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Uncle Louis II [a Vore Story]
Uncle Louis II
“In the beginning in The Pool without Owners of Pool Toys swam men to forestall drowning.” — Inflatext 1:1
Trudging along the freeway on Vernon’s television screen was a twenty-two foot crocodile on two legs carrying a boy. Vernon recognized the boy to be his son. The multiple things he exclaimed consisted of: “Morris!”, “What in the actual fuck is that thing?”, and “Where are Lola and Marie?!” He turned off the television, stood up, took a coat from the coat hanger, then rushed out the door. Left it open.
* * *
“It looks like there isn’t any more traffic.” Uncle Louis snickered. He’d cleaved his tail across three lanes, crushing cars like Coke cans. Demolished metals. Shattered windows. Tossed tires. The rubble built a roadblock, jamming the freeway for miles on end.
“That was really bad! So bad!” Morris said.
“Yeah. Well, you’ll have to get used to it. You still want that skateboard you asked for, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“You better not guess.”
“Okay, I want it.”
“That’s better, kid.”
Uncle Louis took Exit 8, chopping off the exit sign with his pendulating tail as he descended the ramp. Panic ensued at the traffic lights. People ran red lights and crashed their cars into one another. One blew a hydrant; he/she had driven their front bumper into it. After that, it was too much a clusterfuck of wrecked cars for anyone to drive. Uncle Louis, whistling a tune, crossed the middle of the intersection on a green light.
Helicopters chopped overhead. Morris pointed them out. They were labeled “Kron 4” and “Fox News”. Uncle Louis scowled. He trudged quicker, up a street. Past a second intersection, on top of a hill, they came across a plaza. Popular retailers like Target, Pay-Less, and Toys“R”Us were lined behind a parking lot full of cars. Most the cars were clearing out; a loudspeaker on a light pole blared, warning of a giant mutant crocodile and telling everyone to “get the fuck out” while they still could. So panicking people and ridiculous drivers sped past an Uncle Louis ambling toward Toys“R”Us. Morris’ face lit up when he saw the sign. He bounced up and down, cheering.
“Easy, kid.” The croc smirked. Standing before the glass front of the store, he fell to all fours. “I need you to get off me.”
Morris did. The croc took a deep breath. Started to back up. The croc stopped. Arched his back. It happened so suddenly: Plexiglass shards and wood splinters erupted from the glass front as the croc’s head rammed through it, buffeting the parking lot. Morris planked for dear life, like a Michael Bay explosion just occurred. Covered his head with his arms. Everything went mute. His ears rang. Everything went dark, his face flat on the parking lot. Slowly, audio returned: People—presumably Toys“R”Us employees—screaming their heads off, scrunches of the croc’s feet treading glass, alarms sirening, the croc’s rumble.
“STOP,” boomed the croc.
All became silent, except for alarms.
“Turn those off.” His voice was nearer.
When Morris opened his eyes he found himself up in the air, in the store, coiled by Uncle Louis’ raised tail. Below, three employees stood round Uncle Louis like deer in headlights, surrounded by glass fragments. A fourth employee was inputting a passcode on a machine at the register. It beeped. The alarms ceased. It became so quiet the wind could be heard whistling its way through the glass front’s gaping wreckage.
They must have been the only ones in the store.
“Now,” the croc said, “we’re looking for a skateboard.”
Said a first employee: “A s-suh-sk-s-s-s-suh-sk-skuh-skate—?”
“Morris. Tell them what you want.”
“I want a cruiser board that’s black and blue, that can do lots of tricks!”
Said a second employee: “Suh-sus-suh-suh-sir, I’m af-f-fraid wuh-wuh-w-we don’t know-ooh w-wuh-what a c-c-c-cuh-c-c-cur-c-c-cruise—”
“You’re telling the kid that?”
Said a third employee: “They’re-r-r-ruh-r-ruh in the same d-d-department as the suh-s-s-s-s-sus-s-s-skuh-sk-scoot—”
“The kid doesn’t want a scooter. He wants a skateboard.”
“A cruiser board!”
Said a fourth employee: “I CAN SHOW YOU OUR SKATEBOARDS.”
“Uncle Louis, eat him.”
Said a fourth employee: “WHAT!”
“I don’t want a skateboard. I want a cruiser!”
Said a fourth employee: “YES, SIR! FOLLOW ME!”
Aisles of action figures, arts and crafts, board games, stuffed animals, electronics, etcetera, they passed. Morris hardly gave a fourth employee a heart attack: “Hot Wheels!” . . . ; “Transformers!” . . . ; “Uncle Louis! Battleship!” . . . ; each exclamation had a fourth employee’s heart quickening. A fourth employee’s feet, too. They downed an aisle filled with bicycles, scooters, and skateboards. Morris began a fourth exclamation: “Wow, Uncle Louis—”
Interrupted a fourth employee: “HERE WE ARE! OUR CRUISER BOARDS SHOULD BE AROUND HERE!”
