Chocolate Dab Wax Monster: A Bone City Tale Featuring Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective

Bone City never slept. It twitched. It moaned. It pulsed with neon and pheromones, a place where reality bent under the weight of too much lube and not enough law. And in the heart of it all, behind the velvet curtain of a strip club called the Velvet Guillotine, Kandy Fontaine stirred a bubbling vat of madness.

She wore a lab coat over fishnets, stilettos that could puncture a man’s soul, and a smirk that had gotten her banned from three dimensions. Kandy wasn’t just a slutty detective—she was a chaos chemist, a femme fatale with a PhD in bad decisions.

“Joe,” she said, not looking up from the swirling goo, “this is going to change everything.”

Joe Oroborous, her partner in crime and tantric yoga instructor, leaned against the wall, puffing on a vape pen that smelled like enlightenment and regret. He was shirtless, as usual, his body a roadmap of tattoos and bite marks.

“You said that last time,” he replied. “We ended up summoning a sentient bong that tried to unionize.”

“This is different,” Kandy said, dropping a strand of Velociraptor DNA into the vat. “Chocolate dab wax. Ninety-nine percent THC. Spliced with dinosaur genetics. It’ll get you stoned and make you extinct.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You’re making a weedosaur.”

“I prefer ‘ChocoDabadon’.”

The vat hissed. The goo bubbled. The DNA writhed. Then—boom.

The explosion was small, but the consequences were not. From the shattered beaker and swirling smoke emerged a creature: ten feet tall, dripping with resin, its scales glistening like caramelized obsidian. It had claws shaped like dab tools and eyes that pulsed with psychedelic fury.

It roared—a sound like a bong hit amplified through a Marshall stack—and smashed through the wall, lumbering into the neon-lit streets of Bone City.

The monster’s breath was pure THC. Entire blocks were hotboxed in seconds. Citizens wandered in a daze, giggling, munching on street lamps, proposing to fire hydrants. The mayor declared the city a “420 sanctuary” and married a vending machine.

Kandy and Joe watched from the rooftop of the Velvet Guillotine, sipping mezcal and trying not to inhale too deeply.

“We need to stop it,” Joe said. “Before it turns the whole city into a stoner wasteland.”

Kandy lit a joint shaped like a crucifix. “Bone City’s already a stoner wasteland.”

“Fair. But this thing’s different. It’s primal. It’s horny. It’s high.”

Kandy exhaled. “So are we.”

They tracked the beast to the ruins of the Bone City Zoo, where it had built a nest out of vape cartridges, lingerie, and discarded copies of High Times. It was mating with a billboard of Tommy Chong.

“We need to neutralize it,” Joe said, loading his vape gun with concentrated CBD rounds.

Kandy shook her head. “No. We need to seduce it.”

Joe blinked. “You mean…?”

“Yes. We turn it into a smokable sex toy.”

Back at the lab, they worked fast. Kandy synthesized a pheromone blend from crushed aphrodisiac terpenes and Joe performed a tantric summoning ritual involving goat yoga and interpretive moaning. The monster arrived, drawn by the scent and the sound, its eyes swirling like lava lamps.

It roared, but this time it sounded… curious.

Kandy stepped forward, holding a vibrating nanotech dildo shaped like a raptor claw. “Hey, big guy,” she purred. “Wanna get smoked and stroked?”

The monster paused. Sniffed. Drooled.

Joe activated the containment field. The latex wrapped around the creature like a lover’s embrace. The nanotech pulsed. The pheromones surged. The beast moaned—a sound like Cheech and Chong having a spiritual awakening.

Then it compressed. Shrunk. Transformed.

The result? The world’s first THC-powered, dinosaur-themed, smokable sex toy.

Bone City sobered up. The monster was gone. The streets were safe. And Kandy Fontaine had a new product line: Jurassic Joints™—Get Stoned. Get Boned.

The mayor annulled his marriage to the vending machine and declared Kandy a civic hero. Joe got a tantric medal of honor. The Velvet Guillotine hosted a launch party featuring edible lingerie and a DJ who only played whale sounds.

Kandy lit the tip of the claw and took a drag. “Tastes like victory.”

Joe nodded. “And extinction.”

But Bone City never stayed quiet for long.

