one of my various containers, I immediately snorted the first thing I fucking saw, knowing I was going to do every fucking drug in there at some point anyway. I popped a few pills, opened a bottle of rum, and rolled a fucking gargantuan dube that would surely meet any and all Olympic qualifications and standards.

As I was puffing away, sitting on a nice pile of fucking wreckage, my thoughts turned to my lunatic amigos. I knew Dem was somewhere back in the jungle (his kind of fucked-up homicidal paranoia could make some physiatrist rich beyond their wildest dreams), armed to the teeth and on enough fucking drugs to put down a goddamn mammoth. Thank fuck he took a liking to me when we met, but he still fucking freaks the fuck out of me from time to time. I took several scans around this shit hole but I couldn’t see Captain Edgar anywhere, that is until I observed some scuffling going on below me, accompanied by these wretched whines and squeals. It was fucking him alright. Seems he hadn’t managed to escape the tide after all, becoming part of the wreckage itself. Although I didn’t feel like moving a whole lot, it was obvious that he was fucking stuck, and if I had to listen to his ruckus any longer I’d be forced to fucking kill the fuck. After about fifteen grueling fucking minutes of digging through boards, sea scum, and a disturbing collection of assorted refuse, we finally got him out of there.

I placed the fucker on a nice flat pile of wreckage across from where I was sitting. Now, before our little snooze, Edgar had been unintelligible and unresponsive. I believe that I’d assessed his state as his brain having been replaced with a jellyfish, and I was not in the mood for anybody’s motherfucking shit right now, not even (perhaps especially not) Edgar’s. I was fucked up on countless forms of intoxicants and coming down off of equally if not more forms of intoxication, so I wasn’t going to play fucking nursemaid to any fucking body. I did however find him some clothes and filled him up with pills; it was the least I could do.

As we inhaled the grass and sipped our brandy I began to notice that Edgar wasn’t retarded anymore. At least to the degree that he could form fucking sentences that were somewhat discernible, the fucker had made a breakthrough. I thought he had fucked himself permanently; turns out he may have come from a pirate lineage after all. He began to explain the wretched fuckery we were up to last night, which I had completely forgotten as the manifest of my insatiable drug-induced insanity washed all such recollections down the shitter. We crashed that boat; Edgar pointed out to the mouth of the bay, where the “Ocean Falls” cruise liner had run aground, and as far as I could tell there were more and more Coast Guard ships and helicopters circling around than there had been this morning, FUCKING FUCK! Edgar explained that the three of us had pirated the main bridge fucked out of our fucking minds on a lot of fucking acid, amongst various other things you could eat, smoke, shoot and shove up your ass.

Now normally, this sort of thing wasn’t much of an issue, as we knew most of the crews that came into port. We’d steal a boat and go party with them, it was a regular event, but this was a different sort of party, you know those parties where a hand grenade “accidentally” goes off in an enclosed espace with all sorts of important equipment around, well, this was one. Nobody had been hurt, as if we cared, but the entire helm was basically fucking totaled, and for those oblivious to nautical terminology, that meant no steering, or should I say steering where the boat wants to go. Within about seven minutes, the ship was on the rocks, and within another two, the three of us got the motherfucking hell out of there.

We hopped off the ship and into the water near our stolen boat. I was the most fucked up, so naturally I took the wheel, and I took that wheel at full fucking speed and aimed it directly for the beach my shack was on. Well, we made it to the beach my shack was on except the boat was now on top of the shack, or more accurately, A PART of the shack would be the more descriptive fucking imagery here.

After Edgar’s tale of our debauchery and mayhem satisfied me enough to fill in the rest of the blank spots myself, I told him to get fucked and fuck the hell off home to get straightened up and recover from his jellyfish fucked brain thing; I needed time alone to get fucked up on something soothing enough to think straight and view the dastardly goings on at the mouth of the bay. I had a pretty strong feeling that this dead dog day was about to fucking turn up even more fuckery than it already had.

I ventured out momentarily to rip off a lounge chair and one of those big goddamn fucking umbrellas from the hotel down the beach, but by the time I fucking got there, I’d already forgotten what the fuck I was there for, so I sat down on a lounge chair under an umbrella and ordered a drink instead. Despite the fact that I looked like something just shit me out, I had cash on me, which I tried to show to the waiter before he kicked my stunk-up dirty fucking ass out of there. I always carry money, if only for the purpose of being robbed and not having any dough to dish out, that really fucking pisses people off and robbing people is a really tough fucking gig! Then there’s ransom money, more commonly known as BAIL. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for me to land in jail, I have to say, and usually I haven’t a fucking clue as to how the fuck I got there, which would probably reference the kind of fuckery and monstrous amounts of drugs running through my cables that got me there in the first place. In any case, a few bills peels off to the right fuck will buy you a get-out-of-jail-free card every time.

I chain smoked my way through my thoughts and my cocktails, having one delivered every twenty minutes, full of PCP and tripping balls on a couple of tabs of acid which made me feel like fucking jelly or gummy bears or some shit. Why haven’t they cleared that goddamn boat yet? What’s with the fucking Coast Guard bringing in reinforcements, and what’s going on with this whole clusterfuckingly devious happening? I’d better not run out of fucking drugs or this shit show is going to manifest into a very sinister implosion inside my skull. I needed more intel, more information; I needed to find out who was in communication with these fucks and what they were fucking up to. If word got out about this fucking island, we’d all be arrested for one fucking thing or another; in my case: drugs, guns, theft, destruction of property, bestiality (the donkeys), cruelty to animals, my bag of angry rats and the paint on the donkeys, not to mention my numerous abominable wretched nights of fuckery that have become infamously retold again and again by the island’s inhabitants.

