Dead Dog Day, Part 4
Abruptly I sat up from my bed of log and rock, and judging by the sun’s position in the sky, it was fucking hot out already. For the actual time, I’d have to dig my arm out of some shit it was buried in to check my watch first. The donkeys seemed to have finished all the monstrous dildos and had moved on to the dump itself. I couldn’t believe they weren’t dead by now, I mean, how do you even shit that stuff out? Maybe I was watching a truly abominable buildup of rubber and silicone, not to mention whatever else they’d already ingested from the dump. There were goddamn cars in there, fucking toxic waste, things that were dead and dying, and shit, actual shit that was on the threshold of becoming explosive. These motherfucking donkeys were going to blow up Loony Tunes style, but a lot more on the macabre side of fuckery; there’d be guts and entrails, blood, brains and bones, shards of fucking bones shooting every which way, like a giant gaseous grenade of bursting stomach and flying organs. These motherfuckers were going to fucking kill somebody and it sure as shit wouldn’t be me; we’ve got to kill these fucking beasts before it’s fucking too late!
I was totally freaking out when I went to find Dem who was sleeping on a pile of garbage; nothing really discernible, just everyday fucking junk. Well, I freaked the fuck out of him waking him up, and standing over him spouting out my freaky story really freaked him the fuck out even more, so he nearly took my head off, having a real freaky habit of sleeping with a goddamn snub-nose revolver, which freaked the fuck out of me on top of all the fucking freakiness I was already freaking out about at the moment.
With the two of us now in a totally freaked-out state of existence, all hell was busting loose inside our mistreated and self-butchered brains; I grabbed my emergency recreational dope-loaded first aid kit, and after a couple of bumps and bangs, we both settled the fuck down. Dem was sympathetic to my worries concerning the donkeys; he didn’t know fuck about the gastral intestinal physics of donkeys, but if there was a chance that these fucking things were going to explode from the inside out, something had to be done. The last thing we needed was a total exposé of exploding farm animals attracting everyone to the very spot of our newly acquired goddamn buried booty.
Dem pulled out his glamorously designed and motherfucking devastatingly apocalyptic Desert Eagle handgun, which could by all accounts take down a fucking tank, and we headed up the dump trail and over to what seemed to be the most bloated donkey of the group. Dem surmised that if we could blow a hole in its side, we could release the ever-mounting buildup of gas and thus avoid all danger of the fucking beast becoming a piñata loaded with dildo grenades later on. I knew Dem was dying to kill something, and a donkey wasn’t the first on his list, but at least he’d get a bit of a warm fuzzy feeling and more of a cooled-off intensity that would lessen his homicidal demeanor for a few hours at least. Me, I had no sentimentality regarding these fucked-up donkeys, I just didn’t want bones and brains strewn about the beach and any possible projectiles penetrating my goddamn forehead. At this point, protecting our motherlode of buried smack was the only concern on my mind.
We approached the donkey in question, and sure as shit it was fucking huge, its monstrous belly only a few inches from the ground. It was munching on oiled-up car parts and candy wrappers and was definitely the fucking beast of the bunch. We stood back a few meters and Dem chambered a bullet into the barrel of that monstrosity he was holding in his hands. He took the shot and the result was even worse than I’d imagined. I’d never seen the kind of macabre clusterfuckery I witnessed in that evil moment. I was right about the donkeys but had no idea that we could pre-explode the fuckers. It was a goddamn nightmare, a bad acid trip without the acid. Dem and I were blown back about ten meters from the blast, completely covered in everything that had been inside that motherfucking wretched beast. The stink itself could’ve killed a man on its own. In addition, we’d both gone deaf from the concentrated combustion in that single walloping burst; it all looked like a slasher film gone fucking sideways. Dem caught a rib in the leg and, through some unlucky bastardized fuckery of physics, the donkey’s head landed right on top of mine. Stunned to fuck, we both started swatting the larger chunks donkey anatomy off of us. I’d never seen such catastrophic carnage before; the whole beach was covered in a blanket of blood and little fucking donkey chunks, and there was a hole the size of a goddamn Buick where the donkey once stood, who more than likely didn’t expect its day would fall short so abruptly.
