Judson Michael Agla

Dead Dog Day, Part 3

I was glad to see that the donkeys were okay, but pissed like fuck at the fact that they were still fucking there, and they’d better not have got into my goddamn stash. The tide had apparently come in again and washed all those abominable dildos out to sea, thank fuck, at least there’s one thing I won’t get fucking arrested for. Hey, wait, there’s no tide at this time of the day… I took a look over at the donkeys and noticed that they were eating all the goddamn dildos; this can’t be fucking good at all! I know some people say that a donkey can eat anything but Jesus fuck man, we’re talking rubber and silicone, some with electric parts, batteries etc. These goddamn things are going to fucking DIE from some sort of very vicious excruciating form of indigestion, and worst of all they’re most likely going to die right fucking here on my “property.”

I scrambled for my shit, grabbed my bag and called out to the rats, who were presently scattered out over the beach. They converged like greased lightning upon my location, knowing they’d be rewarded with a little bump of PCP later. Gathering them all up, I swung my bag of angry rats over my shoulder and picked up an overstuffed suitcase carrying copious amounts of drugs, drug paraphernalia, a few bottles of rum, cigarettes, a few side arms and some hand grenades.

I paid a bunch of monkeys to carry me in a wheelbarrow up to The Corpses Cantina. There was no way I’d make it in my fucked-up disoriented condition, with my rubbery legs and hallucinations of flying fanged teddy bears. I had a room upstairs, a safe house of sorts, just in case any shit went down back at the shack. I’d learned it was essential to always have a plan B on this island after the first time I drove a stolen boat into the fucking shack. The place had been crawling with islanders, all there to watch the shit show at the mouth of the bay. I wondered how many of them realized the kind of wretched fuckery and blasphemy-spouting, bleached flour type of god-fearing assholes that would be the horrific manifest consequence of the giant shithole we were all about to be sucked into, and what was later to come.

I grabbed my keys and crawled upstairs to my hideaway. Starting with a few bumps, I followed with my ablutions and some clean clothes; it was definitely a fatigue day if there ever was one. Next, I armed myself like a goddamn mercenary and filled my pockets with as much PCP, coke, crack, smack, uppers, downers, acid and cigarettes as I could fit into my cargo pockets, making sure to save some space for a few grenades as well. My preparations finally complete, I slung my bag of angry rats over my shoulder and went down to the cantina to check out the vibe.

First thing walking in, I spotted Dem and Captain Edgar propped up on their usual stools; they both still looked and smelt like something had just shit them out. Edgar was sauced up real good but Dem had a devious fucking look to him, like you could see the gears turning inside his head through his eyes. I asked him what kind of dangerously ill-advised drug-guided fuckery he obviously already had his paws in was going down; I knew he’d been in the jungle all afternoon, I knew he was in with the guerrillas, and I knew that both he and the guerrillas were very well armed and usually stinking on peyote, so there had to be something in the works that concerned big-ass fucking explosions and a lot of massacring, blood, and gruesome ungodly death. All he said was that everything was ready and in place, which basically meant that we were going to have ourselves a nice little fucking war on our hands any minute. As a momentary alternative to full-on slaughter, I proposed a trip up to see Mac and find out how he was handling this clusterfuck. Dem agreed and Edgar, who had somehow once more put himself into another state of vegetative oblivion, agreed as well. He indicated as much by emitting a garbled yelp, like that of a dying animal, before immediately vomiting all over his shirt.

We went out back of the cantina to hose Edgar off and grab Mac’s Lamborghini. There was a kind of what some may call a road that ran behind the strip and up to Mac’s place. We’d stolen the car a few weeks before and completely fucking forgot about it. Mac was usually a pretty chilled-out character, but when it came to his cars, he was a ferocious motherfucker with no qualms about shooting the shit out of anybody who fucked with them. Ergo, returning the car would be a precarious affair, but we hoped it wouldn’t supersede the fuckery and mayhem of the present moment. Edgar we tied to the roof, as there was no room in the car, and another vomiting session would completely fuck the interior. Dem wanted both hands on his machinegun, so I was our chauffer, which, given my record at the wheel, was a completely insane decision. Still, off we went, and I could feel the undercarriage ripping to fucking shreds all the way up to Mac’s place. Who has a fucking Lamborghini on an island that only has roads to suit camels and horses or some shit?