Uncle Louis stopped. . . . Uncoiled his tail. Set the boy standing. Row by row, each of the ceiling’s light fixtures blinked out. Sparks flew from each. A startled fourth employee spun to face Uncle Louis. Uncle Louis’ fists shook. The store shook. Toys spilled from aisle shelves. Bicycles, scooters, and skateboards shuddered in racks. Debris rained from the ceiling, and light fixtures swung. A fourth employee gasped and shook his head, stepping away.
Cried a fourth employee: “THE CRUISER BOARDS! THE CRUISER BOARDS! THEY’RE HERE! OH GOD, THEY’RE NEXT TO ME! HERE, DAMNIT! HERE!”
“You interrupted the kid,” the croc said coldly. His shadow engulfed a fourth employee. “That’s my nephew you’re shouting at.”
Cried a fourth employee: “AM I SHOUTING AT HIM! THERE, IS THAT BETTER. HEH-HEH-HEH. SORRY KID. I DIDN’T KNOW.”
“Uncle Louis, eat him.”
Cried a fourth employee: “WHAT!”
Uncle Louis leapt, pinning the man to the floor. The man’s ribs crackled. Claws threatened to crush his lungs like cans of Coke. The man cried. Convulsed. Swung. Kicked. Uncle Louis snickered. He snapped his jaws. Snatched the man’s head. Cocked his head back. Made a gulp that wrenched the man down his esophagus face-first into a pool of bubbling acids. Here came a muffled splash. There came muffled screams. Acids sizzled skin and uniform. The muffled screams rose. They two-folded. Three-folded.
The store shook so strongly by will, by the croc’s accruing pleasure; bicycles and scooters and skateboards toppled from racks. He collapsed belly-up to the floor, toppling more things. Toppled Morris. Toppled tabletops of toys, and light fixtures that fell in sparks and crashed in sparkling explosions. Aisles tipped then toppled. The croc caressed his gut as he mmmmmmmmm-ed!, as viciously, his stomach fluid stirred. Repulsive gurgles. Wretchéd groans. Writhing squelches pervaded the store. Morris stood. Smiled. Climbed over the croc’s gut. Began rubbing. Rubbing hard. Rubbing real good. The croc convulsed. Rumbled loud! Squeezed the kid! The kid got an earful of digestive sub-bass that scared the bejesus out of him. Here came a fatality; there came the climax; with a sneer, the croc clutched the kid to his gut till his gut gave, then uttered a foul, deafening belch:
“HHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-T!” That one blew the kid’s bowl cut all crazy.
The croc snickered long. Again he began to grow. Scales creaked for mercy. Rubber squeaks, like a pool toy’s, accompanied the croc’s expansion. Morris whimpered, starting to crawl away on his hands and knees. The croc snickered hard. He struck a rack of skateboards with his tail, scattering them to the floor. “I feel guh-hood! I feel real guh-huh-hood.” Now twenty-five foot, the crocodile lunged, fell on his belly, and grabbed Morris. “Where you off to, kid?”
“Get away from me!”
“Ease yourself.”
“You’re scaring me! I don’t want you to eat me!”
Uncle Louis gave him a wild look then blinked. “Once the Pool Toys devoured their Owners did the Owner-less realize they were naught but forestallers themselves (Inflatext 2:15).”
“What?”
Uncle Louis blinked again and gave himself a wild look.
“You said a bunch of weird stuff.”
“I did.”
“You spoke really fancy.”
“Did I!” He let go of Morris. He stood on two legs then trudged down the aisle. “Pick a skateboard. Find me when you’re done.”
“Uncle! Argh!”
The boy searched the floors, looking for cruisers. The cool-looking ones weren’t the right colors. He found a black and blue one, but it was yellow, and Kryptonic Skateboards was written on the bottom. He growled, took it, then dashed off after his Uncle.
In a small aisle of empty shelves with a bunch of boxes lying on the floor, was Uncle Louis. Morris approached. Pictures of pool toys adorned the boxes. One of them was a turtle. Another one was a dolphin. There was even an octopus one. The croc held a box with an alligator on it that read, Inflatex Giant Inflatable Ride-On Alligator. He studied it intensely. Glanced back and forth between the box and himself.
“This is me,” he said.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“That’s what you used to be.”
“I still am,” the croc said. “Look.”
Not only did he point out the Inflatex logo (an “I” and an “X” inside a circle) on his ribs identical to the alligator’s in the picture; he pointed to a nozzle air was pumped into next to his belly button. “My logo’s still there. So is my nozzle.”
“So?”
“It means I’m still a pool toy.”
“So?”
“You’ll deflate me.” Uncle Louis sighed. “One day you will. You’ll decide your old Uncle’s too much trouble and go swimming without him.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“It’s happened before,” Uncle Louis murmured. “This pool toy went by other names. Names before I met you. Names before you were a nutsack seed. I was inflated then deflated. Now you’re my owner, and I’m your Uncle for as long as you’ll call me your Uncle.”