Jesus motherfucking fuck! This was a goddamn grandiose ten-star clusterfuck straight out of hell! How the fuck were we gonna figure a way out of all this fuckery? I’d never heard of any domesticated animal, or any other type, blowing the fuck up like that. Are they all gonna go the same way? Are we going to have to drag them off into the fucking jungle and put a cap in all their guts? Someone must have heard that explosion, man. Christ, I was covered in blood and donkey insides; an explanation didn’t really seem conceivable at that point, and where the fuck was that goddamn Edgar? We had a real problem on our hands, those fucking explosive donkeys were going to hang around until they finished with the dump and another one could go off at any moment. We couldn’t move the stash with a big “We’re blowing up fucking donkeys!” sign that we were most definitely going to be fucking hanging up once the next one went off. Shit! Things just escalated from fucking fucked up to full-on goddamn clusterfuckery.
Meanwhile, coming up the beach were three “Suits” and a man who looked like Mac; what the fuck was all this about? Dem went directly into hiding, leaving me alone, blood soaked from head to toe, and covered in goddamn donkey guts, not to mention, rightly stoned and a little too pissed off to bother engaging in a conversation with douchebags, whoever the fuck they were. Everyone pretended to ignore the obvious carnal circus behind me, and aside from Mac, who had a horrified look on his mug, no one said a thing about the state of my attire, although one of the Suits wretched all over his patent leather shoes. Mac pulled me aside and explained the situation.
After hearing what I heard, a warm fuzzy shot straight through me; I felt like hippies must feel skipping through endless fields of marijuana. I was actually experiencing some kind of fucked-up divine synchronistic goddamn intervention. The Suits were from Ocean Falls, and they really didn’t want to deal with this shit-fuck they had; they were right fucked on this one man and they needed it to disappear quick, at any expense. At this point Dem conveniently reappeared, quite enthusiastic about the conversation he’d already been already listening to. Witnessing Dem’s own macabre collection of donkey parts and blood, another Suit wretched all over his shoes. Anyway, they wanted the ship blown apart wrath of god style. If this shit got out, a huge clusterfuck of even worse shit would follow. They had twenty-one ships at sea, all packed to the roof with smack, and if any one of them gets stopped a cascade of motherfucking epic proportions would manifest into a specially made maximum-security prison built just for fucking Ocean Falls employees. We decided on a fee and funnily enough at that moment, reassured them that we were fully capable of providing the adequate amount of munitions to take on a project this size. Aside from that, we could load up on more fucking smack at the same goddamn time, but how the fuck were we going to ship twelve, sorry, eleven fucking donkeys over to that ship? Too bad I crashed the hell out of that fucking boat we had last night, but even still, these boats were just fucking pleasure cruisers and sailboats, nothing that could handle a small herd of fucking animals onboard that were the goddamn size of our combustible donkeys. It was then that Dem reminded me about the old barge, rusted all to shit, half in the water and half tangled up in the jungle. It was big enough for sure, and we’d still have to steal a fucking boat to tow the fucking thing, but if it floated, which was pretty fucking improbable, we could be in real fucking business.
Realistically though, nothing could happen until after dark, so Dem zipped off back into the jungle for the time being. Convinced I could no longer hold back nature and the fuckery of possibilities it had handed us today, I tried to flag down some monkeys to wheelbarrow my bloody ass up to the cantina, but I suppose my ensemble of various donkey parts scared the fuckers off. So, I staggered my own ass into town, and along the way I couldn’t help but notice that the population had been upped by the presence of a lot of douchebag tourists roaming about. What fucking hole did they claw their asses out of all of a sudden? I reached the cantina pissed off to all fuck, looking like a goddamn macabre sideshow. I had to get this donkey shit off of me ASAP.