Once we’d arrived, after cutting Edgar down, we saw nothing but hysteria everywhere. The Ocean Falls crew was there, the fucking Coast Guard, those bastard fucks, they seemed to be interrogating Mac, and Mac looked like a deer caught in the headlights, or rather like a deer on smack caught in the headlights. We had to get him away from those fucks and FAST, as the kind of questions he would be asked would be loaded up with suspicion and legal curiosities, the kind of questions a criminal didn’t want to answer. The whole fate of the island would stand on his creativity and abstract thought, neither of which he could claim to possess sober, much less stoned out of his fucking gourd. In fact, Mac was a bit of a fucking idiot; all his million dollar ventures were purely accidental and ill-gotten through people who were even fucking stupider than he was. We were all FUCKED, man; shit was not in control here AT ALL.

We waved over to Mac, who seemed vehemently ecstatic that we were there. We all gathered in his garage after he was successfully able to excuse himself from the fucking inquisitional bullshit he’d been subject to all day. He was scared shitless and fucked up beyond belief, but he was trying his best to keep up appearances, or at least one of his appearances; if they discovered who he really was, the shit was going to hit the proverbial fan big time. Luckily for us, he didn’t even notice the banged-up Lamborghini I’d crashed into the wall of the garage upon our arrival; he was a bit too bewildered and banged up himself due to the manifest clusterfucking arrival of the official douchebags who were presently inspecting his compound, poking their fucking cock-sucking noses into everything revealing of the kind of fuckery that made this island great.

“You got some fucking PCP?” Mac asked us with wild eyes. I tossed the bag over to him and he must have snorted half the stash. I know these were troublesome times but FUCK ME man, a man’s stash was sacred, and I was going to require a fully stocked medicine cabinet if I was gonna get through this macabre nightmare. I wasn’t planning on being sober for weeks, for fuck’s sake, and I was damn well determined to prevail against these outsider pricks.

Now it was time for the nitty-gritty. Mac had built a bomb shelter of sorts under the garage, so we opened up the trap door and went down the rickety stairs into some semi Persian-like monstrosity of a room, with carpets hanging from the walls and these godawful lamps everywhere with fake gems and fake gold designs; it was like some contemporary bad decision harem tent made of concrete and garbage. It DID have a fully stocked working beer fridge, however, which was what I headed for immediately. We all got comfy on the faux leather couches and got right fucked before the inevitably wretched conversation we were about to engage in.

“Okay Mac, what in all hell the fuck is going on?” I asked, knowing I would have to decipher the crazed drug-addled ramblings of this ancient idiot fuck, who’d been shooting smack since before people had cars, who’d most definitely been forced into coming up with lie after lie all goddamn day under extremely motherfucking stressful interrogations, and the most sinister of questioning.

After a long, rigorously exhausting, unenthusiastic brain mulching translation process, it basically came out as such: The big heads of the Ocean Falls company were on their way here, and apparently the boat on the rocks wasn’t their biggest worry. Unbeknownst to myself and our little cadre here, they’d been smuggling smack to every port of entry they could get to, FUCK! Those assholes must be shitting each other’s pants right about now. That would explain the overwhelming presence of those fucking Coast Guards; I bet that ship could carry a shit load of smack man, and I thought we’d be the ones who would get it. Fuck all his other ramblings about arrests being made, the Coast Guard up his ass and whatever fuckery was endangering the island; we were sitting on a goddamn goldmine of fucking smack! The Ocean Falls douchebags wouldn’t be here till morning, the crew of the ship was in Mac’s compound, as were most of the Coast Guard fucks, it was getting dark, and who but we three could pull off a scam like this? Everyone was in with outrageous enthusiasm. Mac of course would have to stay behind and keep the fucking dogs at bay, which he didn’t mind at this point, considering the bounty of fucking dope up for grabs.