The minute this island gets on a fucking map, all hell will break loose; we’ll have two-weeker tourists rolling their fat all along the strip, people will be killed. We’ve got some really bad motherfuckers here that would prefer to be left the fuck alone, myself included. Some of those unlucky fucks will disappear either out of malice by some fucked-up evil blood-draining Voodoo rituals, or the more common misadventures such as the many varieties of insatiable carnivorous plants scattered around the island, ready to swallow your ass before you even knew your fucking ass was being swallowed. They take some poor fuck every two days, hence the importance of having a hand grenade on one’s person at all times.

There’s going to be investi-fuck-gations; the goddamn U.N. will come in, sovereignties will be disputing ownership, fucking law and goddamn order will fill this wonderland of debauchery and righteous sin with puritan assholes, hippies, government garrisons and all that is wrong with this world, stampedes of fucking pricks that deserve a cactus sodomizing, a lashing of the ball sack and a cut-off cock with a nice new shinny fork in their necks. No, this won’t turn out well at all; no one has any idea about the kind of munitions here. The guerrillas themselves are dug right in, their numbers aren’t really known but sure as shit they could take on a small fucking army. Even Dem has got this place wired and ready to light up the whole fucking island; the goddamn headhunters have been here for fucking generations, what do you think they’d do to a Burger King showing up on sacred ground? This place was gonna blow, albatross in the turbine engine style, blood, guts and broken machinery. I was dead set against it myself, but it looked like I was going to have to pay a visit to our fucking Mayor.

It’s not that I didn’t like the Mayor, I just thought he was a corrupt narcissistic pedophiliac asshole who’d had so much plastic surgery done to his face that he now resembled a fucking clown, but man, he could party with the best of us. I guess he was the Mayor in his own selfish empathetically devoid prick sort of fashion, but he had all the dollars, meaning he was the richest fuck on the island, so he would control or settle things down by flashing the right amount of cash. He’d deal with the general infrastructure by throwing cash where it needed to be thrown, and the machine kept grinding on. As far as law and order on the island, he had a few guys take a run through town every now and again, they’d grab whoever was far beyond any acceptable level of composure, which ironically was usually Captain Edgar, Dem, and I. The jail wasn’t a jail at all, really, just a fucking dilapidated one-floor wood house with no locks and no guards, but it was considered very fucking rude to leave before morning.

The three of us even had our own room reserved there, due to our frequent incarcerations; three cots and a fully stocked beer cooler with a window opening out towards the bay. The Mayor would even come down and eat breakfast with us from time to time, and we’re not talking shit hotel continental toast and insipid viscous coffee slime; he would bring down a full on spread of fruit, yogurt, and eggs any style. The Mayor’s name was Alberto, but not really; it was actually Todd. His sunburnt skin gave him the look of a Spaniard of sorts, and that fucking louse-ridden Salvador Dali mustache really complemented this false persona perpetuated by the mix-matched army general costumes he wore all the time. A such, he could really give off the impression of being someone important when he wanted.

Todd wasn’t Spanish at all, of course; he was as white as a Ku-Klux-Klan bed sheet. He’d gotten himself wrapped up in some Ponzi scheme back in the States somewhere not too far from the beginning of time. Along with human, gun, and endangered animal trafficking, this guy was about as close to evil fuckery as they come; he even started a small war in the Middle East somewhere by supplying both sides with heavy duty fucking munitions, Christ! If there was any money in genocide, he’d be right in there. Anyway, with the Law, IRS, and other unmentionable sinister groups hunting him down, he got the fuck out of Dodge and ended up here.

He was Alberto: Todd, Mayor, General, and whatever other aliases he had printed on fake passports. We just called him Mac, which he took to almost immediately. He was here on the island years before the three of us; I’d guess he was about ninety, probably preserved by a constant regiment of smack used over decades, and of course his bloody fucking clown face, surgically massacred by a goddamn blind doctor or an unpaid monkey, huffing away at a paper bag filled with glue.

Mac set up a compound at the opposite end of the beach from where the dump was, where my future shack/donkey ranch/crime scene would be. It was a pretty fucking dilapidated and dangerously precarious set up in the end, but it had a concrete wall/barrier thing encircling a two-story brick building with a garage (Mac had shipped over some sweet rides) where both structures leaned to the left a bit. Beyond everyone’s beliefs and betting pools, that fucking thing has stood for about sixty years. I would never go in the fucking thing, though; it would be just my luck to be sipping cocktails with ol’ Mac when some Soviet piece-of-shit satellite came crashing through the goddamn roof while I was trying to make it with some fucking tourist broad.

Anyway, I’ve gotta collect my rats and get cleaned up. If it’s going to be a shit show, I’ve got to get over to Mac’s!

***

Dead Dog Day, Part 1
Dead Dog Day, Part 2
Dead Dog Day, Part 3
Dead Dog Day, Part 4
Dead Dog Day, Part 5

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