I went in to grab the keys to my room. The owner was bartending with a few servers running drinks to handle the overflow. The place was stock full of herded-up ass-fuck tourists. I quickly grabbed my keys, but not without hearing the most obvious question about what in the fucking hell happened to you? Which I answered with a gesture to indicate a story for another time. More pressingly, I wanted to know what was with the army of douchebags crowding up the streets. The owner explained that the word was they were going to move that ship in the morning, and out of liable constrictions and the safety of its passengers, it had to be evacuated. Fuck me! We’d had no clue in hell that ship had been so full of fuckers last night; there wasn’t so much as a peep or a creek during our whole entire heist. The owner also mentioned Edgar, who was sitting somewhere in the back, trembling with a look that evidenced seeing the devil himself. Judging by the familiar goop he was covered in, the owner surmised that he got his fucking retarded ass stuck in a carnivorous plant again for far too long. Edgar was prone to sleep-walking, especially when he was fucked on hallucinogens, which fortunately or unfortunately was his favorite form of bent-up fucked reality, and it was virtuously impossible not to run into a fucking man-eating plant when traversing the jungle, even dead sober. This was why a hand grenade was an integral part of all the islander’s travel kits; if you ever got yourself swallowed, as everyone did at some point, you’d jam that fucking thing down its guts as far as fucking possible and pull the fucking pin. If the blast didn’t kill you, which was an obviously possible consequence, you’d find yourself up in a tree and covered in goop instead, eventually dropping to the jungle floor. I couldn’t count the number of times Dem and I had to pry that fuck out of one of those fucking things, and it was a hell of a lot more difficult from the outside. One time, Dem loaded up the base of a plant with enough C4 to take out a fucking tank. I don’t think Edgar was ever really the same after that, nor was the half kilometer radius of jungle decimated from the blast.
Meanwhile, I decided to avoid Edgar like the plague; I was too pissed off and tired of sporting this blood-soaked carnage, and if I had to listen to his trepidatious ramblings, I’d be forced to squeeze a goddamn knot in his fucking ass. So, I climbed those stairs and fell onto my bed. There’d be no sleep for this poor fucker, though; I was still full up with a witch’s pharmacy, and if someone had done a blood test, I’m sure the diagnosis would be that I was already fucking dead. Looking over to my side, I could see that my rats had managed to get loose and open the bottle of PCP. They were all snout-deep in the stuff. I hadn’t a clue how much they’d done and how long they’ve been at it, thinking better off leaving them be for now; they could be useful later if they didn’t fucking overdose and keel over belly up.
It took about two goddamn hours to scrub all those donkeys guts, hides, various membranes and indiscernible chunks of organs or some shit off of me, but after I lit the offal-encrusted clothes I’d been wearing on fire and tossed them out the window, all evidence of the fucking donkey explosion was now in the past, aside of course for the blood-soaked beach we’d left behind. Prompted by a surprise outburst of horrified screams coming from below my window, I went over to investigate and saw that my burning fatigues had set a fucking tourist on fire. Jesus fuck man, I fucking hated tourists! The stupid cunt was rolling around in the dirt with who I guessed was his wife, both of them screaming like banshees for help. Ah fuck it, his problem now, I just hoped I hadn’t left any grenades my pants.
The Corpses Cantina was bursting with cunts and douchebag tourists; they were an impatient mob of super-cocksucking vampires all pissed off at their clusterfucked-up ship cruise getting fucked completely sideways. I noticed Dem by our usual stools, and I have to say, he was looking quite dapper this afternoon, probably burnt his own clothes as well. I’d guessed the rest of his jungle fucking mercenary shit must’ve been in the wash, because today he looked like he was on safari, sporting some kind of goddamn Australian fucking outback hat. He just sat there tossing little homemade sticks of dynamite out into the street, as was his usual pastime during any tourist season. He told me he took off a cunt’s toe earlier that day.