The three of us had done all sorts of shit like this a thousand times before, but this one was a little fucking slippery. We’d rip off a boat, which was the easy part, but getting to the ship with those goddamn helicopters flying around would take some finesse, and in this case that meant jungle-warfare training, which luckily Dem had done years of. He had this fucking huge non-reflective tarp that when covering over the boat would make it almost invisible to the sweeping lights on the patrol choppers. Our main issue would be boarding the ship itself; there could be tons of Coast Guard official douches aboard, and they would have to be dealt with quick and quiet. Murdering an “Official” anything was a very precarious endeavor; it wasn’t like on the island where nobody really gives a fuck, people go missing all the fucking time, but if we had to pull off a full-fucking-fledged armed insurrection, we’d be bringing bodies back, which meant less smack and hauling corpses through the fucking jungle. Dem’s idea was a bit more civilized; if we did run into a clusterfuck, we’d murder the fucks, load the boat with smack, and set enough explosives to destroy any and all evidence and the ship with it; it was homicidal genius, but I knew Dem was dead set on taking out one of those choppers, which would basically fuck the whole plan to shit.

So the agenda was all agreed upon, which meant (in our case at least) there was no concrete plan of attack or specific strategy we would follow because we’d all just fuck it up anyway. We’d go step by step, right fucked on drugs and rum. Meanwhile, Mac was going to launch his catering team on the fuck knobs in the compound, which would keep them around for a while, loading the drinks with roofies and other barbiturates. Running like wild hyenas, we shot out of the secret underground tunnel and revved up the Lamborghini, which hadn’t been quite totaled yet. We had a little trouble tying Edgar to the roof this time, as he was more coherent and wouldn’t stop bitching, so Dem gave him a bolt across the nose that shut his ass up promptly. Then, after we picked up Dem’s tarp and a shitload of munitions, we parked the beast behind the cantina, almost forgetting poor Edgar until we heard him squealing and yelping still tied to the fucking roof. I thought about leaving him behind, but on a one-to-ten on the clusterfuck scale, we were all pretty much an eleven at this point, and besides, Edgar had always stood tall against the sinister and ferocious fuckery we’ve found ourselves in. It would also mean that I’d be pulling off this job with just Dem alone, and without that tri-fuckery of concentrated madness, things could go overwhelmingly fucking sideways.

We stayed for a few drinks at the cantina, quietly observing our objective at the mouth of the bay. As the sun sank behind the mountains, it was time. We all payed up and slithered on down to the docks. I noticed that Dem had a fucking shitload of stuff in his duffle bag and a hard, long case that was most obviously an RPG. This shit had started to look really fucking bad already, so I hung back and bumped about a day’s worth of PCP before catching up with the guys who were already perusing through our choice of boats. Dem found a nice one with lots of storage space and had already begun tossing the contents overboard. It was called the Saint Mary. Dem hated religious fuckholes.

We had a fuck of a time stretching that fucking tarp over that boat, complete and total buffoonery, we were all over the deck trying to tie the fucking thing down. I fell overboard and Edgar followed, but Dem pulled us back aboard. He was completely pissed and told us to sit the fuck down and stay out of his goddamn way. He managed to have the thing in place within five minutes, causing Edgar some mild embarrassment. I however was on enough PCP to put down an elephant, so I’d pretty much forgotten every fucking thing that had happened in the last half hour or so anyway.

The boat’s starter was another question. It was taking Dem some time to enable it. First he had to disarm the alarm system, which was touch and go for a bit. Just what we needed, I thought. I figured we’d fuck things up a little further on into our conquest, not right at its fucking outset. Finally, the engine sputtered to life and we eased away from the shore, cruising across the bay at low speed. It was dark out now, and we only had one chopper in the air to contend with, but the fucking lights on that thing were ominously foreboding. I sure hoped Dem knew what he was doing with this fucking tarp thing. Eventually our target emerged from the darkness before us, and from our position we could see no movement on its deck. We managed to cruise right up to the ship with no fucking trouble at all, and I definitely found a new respect for Dems Voodoo-military shit, but in all fucking reality we could have been really just goddamn fuck-lucky.

Believing all was clear, we three liquored-up, doped-out scavengers poured our asses out of the boat and onto some very untraversable fucking terrain, I mean goddamn frightening sharp and unruly rocks that probably took a pint of blood out of my already rickety half useless legs. We were close enough now that we could see the fucking damage we caused the night before, and it was un-fucking-believable, like the fucking hull had been completely torn out of the ship; it looked like one of those abominable giant sea monsters I sometimes hallucinate just came up and took a big motherfucking bite right out of it.