“Please call me kid, Uncle Louis!”
“You’ll grow up fast, Morris.”
“You can call me Morris. Just call me kid too, okay? I like it when you do that. I promise I won’t deflate you.”
Uncle Louis studied him. He smiled. “Kid, let’s get going.”
* * *
Kron 4 and Fox News reporters stood outside Toys“R”Us trying to out-bullshit each other; while Kron 4 reporter Waltzy Kramer said a stray porcupine had decided to nest in its natural habitat (a retail store), Fox News reporter Janett Joplin said Middle-Easterners had flown a plane “carrying napalm” into the building with an intention to “potentially blow shit the fuck up” which could “change American lives forever”.
Morris’ father Vernon slowly drove up the hill, toward that plaza they showed on Kron 4. He wanted to see Morris, the crocodile, and the porcupine. He yearned to speed, but the military tanks and soldiers and man on a thirty-foot seahorse in front of him moseyed. He revved the engine. Honked his horn. Rolled down the window, cupped his hands to his mouth, then shouted, “Hey! Civilian trying to go to Toys“R”Us here! What’s the hold up?” When he finally cruised the parking lot, caution tape and newscast vans and military tanks blocking the building, he saw. He found a space. Parked. Marched himself to a line of soldiers filing in. Asked one, “What in the hell is going on here?”
“You should step aside, sir.”
“I’ll stay unstepping as I’d damned well please.”
A shadow loomed and the sun went out. Vernon turned. Before him levitated the thirty-foot seahorse. It bent its head. It gave him a nasty snarl. A plume of smoke burst from its snout into his face. Vernon gagged, fanned the air, and stepped aside. Then the seahorse and its rider (a commander officer?) caught up with the soldiers, vanishing into Toys“R”Us.
The soldiers loaded their tranquilizer rifles then swept the aisles, two per. Trudged the toppled toys. Scanned them. Spun to sudden movements. From aisle five, a soldier cried; a croc holding a hostage boy was downing the next one up toward him and his partner. The soldier aimed. Fired. The fire resounded. The croc rumbled. He bent his head, plucked the dart from his chest between his teeth, then spit it out sizzling. The soldier moaned. The croc growled. The aisles trembled. He advanced. The partner aimed. Before he fired, the croc rushed. Swiped a claw. Struck the man cold into toppling shelves. The croc whipped his tail, pummeling the second man into adjacent shelves. Came a clap of thunder. Shouts of soldiers came. Footsteps circled the croc. He double-timed down the aisle toward the glass front. He reached the registers when a seahorse’s shadow loomed behind him.
“Halt!” came a voice.
Uncle Louis swiveled toward it. Stood. He examined the levitating seahorse and its commander with apathy. He swiveled back toward the registers. He marched on.
“Halt, goddamn you,” said the commander. “Can’t you hear?”
“Can’t you see? I don’t have time for you. We don’t have time.”
“You don’t even know where you’re going. What are you going to do? Raid a GameStop? Buy the boy ice cream?”
The croc stopped.
“I forgot, you’ll take it by force. You have no idea what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, do you? That’s because you’re young and malleable. Your child might as well be swimming alone.”
“We don’t play by the rules. I’m stronger than your pool toy there is.”
The commander burst out laughing. He climaxed, wiping a tear from his face. “By what logic?”
“What’s logic?”
“Soldiers,” the commander said.
The soldiers gathered, assembling in a horizontal row behind the commander and seahorse. They aimed their rifles.
“Fire.”
Gunfire erupted. Tranquilizer darts pinned Uncle Louis’ hind till he looked like a voodoo doll. Uncle Louis gasped, doubling over. He fell to his hands and knees. Trembled. Gunfire persisted. Clack, clack, clack, went manmade metal. The store quaked as the croc reared his head and uttered an awful wail!
“Uncle Louis!” Morris cried in his arms.
Kid, said the croc. We have to prove our strength.
What do you want me to do?
Do you believe what you believe?
Believe what?
The croc groaned. He collapsed to the floor, his back like a porcupine’s from all the darts. Tell me that you believe me, damnit.
I believe you! I believe you!
Not good enough.
I believe you! I really do! You could beat up all the soldiers and the commander and the seahorse if you wanted to, I know it!
A smile crossed the croc’s lips. Know it, huh?
The commander thought: He’s not dead. “KEEP FIRE! INCREASE YOUR FIRE!”
Fire back! Morris commanded the croc. Fire, NOW!