Fucking fuck me! The kind of wretched evil clusterfuckery we three were supposed to handle tonight was desperately in danger of all falling to shit; I didn’t even want to see Edgar, who was turning into a completely useless fucking cunt. Not only that, but I could tell Dem had been banging our new smack all fucking day long; not that I hadn’t been also, but I also wasn’t throwing dynamite into the fucking street, my rats weren’t going to be very useful after getting into all that goddamn PCP, and sooner or later they’d find a way out of that room and get medieval all over some unsuspecting tourist, fuck! What a potential fucking massacre. The donkeys were in danger of exploding any time now, and we’d be bloody well cunt-fucked as far as our job was concerned. We had to get that cocksucking barge floating, and we’d have to do it now, yes, NOW, in the goddamn daylight, and we hadn’t the slightest fucking clue as to the nature of that whole fucking exercise. It wasn’t a simple “we’ll deal with it later” fucking goddamn operation; the fucking barge was big and heavy and stuck there for as long as we assholes have been on the fucking island, maybe there was a good fucking reason that it was a goddamn fucked-up half-sunk nautical monument. Dem and I decided to check it out anyway, running into Edgar on our way out the back. He was in absolutely no shape to even wrap a simple discernible conversation around his hollow head, fucking twitching and retching all over himself, it was like he was goddamn possessed by the devil of total vacancy. We left him where he sat, still all covered in plant goop, and making not one bit of fucking sense. Best thing for him really, as the cantina takes good care of its regulars.
Dem and I speed away in the partially totalled but still fucking unbelievably ferocious Lamborghini. The “road” went all the way around the bay and would hopefully take us close to that motherfucking huge hunk of fucking vintage metal that we were so desperately in need of. Soon we stopped at a spot we both agreed upon near the fucking jungle; we’d have to traverse some wretchedly entangled vines and tree branches, not to mention poisonous every-fucking-things, an ass-load of carnivorous plants, and all we knew nothing about that could probably fucking kill us, before we came out at the edge of the water where hopefully we’d find our fucking barge. We made it pretty much unscathed aside from Dem getting his leg half swallowed by a particularly beautifully colored carnivorous plant with nuances of purple and pink and shades of blue, or at least it was before Dem retaliated with his AK47. Then it was mush, and Dem’s leg was just fucking fine.
Then we hit pay-dirt. There was the barge, all rusted out and tangled up in the jungle, but it really didn’t seem as bad from this view point; the hull was fucking totally intact and it wasn’t as submerged as we’d previously thought. It seemed that releasing it from its jungle snare was the only fucking hardship we’d have to endure. This wasn’t going to be your regular boy scout primitive machete-wielding work-horse type of job either; Dem was always, and I mean fucking always prepared to blow shit right the fuck up. As I watched him carefully place and wire the explosives, I couldn’t help but take account of his finesse and determined concentration; he was a champion in his field, a fucking poet of destruction and mayhem and completely in his element; too bad he was so homicidally insane. It took Dem a little while to rig everything up, but soon enough we were all set to blow. He’d set things so the sound from the explosion would travel inward into the fucking jungle, as opposed to out across the bay, in which case we’d be heard by the whole motherfucking island. We picked a nice big motherfucker of a tree to cower behind, and as Dem pulled the fucking switch, two incredibly beneficial divine inter-fucking-ventions occurred: the first being that the barge was totally fucking freed, and fucking well floated, the second being that the blast as Dem said blew straight through the jungle and cleared the whole way back to the fucking car.
After camouflaging the barge, Dem and I went back to the car, which in all our recollections had been a hard top when we first fucking arrived. Still, we weren’t too concerned about an abrupt little remodeling; the car had already been smashed to shit in the first place, and whizzing down that road convertible style didn’t sound so bad either. On out way back to the dump, Dem and I began to do as much and as many varieties of fucking drugs as we could. Man, we were right fucked out of our minds and at fucking velocities extremely ill-advised, but I had this theory that if we went foot to the floor, we’d just sort of float over all the gaping holes in the road; this however didn’t the matter of all the fallen trees lying in the middle of the fucking road, but I could only handle one epiphany at a time.