Crawling into one of the gaping holes in the wreckage, at that point I found myself being plagued by two questions: 1) Who brought a fucking flashlight? And 2) how in all fuck are we gonna find the fucking smack? Dem was ready with the lights, a couple of lanterns and a few of those long, heavy mag-lights that cops use to beat the fuck out of people with. Still, the exact location of the smack however was anybody’s guess. This ship was a goddamn cruise-liner, a pretty fucking small one in comparison to most, but it could take us all night tripping all over ourselves and we still might not find the shit. So, we put our heads together, which never really amounted to any useful strategies in the past, but as scary as that sounds, we tried our best. Edgar was vacant beyond all comprehension and my usefulness was tipping the scales, but Dem was dead set on checking the bilge. Everybody smuggles shit under the floor boards, he said, the only drawback would be the fact that that part of the boat was mostly under water. They sure as shit better have wrapped that smack up tight!

So we began our descent through some hallways and down some stairs until we reached the belly of the fucking beast; pipes and nobs, gauges and all else that could knock us in the head, we were surrounded by everything we knew nothing about. All we could do was follow Dem and hope the fuck he had some sense of where we were going. After crawling through row after row of what looked like some fucking type of purposeful machinery, we came out into an open space with a view of a perfect vista, a room the size of a football field STACKED full of motherfucking smack all wrapped in various-sized bundles of plastic wrap and packing tape. I guess the adrenalin must’ve kicked in some of the acid I’d been taking on an eight-hour regimen, because I began to hallucinate wildly, it was like the Wizard of Oz meets the Yellow Submarine, Edgar was the Tin-Man and Dem was a Blue Meany, but a really fucking fucked-up one with fangs and a pink dress with a little ducky pattern. The cargo hold of smack looked like that goddamn poppy field that Dorothy and all the other characters got doped-up in.

Dem came up and gave me a slap; he knew I was somewhere in outer-space, and we needed to start hauling the shit, now. That was a fucking bitch, and it took goddamn forever, we should have hired monkeys but we couldn’t trust fucking anyone at this point. Anyway, after about three grueling hours of backpacking bundles, we finally filled the boat over any reasonable capacity, sat down and shot the shit, and that shit was NO shit; it was pure and devastating shit. We fucking blew ourselves into oblivion and beyond, pure and unviolated like an un-sodomized Smurf; the stars were like laser-beams trailing from the acid and the smack seemed to comfort like a brand-new duvet made of fluffy clouds and the silken asses of a hundred voluptuous maidens. I was truly in outer-space now, but with another slap from Dem, I reentered our physical plain. It looked as though we weren’t going to capsize or blow up the works, the chopper was gone out of sight, and even though I could see that Dem was a little down about not killing anyone or knocking that helicopter out of the sky, we’d made a huge score, which truly delighted us all.

I eased the boat back in toward the dump, giving it a blast of turbo speed as we drew near; I wanted that thing in pieces and far enough onto the beach to mix with all the other wreckage. We’d have to bury this shit around the fucking dump, which meant another few hours of back-fucking-breaking, uncivilized, stunk-up dirt refuse bird-shitted biohazard manual digging. What I wouldn’t give for some goddamn heavy machinery right about now! But, we had to get this shit in the ground before daybreak, so with shovels in hand, we worked the rest of the night, and come sunrise, all was quietly and inconspicuously tucked away in a space no rational thinking douchebag would ever think to enter.

Our work completed, we all fell into heaps where we stood and passed out immediately. I slept on a log and a rock and it was the best sleep I’d ever had. I dreamt a frequently occurring dream, or rather a dream with consistently appearing characters; they were these really viciously ferocious baby blue and pink fucking teddy bears with jagged fangs and blood covering their mouths and dripping down all over their round teddy bear bellies. It was the most frightening macabre fuckery I’d ever imagined; sometimes it got so far as me watching them eat me and tear me apart and I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t close my eyes, motherfuckery, man. I mean JESUS FUCK, where the fuck does that shit even get shit out from? My mind is fucking doomed…

***

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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