The croc’s eyes lit up. As thousands of tranquilizers clacked into him, he rose, trembling. The room darkened. . . . It went pitch black. The commander gaped. From the croc came a yellow-green aura, radiating light that swallowed the store. He faced the commander and the soldiers. Spasmed. Bent over. Closed his eyes. Sucked his stomach in. His chest puffed up more and more. He cocked his head back. Expelling sparks from his mouth, he flung himself forward, loosing a magnificent stream of yellow-green flames pummeling the lines. Soldiers flew like bowling pins. They screamed ablaze. Did gymnastics in midair. Fell crackling like duds in smokes to the floor. When the smoke cleared, reappeared the commander surrounded by cadavers, scratchless on his seahorse. The commander applauded.
“Bravo,” he said, “but the king still stands.”
“I thought I told you I’m stronger. That we don’t play by the rules.”
“I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID!”
The seahorse sprung then, tackling Uncle Louis to the floor in a roll. They rolled multiple times, and on the last roll, Uncle Louis bounced to his feet. He rushed for the gaping front. Sunlight surrounded him.
“COME BACK! BE DISCIPLINED!”
Kron 4 and Fox News caught the giant crocodile, with the back of a porcupine, walking out Toys“R”Us on tape. TV screens flashed. Producers raged behind the scenes, shouting, “Stop the footage! Stop the fucking footage!”, but it was too interesting. The cameras kept rolling.
Listen, the croc told Morris. He leapt on, then leapfrogged off a Kron 4 van, landing in the parking lot. The commander’s too smart. We’re leading him off the chessboard. No more rules.
What do you mean?
The croc stomped for the center of the lot. He thought we would fight in the building. We’ll show him chaos.
Okay! Right!
Cameras caught the commander on a seahorse emerging from Toys“R”Us. Reporters strove so passionately to out-bullshit each other now; while Kron 4 reporter Waltzy Kramer said the stray porcupine and its seahorse friend had left the nest to find chicken nuggets for their children, Fox News reporter Janett Joplin said Middle-Easterners had “evacuated the building” because their napalm was “about to blow it the fuck up”, “indubitably the White House next”.
“WHAT’S THE MEANING TO THIS?” the commander snarled.
In the center of the lot, he and his seahorse faced the kid and the croc. They took stances. The croc set the kid on his shoulder. Hold on tight, said the croc. He puffed flame. The seahorse puffed smoke. The croc went rushing, arms open, toward the seahorse. The croc lunged. The seahorse evaded, circling him. The croc spun, but he was too late: The seahorse wrapped him, propping him flat on the lot into submission. Like a fish the croc flailed, tail flopping. Sides rolling. His arms were locked in a coil. The seahorse squeezed him like a python. The croc’s hide squeaked—turned red, as if about to burst. Flames sizzled from the croc’s nostrils as he widened his jaws. They faltered as smoke.
He’ll try to pop this pool toy, uttered the croc. You can’t outplan him. Now we show him chaos.
I have an idea. Let me do it.
The croc nodded. Morris climbed from the croc’s shoulder to the head of the seahorse. He climbed toward the commander. The commander shook his head, mouth agape. “What do you think you’re doing? Hey—!” Morris grabbed the commander’s leg then dove. They went dive-bombing off the seahorse, thudding to the ground, the commander on the bottom. “GUH.”
Kron 4’s viewers witnessed in awe as a stray needle of the porcupine and a stray bone of its seahorse friend fought for dominance. Fox News viewers hurrahed as terrorists combated themselves. Croc and seahorse, boy and man . . . grappled like Godzilla and giant kaiju, Beowulf and Grendul. The seahorse slackened. The croc gained dominance. Alas, the man overcame the boy, even as the boy threw fists like many boys threw fits. The man pinned him to the lot.
Just then the man’s eyes widened. A sharp hissing of air came. There the croc stood atop the seahorse, with a nozzle cap between his teeth. Air whistled its way out the seahorse, as the seahorse deflated . . . deflated . . . deflated. The croc grinned. The boy’s face lit up. The man went limp.
Uncle Louis, the boy said, try inflating yourself with the seahorse!
The seahorse had already shrunk to half its original size, but Uncle Louis said, Alright. Let me try.
He put his mouth on the nozzle. His face lit up. Heaps of air rushed into his throat. He held on tight. His claws dug into the latex. He gulped. Gulp after gulp his stomach swelled steadily. The croc moaned. Felt nauseous. Felt bloated. About to burst. Felt great. His stomach swelled and swelled, becoming the size of four Kron 4 vans. His confidence upped a size. His gut burbled with air. When the rush of air ceased, the seahorse was naught but a flat wrinkle-y sheet of latex on the lot. . . . He was a part of the croc—the pleased croc belly-up on the lot.
“Magistar Dacorda . . . you were wrong about the child,” the man murmured. He lay on the lot, lifeless. Everyone thought he was lifeless. He wailed a wail of impending revenge! Then he died.
Morris rejoiced. He rushed the croc. Flung himself over the croc’s gurgling gut laughing. They laughed. Kron 4 zoomed in close. Touching piano music played. The stray porcupine needle had reunited with its porcupine. Fox News viewers went ape-shit. They hoorahed twice, waving their American flags. Morris’ father Vernon appeared. He sped toward Morris and Uncle Louis with open arms.