We came screaming around from behind the dump, all four wheels still attached and the new sunroof really opened things up; Mac was gonna shoot us both for this fuckery. So, who knew how to deal with the goddamn donkeys? Nobody? Great! Both of us were completely dumbfounded. Dem thought I knew some shit about them, being in such close proximity to the fucking things for a while, but I knew fucking shit, all I did was fucking yell at the cocksuckers. We figured if we just tied a rope around their fucking necks and led them down the road caravan style, they’d just follow along, easy as shit right? Nope, big time clusterfuck; they were running all over the dump and they looked frighteningly larger than they had before. We had to use some real fucking finesse wrangling those donkey-bombs or sure as shit one of ’em was gonna blow, and we’d already been through that kind of goddamn catastrophe earlier, one neither of us wanted to repeat. We were using one long climbing rope that Dem had; I could never believe the amount of shit he could fucking carry, it was like a magical bottomless duffle bag that held anything explosive or anything that contributed to everything explosive with wiring, knives, handguns, flash-bombs and probably a fucking magic rabbit as well, although I’d never seen it but I bet that it could blow up, too.
Apparently, finesse wasn’t in the cards for us during Operation Donkey Fuck; it was more of a screaming and cussing and scurrying around the dump kind of affair. We ran ourselves ragged chasing those motherfuckers, managing to tie ourselves up in the goddamn rope a few times ourselves. After about a half hour of this horseshit, the fucking donkeys finally seemed to tire put and settle back down a bit. Fuck, it was fucking amazing that they could even move in the first place, carrying so much indigestible shit in their fucking guts, but that was it, we’d outlasted the cunts. Dem and I bumped a massive bump and ran those fucking donkeys to the ground. All nice and docil,e the herd just kind of lined itself up, it was total submission. We tied them up two by two with number eleven bringing up the rear; our scrapes and bruises and debris-covered countenances in no way took away from the satisfaction of finally harnessing these goddamn ultimately doomed creatures. We tied the fucking lot of ’em to the ass end of the Lamborghini; it all kind of looked like Santa’s fucking sleigh but ass-backwards and no fucking toy deliveries, this lot was ready to blow! We cruised slowly back down the road, careful not to yank those cunts too hard, as we were still in danger of having an unfortunately premature explosion and with the herd so closely harnessed, we could be looking at a chain reaction clusterfuck unseen by man since biblical times. We’d loaded up an old decrepit trailer full of dump shit to bring along to keep the donkeys eating, busy and distracted until our devious ill-advised caper was afoot. Judging from our observations, that included many mangled car parts and other rusted to shit machinery, moldy magazines and newspapers of all varieties, any dead or dying vermin, vomit, shit, and rotten fruit, along with armfuls of other miscellaneous shit we’d just randomly grabbed for them to eat.
We must have looked like a real fucking sideshow moving down that road at about 4 MPH in a smashed to shit Lamborghini with eleven hippy-painted donkeys in tow. After Dem finally passed out, machinegun still in hand, the long slow ride seemed to bring on the air of contemplative introspection, fueled of course by the copious varieties of recreational drugs that fucked up most of my fucking cognitive abilities. Along the way back to the barge, I astral-fucking-planed my ass back about six years to when I first set foot on this fucking wretched piece of sinister shit island; I was writing for some shit vacation magazine, the bottom fucking rung for any aging writer. I was supposed to be on my way to Cuba, but I couldn’t give a horses ass where I fucking ended up. I was stinking on rum day and night, which by all accounts was my main nutritional supplement at the time. So, after getting off at the wrong island, I’d staggered onto what looked to be the main drag and into the local establishment that would serve as the planning grounds for much of the homicidal debauchery and wretched fuckery I’d get up to in the years to come. The Corpses Cantina, that’s when I first met Dem. He almost took my goddamn arm off with one of those little sticks of dynamite that day, but we became friends immediately thereafter.
Back in present time, I clocked Dem on the side of his head with the butt of one of the many revolvers strewn around the car. “Wake up motherfucker, we’re on donkey duty again!” He woke up as instructed but with a very unpleasant grimace; you could tell that his drug combo had been selected a bit too haphazardly, so I took out my kit and fixed the both of us right up. We expected this endeavor to be rigorously fucked with lots of goddamn heavy lifting and a continuous cascade of fuckery popping up at every step, but as it turns out, after untying the herd from the car, we were able to simply guide those cunts down through the explosively groomed section of jungle, all the way down to the barge, which to our amazement was still fucking afloat.