A week later, a haunted vape lounge opened on the edge of town. Rumor had it the ghost of a foot fetishist was seducing customers through scented fog. Kandy packed her pheromone pistol. Joe grabbed his lube grenades.

They rode off into the haze, ready for the next case.

Because in Bone City, weird was just the beginning.

Tommy

My local hospital, the Countess of Monte Clueless infirmary is useless, they’re always messing things up. You go in with one thing and come out with something else, they mix up corpses, take out the wrong organs or they leave something inside your body like a watch, a phone or a Staph infection.

I had to go in there for surgery for bladder cancer. You lose all modesty in that procedure. But at least they didn’t have to cut me open as they went through another opening to reach my bladder.

I came out all sore and tender but the cancer was removed and this time I didn’t have a postop infection.

I was recovering well in the weeks that followed. I thought I was ok. That was until I heard a voice from below.

It was a deep and distinctive voice, not like my thin reedy voice at all. And it was coming from below. Oh no, they’ve not left a phone in my belly again? That was my first thought.

But it was worse than that, those idiots at the hospital had only left me with a talking testicle, the left one.

My left testicle was telling me to get a shower. Told me I reeked.

I checked for lumps but this time I was ok, it was just I had a testicle that was talking to me. And it wouldn’t shut up.

It told me its name was Tommy, Tommy the talking testicle. There were problems at first.

It was difficult going to the toilet when you had this testicle jabbering away non stop and singing too, and worse whenever I was talking to someone it kept butting in. How rude.

I was all for having it removed, but then I found Tommy the testicle started coming in handy.

You see I’ve always been shy and awkward around females. I go all silent and quiet when I see someone I fancy. Tommy could see I was stumbling so it was giving me advice on how to date women. You know what to wear, what spray to use, where to take them on dates and most importantly what to say.

You see Tommy the testicle had the gift of the gab when it came to members of the opposite sex and it had a lovely speaking voice that seemed to melt all my dates hearts. I left all the talking to Tommy on dates. Tommy could throw its voice so it didn’t come across too weird. 

I could just sit back, relax and let my left testicle do all the talking. This worked fine when I was out on a date, though my dates thought it odd when I spent a lot of time looking down at my pants.

Some people talk a lot of balls, but I found I was listening to mine and I have to admit Tommy was a smooth talking testicle.

Yes, I got a lot more dates, but I couldn’t keep them. The women left me when they heard my real voice which was more tinny than Tommy’s. It was becoming apparent that my talking testicle had more pizazz and personality than me.

It started grating on me. Did the women really like Tommy rather than me? Could I ever have a lasting relationship where there were effectively three of us involved, with me looking like the third bicycle wheel?

 My family all loved Tommy. My mother adored it. She would spend hours talking to Tommy when she came to visit. She’d just ignore me.  I felt like a spare part. Mother told Tommy that I was such a bore. It irritated me that family and friends would always be asking me, “How’s Tommy” and they would send Tommy birthday cards and presents, and not send me anything.

 My mother told me as she was leaving, “Why can’t you be more like Tommy?”

I was finding out that life is a pain and a tragedy when everybody prefers your talking left testicle to you.

Tommy was also irritating me. It was such a know it all, and it was also critical of my habits and appearance, and was always pulling me up every day.

I was starting to  loath and hate my talking testicle. People were now calling me “Tommy’s minder.”

Was that it? Was that to be my role in life, merely the receptacle for my overconfident testicle?

It was on my mind, the prospect of living in the shadow of my talkative testicle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Tommy would have to go, surgically of course.

I would live the rest of my life with one, silent, testicle.

So I booked myself a procedure at the local hospital.

The procedure was quick and painless, I awoke. And the doctor informed me the op was a complete success. I was overjoyed, I would be free of Tommy the talkative testicle forever.

Later that day I got home and sat down rather carefully, but then a voice boomed upwards from my pants, it was yelling at me, “Its Tommy here, You stupid berk, you’re stuck with me forever, you don’t have the balls to get rid of me, Tommy the talking testicle, and I’ve got lots to say…”

It’s that awful hospital’s fault. That bungling lot at the Countess of Monte Clueless infirmary had gone and taken away the wrong bollock. They really balled up this time, whipping away my well behaved right testicle and leaving me stuck with Tommy the talking Testicle forever.