“Morris! Am I thankful you’re okay. What’s gone on here? Where’s your mother? Where’s Lola?”
The croc snickered. He rubbed his gut, making small burps of air.
“Uncle Louis ate them, dad. He ate Lola and three lifeguards, then mum, and then an employee, and air. And he gets bigger every time, and, and . . .”
“Oh,” Vernon said. “As long as it was Uncle Louis.”
“What?”
“As long it was Uncle Louis, I said.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Golly, kiddo. You’re ten years old.”
Morris smiled. “Okay. I’m glad!”
Meanwhile, Kron 4 and Fox News reporters admitted exhaustion from a long day of bullshit. They offed their cams, packed their vans, then drove off.
“I’m stuffed,” said the croc, belching deeply. “What’s the plan after I finish this air, kid? You still want a laptop?”
Morris smiled. “I wanna know more about you.”
<<< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >>>
“In the beginning in The Pool without Owners of Pool Toys swam men to forestall drowning.” — Inflatext 1:1
Trudging along the freeway on Vernon’s television screen was a twenty-two foot crocodile on two legs carrying a boy. Vernon recognized the boy to be his son. The multiple things he exclaimed consisted of: “Morris!”, “What in the actual fuck is that thing?”, and “Where are Lola and Marie?!” He turned off the television, stood up, took a coat from the coat hanger, then rushed out the door. Left it open.
* * *
“It looks like there isn’t any more traffic.” Uncle Louis snickered. He’d cleaved his tail across three lanes, crushing cars like Coke cans. Demolished metals. Shattered windows. Tossed tires. The rubble built a roadblock, jamming the freeway for miles on end.
“That was really bad! So bad!” Morris said.
“Yeah. Well, you’ll have to get used to it. You still want that skateboard you asked for, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“You better not guess.”
“Okay, I want it.”
“That’s better, kid.”
Uncle Louis took Exit 8, chopping off the exit sign with his pendulating tail as he descended the ramp. Panic ensued at the traffic lights. People ran red lights and crashed their cars into one another. One blew a hydrant; he/she had driven their front bumper into it. After that, it was too much a clusterfuck of wrecked cars for anyone to drive. Uncle Louis, whistling a tune, crossed the middle of the intersection on a green light.
Helicopters chopped overhead. Morris pointed them out. They were labeled “Kron 4” and “Fox News”. Uncle Louis scowled. He trudged quicker, up a street. Past a second intersection, on top of a hill, they came across a plaza. Popular retailers like Target, Pay-Less, and Toys“R”Us were lined behind a parking lot full of cars. Most the cars were clearing out; a loudspeaker on a light pole blared, warning of a giant mutant crocodile and telling everyone to “get the fuck out” while they still could. So panicking people and ridiculous drivers sped past an Uncle Louis ambling toward Toys“R”Us. Morris’ face lit up when he saw the sign. He bounced up and down, cheering.
“Easy, kid.” The croc smirked. Standing before the glass front of the store, he fell to all fours. “I need you to get off me.”
Morris did. The croc took a deep breath. Started to back up. The croc stopped. Arched his back. It happened so suddenly: Plexiglass shards and wood splinters erupted from the glass front as the croc’s head rammed through it, buffeting the parking lot. Morris planked for dear life, like a Michael Bay explosion just occurred. Covered his head with his arms. Everything went mute. His ears rang. Everything went dark, his face flat on the parking lot. Slowly, audio returned: People—presumably Toys“R”Us employees—screaming their heads off, scrunches of the croc’s feet treading glass, alarms sirening, the croc’s rumble.
“STOP,” boomed the croc.
All became silent, except for alarms.
“Turn those off.” His voice was nearer.
When Morris opened his eyes he found himself up in the air, in the store, coiled by Uncle Louis’ raised tail. Below, three employees stood round Uncle Louis like deer in headlights, surrounded by glass fragments. A fourth employee was inputting a passcode on a machine at the register. It beeped. The alarms ceased. It became so quiet the wind could be heard whistling its way through the glass front’s gaping wreckage.
They must have been the only ones in the store.
“Now,” the croc said, “we’re looking for a skateboard.”
Said a first employee: “A s-suh-sk-s-s-s-suh-sk-skuh-skate—?”
“Morris. Tell them what you want.”
“I want a cruiser board that’s black and blue, that can do lots of tricks!”
Said a second employee: “Suh-sus-suh-suh-sir, I’m af-f-fraid wuh-wuh-w-we don’t know-ooh w-wuh-what a c-c-c-cuh-c-c-cur-c-c-cruise—”
“You’re telling the kid that?”
Said a third employee: “They’re-r-r-ruh-r-ruh in the same d-d-department as the suh-s-s-s-s-sus-s-s-skuh-sk-scoot—”
“The kid doesn’t want a scooter. He wants a skateboard.”