Meanwhile, we were coming down off the cocaine; that shit was as useless as fuck, more suited for college cunts and tourists with their little bumps at parties and stress-filled exam weeks. Us, we’ve ascended far above the level of constant bumping every twenty minutes; we just didn’t have the time anymore. At the top of our list was PCP, which was long lasting and it would get you right fucking fucked and was a true wretched friend on more than a few of our sinister clusterfuckeries and ruthlessly illegal misadventures, along with a careful nuance of hallucinogens and a consistent pace of slugged down of rum, we could really truly ascend to the ferociously vicious fuckery required to pull off some really fucked-up shit, which was the fucking case here.
We unharnessed the parade of fucking donkeys, who’d remained submissive the whole time, thank fuck! Then we loaded our collection of dump shit / a.k.a. donkey chow onto the barge the barge’s deck in an attempt to lure them aboard, like a carrot dangling before them, seeing as how they’d probably never been off of dry land before. When that didn’t work, we tried just pushing and shoving and kicking those damned donkey fucks onto the goddamn barge. I definitely felt their trepidation and horror, and apparently so did Dem, as he began setting off flash-grenades behind the bunch, scaring the living fuck out of the donkeys and me as well. This however did the trick, and the donkeys fucked off right onto that barge immediately, shitting themselves along the way. I guess sometimes you’ve just gotta pull your resources.
We still had some daylight to burn, so we left our donkey floating and cruised back down to the cantina; we couldn’t do anything until after fucking dark anyway, and I used this time to try and explain the importance of Dem keeping his motherfucking dynamite in his goddamn bag once we arrived. Today of all days, we bloody well had to keep a low fucking profile, and all we fucking needed was an amputated tourist spouting blood all over the goddamn place to attract unwanted attention. Also, we were damned dirty; not wrath of fucking god exploded donkey dirty, thank fuck, but dirty all the same. Dump dirty, handling car parts dirty, donkey hippy paint job dirty shit, so I let Dem upstairs to clean up and borrow some clothes. We also had a fuck load of lacerations and shards of metal sticking out of us, so we had to spend a few minutes plucking that dump shit out of ourselves and pouring paint thinner on the wounds, this being the only disinfectant I had aside from the rum, which was way too valuable and ill-advised for such a waste. The pharmacy had to remain topped off at all times, meaning if we ran out of anything, I mean any-goddamn-thing during our little caper, the shit knot would squeeze and all would certainly fall to shit. FUCK! I needed a fucking drink…
When I came back downstairs, Dem was already at his regular stool, facing the street from the end of the bar. There was some douchebag tourist at my regular stool, but after Dem’s discrete flash of his extremely decorative Desert Eagle, the fuckhead was soon completely out of sight. I checked my bag of angry rats and they seemed to be doing alright, but I could tell they were tripping balls big time; they’d cleaned up the last of their PCP and were now munching on actual food brought out with compliments of the establishment. Compliments my ass. It’s not that it wasn’t appreciated, it’s just that the rats were infamous for their abominable bloody atrocities, and nobody wanted a piece of that homicidal fuckery. Anyway, the rats could rest well after their feast; we weren’t going to need them on this little extravaganza, but we probably could’ve used Edgar, depending of course on his own level of usefulness at the time. And there he was, sipping cocktails right where we left him, although it was obvious he’d been home and back again, judging by the thoroughly hosed-off fucking plant goop and a clean shave to boot.
“Are you up for some dastardly ill-advised buffoonery later on tonight?” I asked. “We can’t fucking have you all fucking fucked-up on this fucking one for fuck’s sake!”
His reassurances fell on deaf ears, as we both knew he’d find some way to screw the pooch, all sodomy and fireworks style, but we needed another pair of hands and there was no way getting around that shit. We filled him in on the clusterfuck donkey demolition fuckery plan and went back to our stools to watch the tourists frolic on the strip. I could tell that Dem was just dying to toss some dynamite at them, but he kept his composure and waited it out. We still had about six hours until sundown, and six hours gave us plenty of time to kill with cocktails and a king’s ransom’s worth of PCP.
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