“A cruiser board!”
Said a fourth employee: “I CAN SHOW YOU OUR SKATEBOARDS.”
“Uncle Louis, eat him.”
Said a fourth employee: “WHAT!”
“I don’t want a skateboard. I want a cruiser!”
Said a fourth employee: “YES, SIR! FOLLOW ME!”
Aisles of action figures, arts and crafts, board games, stuffed animals, electronics, etcetera, they passed. Morris hardly gave a fourth employee a heart attack: “Hot Wheels!” . . . ; “Transformers!” . . . ; “Uncle Louis! Battleship!” . . . ; each exclamation had a fourth employee’s heart quickening. A fourth employee’s feet, too. They downed an aisle filled with bicycles, scooters, and skateboards. Morris began a fourth exclamation: “Wow, Uncle Louis—”
Interrupted a fourth employee: “HERE WE ARE! OUR CRUISER BOARDS SHOULD BE AROUND HERE!”
Uncle Louis stopped. . . . Uncoiled his tail. Set the boy standing. Row by row, each of the ceiling’s light fixtures blinked out. Sparks flew from each. A startled fourth employee spun to face Uncle Louis. Uncle Louis’ fists shook. The store shook. Toys spilled from aisle shelves. Bicycles, scooters, and skateboards shuddered in racks. Debris rained from the ceiling, and light fixtures swung. A fourth employee gasped and shook his head, stepping away.
Cried a fourth employee: “THE CRUISER BOARDS! THE CRUISER BOARDS! THEY’RE HERE! OH GOD, THEY’RE NEXT TO ME! HERE, DAMNIT! HERE!”
“You interrupted the kid,” the croc said coldly. His shadow engulfed a fourth employee. “That’s my nephew you’re shouting at.”
Cried a fourth employee: “AM I SHOUTING AT HIM! THERE, IS THAT BETTER. HEH-HEH-HEH. SORRY KID. I DIDN’T KNOW.”
“Uncle Louis, eat him.”
Cried a fourth employee: “WHAT!”
Uncle Louis leapt, pinning the man to the floor. The man’s ribs crackled. Claws threatened to crush his lungs like cans of Coke. The man cried. Convulsed. Swung. Kicked. Uncle Louis snickered. He snapped his jaws. Snatched the man’s head. Cocked his head back. Made a gulp that wrenched the man down his esophagus face-first into a pool of bubbling acids. Here came a muffled splash. There came muffled screams. Acids sizzled skin and uniform. The muffled screams rose. They two-folded. Three-folded.
The store shook so strongly by will, by the croc’s accruing pleasure; bicycles and scooters and skateboards toppled from racks. He collapsed belly-up to the floor, toppling more things. Toppled Morris. Toppled tabletops of toys, and light fixtures that fell in sparks and crashed in sparkling explosions. Aisles tipped then toppled. The croc caressed his gut as he mmmmmmmmm-ed!, as viciously, his stomach fluid stirred. Repulsive gurgles. Wretchéd groans. Writhing squelches pervaded the store. Morris stood. Smiled. Climbed over the croc’s gut. Began rubbing. Rubbing hard. Rubbing real good. The croc convulsed. Rumbled loud! Squeezed the kid! The kid got an earful of digestive sub-bass that scared the bejesus out of him. Here came a fatality; there came the climax; with a sneer, the croc clutched the kid to his gut till his gut gave, then uttered a foul, deafening belch:
“HHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-T!” That one blew the kid’s bowl cut all crazy.
The croc snickered long. Again he began to grow. Scales creaked for mercy. Rubber squeaks, like a pool toy’s, accompanied the croc’s expansion. Morris whimpered, starting to crawl away on his hands and knees. The croc snickered hard. He struck a rack of skateboards with his tail, scattering them to the floor. “I feel guh-hood! I feel real guh-huh-hood.” Now twenty-five foot, the crocodile lunged, fell on his belly, and grabbed Morris. “Where you off to, kid?”
“Get away from me!”
“Ease yourself.”
“You’re scaring me! I don’t want you to eat me!”
Uncle Louis gave him a wild look then blinked. “Once the Pool Toys devoured their Owners did the Owner-less realize they were naught but forestallers themselves (Inflatext 2:15).”
“What?”
Uncle Louis blinked again and gave himself a wild look.
“You said a bunch of weird stuff.”
“I did.”
“You spoke really fancy.”
“Did I!” He let go of Morris. He stood on two legs then trudged down the aisle. “Pick a skateboard. Find me when you’re done.”
“Uncle! Argh!”
The boy searched the floors, looking for cruisers. The cool-looking ones weren’t the right colors. He found a black and blue one, but it was yellow, and Kryptonic Skateboards was written on the bottom. He growled, took it, then dashed off after his Uncle.
In a small aisle of empty shelves with a bunch of boxes lying on the floor, was Uncle Louis. Morris approached. Pictures of pool toys adorned the boxes. One of them was a turtle. Another one was a dolphin. There was even an octopus one. The croc held a box with an alligator on it that read, Inflatex Giant Inflatable Ride-On Alligator. He studied it intensely. Glanced back and forth between the box and himself.
“This is me,” he said.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“That’s what you used to be.”
“I still am,” the croc said. “Look.”
Not only did he point out the Inflatex logo (an “I” and an “X” inside a circle) on his ribs identical to the alligator’s in the picture; he pointed to a nozzle air was pumped into next to his belly button. “My logo’s still there. So is my nozzle.”
“So?”
“It means I’m still a pool toy.”
“So?”
“You’ll deflate me.” Uncle Louis sighed. “One day you will. You’ll decide your old Uncle’s too much trouble and go swimming without him.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“It’s happened before,” Uncle Louis murmured. “This pool toy went by other names. Names before I met you. Names before you were a nutsack seed. I was inflated then deflated. Now you’re my owner, and I’m your Uncle for as long as you’ll call me your Uncle.”
“Please call me kid, Uncle Louis!”
“You’ll grow up fast, Morris.”
“You can call me Morris. Just call me kid too, okay? I like it when you do that. I promise I won’t deflate you.”
Uncle Louis studied him. He smiled. “Kid, let’s get going.”
* * *
Kron 4 and Fox News reporters stood outside Toys“R”Us trying to out-bullshit each other; while Kron 4 reporter Waltzy Kramer said a stray porcupine had decided to nest in its natural habitat (a retail store), Fox News reporter Janett Joplin said Middle-Easterners had flown a plane “carrying napalm” into the building with an intention to “potentially blow shit the fuck up” which could “change American lives forever”.
Morris’ father Vernon slowly drove up the hill, toward that plaza they showed on Kron 4. He wanted to see Morris, the crocodile, and the porcupine. He yearned to speed, but the military tanks and soldiers and man on a thirty-foot seahorse in front of him moseyed. He revved the engine. Honked his horn. Rolled down the window, cupped his hands to his mouth, then shouted, “Hey! Civilian trying to go to Toys“R”Us here! What’s the hold up?” When he finally cruised the parking lot, caution tape and newscast vans and military tanks blocking the building, he saw. He found a space. Parked. Marched himself to a line of soldiers filing in. Asked one, “What in the hell is going on here?”
“You should step aside, sir.”
“I’ll stay unstepping as I’d damned well please.”
A shadow loomed and the sun went out. Vernon turned. Before him levitated the thirty-foot seahorse. It bent its head. It gave him a nasty snarl. A plume of smoke burst from its snout into his face. Vernon gagged, fanned the air, and stepped aside. Then the seahorse and its rider (a commander officer?) caught up with the soldiers, vanishing into Toys“R”Us.
The soldiers loaded their tranquilizer rifles then swept the aisles, two per. Trudged the toppled toys. Scanned them. Spun to sudden movements. From aisle five, a soldier cried; a croc holding a hostage boy was downing the next one up toward him and his partner. The soldier aimed. Fired. The fire resounded. The croc rumbled. He bent his head, plucked the dart from his chest between his teeth, then spit it out sizzling. The soldier moaned. The croc growled. The aisles trembled. He advanced. The partner aimed. Before he fired, the croc rushed. Swiped a claw. Struck the man cold into toppling shelves. The croc whipped his tail, pummeling the second man into adjacent shelves. Came a clap of thunder. Shouts of soldiers came. Footsteps circled the croc. He double-timed down the aisle toward the glass front. He reached the registers when a seahorse’s shadow loomed behind him.
“Halt!” came a voice.
Uncle Louis swiveled toward it. Stood. He examined the levitating seahorse and its commander with apathy. He swiveled back toward the registers. He marched on.
“Halt, goddamn you,” said the commander. “Can’t you hear?”
“Can’t you see? I don’t have time for you. We don’t have time.”
“You don’t even know where you’re going. What are you going to do? Raid a GameStop? Buy the boy ice cream?”
The croc stopped.
“I forgot, you’ll take it by force. You have no idea what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, do you? That’s because you’re young and malleable. Your child might as well be swimming alone.”
“We don’t play by the rules. I’m stronger than your pool toy there is.”
The commander burst out laughing. He climaxed, wiping a tear from his face. “By what logic?”
“What’s logic?”
“Soldiers,” the commander said.
The soldiers gathered, assembling in a horizontal row behind the commander and seahorse. They aimed their rifles.
“Fire.”
Gunfire erupted. Tranquilizer darts pinned Uncle Louis’ hind till he looked like a voodoo doll. Uncle Louis gasped, doubling over. He fell to his hands and knees. Trembled. Gunfire persisted. Clack, clack, clack, went manmade metal. The store quaked as the croc reared his head and uttered an awful wail!
“Uncle Louis!” Morris cried in his arms.
Kid, said the croc. We have to prove our strength.
What do you want me to do?
Do you believe what you believe?
Believe what?
The croc groaned. He collapsed to the floor, his back like a porcupine’s from all the darts. Tell me that you believe me, damnit.
I believe you! I believe you!
Not good enough.
I believe you! I really do! You could beat up all the soldiers and the commander and the seahorse if you wanted to, I know it!
A smile crossed the croc’s lips. Know it, huh?
The commander thought: He’s not dead. “KEEP FIRE! INCREASE YOUR FIRE!”
Fire back! Morris commanded the croc. Fire, NOW!
The croc’s eyes lit up. As thousands of tranquilizers clacked into him, he rose, trembling. The room darkened. . . . It went pitch black. The commander gaped. From the croc came a yellow-green aura, radiating light that swallowed the store. He faced the commander and the soldiers. Spasmed. Bent over. Closed his eyes. Sucked his stomach in. His chest puffed up more and more. He cocked his head back. Expelling sparks from his mouth, he flung himself forward, loosing a magnificent stream of yellow-green flames pummeling the lines. Soldiers flew like bowling pins. They screamed ablaze. Did gymnastics in midair. Fell crackling like duds in smokes to the floor. When the smoke cleared, reappeared the commander surrounded by cadavers, scratchless on his seahorse. The commander applauded.
“Bravo,” he said, “but the king still stands.”
“I thought I told you I’m stronger. That we don’t play by the rules.”
“I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID!”
The seahorse sprung then, tackling Uncle Louis to the floor in a roll. They rolled multiple times, and on the last roll, Uncle Louis bounced to his feet. He rushed for the gaping front. Sunlight surrounded him.
“COME BACK! BE DISCIPLINED!”
Kron 4 and Fox News caught the giant crocodile, with the back of a porcupine, walking out Toys“R”Us on tape. TV screens flashed. Producers raged behind the scenes, shouting, “Stop the footage! Stop the fucking footage!”, but it was too interesting. The cameras kept rolling.
Listen, the croc told Morris. He leapt on, then leapfrogged off a Kron 4 van, landing in the parking lot. The commander’s too smart. We’re leading him off the chessboard. No more rules.
What do you mean?
The croc stomped for the center of the lot. He thought we would fight in the building. We’ll show him chaos.
Okay! Right!
Cameras caught the commander on a seahorse emerging from Toys“R”Us. Reporters strove so passionately to out-bullshit each other now; while Kron 4 reporter Waltzy Kramer said the stray porcupine and its seahorse friend had left the nest to find chicken nuggets for their children, Fox News reporter Janett Joplin said Middle-Easterners had “evacuated the building” because their napalm was “about to blow it the fuck up”, “indubitably the White House next”.
“WHAT’S THE MEANING TO THIS?” the commander snarled.
In the center of the lot, he and his seahorse faced the kid and the croc. They took stances. The croc set the kid on his shoulder. Hold on tight, said the croc. He puffed flame. The seahorse puffed smoke. The croc went rushing, arms open, toward the seahorse. The croc lunged. The seahorse evaded, circling him. The croc spun, but he was too late: The seahorse wrapped him, propping him flat on the lot into submission. Like a fish the croc flailed, tail flopping. Sides rolling. His arms were locked in a coil. The seahorse squeezed him like a python. The croc’s hide squeaked—turned red, as if about to burst. Flames sizzled from the croc’s nostrils as he widened his jaws. They faltered as smoke.
He’ll try to pop this pool toy, uttered the croc. You can’t outplan him. Now we show him chaos.
I have an idea. Let me do it.
The croc nodded. Morris climbed from the croc’s shoulder to the head of the seahorse. He climbed toward the commander. The commander shook his head, mouth agape. “What do you think you’re doing? Hey—!” Morris grabbed the commander’s leg then dove. They went dive-bombing off the seahorse, thudding to the ground, the commander on the bottom. “GUH.”
Kron 4’s viewers witnessed in awe as a stray needle of the porcupine and a stray bone of its seahorse friend fought for dominance. Fox News viewers hurrahed as terrorists combated themselves. Croc and seahorse, boy and man . . . grappled like Godzilla and giant kaiju, Beowulf and Grendul. The seahorse slackened. The croc gained dominance. Alas, the man overcame the boy, even as the boy threw fists like many boys threw fits. The man pinned him to the lot.
Just then the man’s eyes widened. A sharp hissing of air came. There the croc stood atop the seahorse, with a nozzle cap between his teeth. Air whistled its way out the seahorse, as the seahorse deflated . . . deflated . . . deflated. The croc grinned. The boy’s face lit up. The man went limp.
Uncle Louis, the boy said, try inflating yourself with the seahorse!
The seahorse had already shrunk to half its original size, but Uncle Louis said, Alright. Let me try.
He put his mouth on the nozzle. His face lit up. Heaps of air rushed into his throat. He held on tight. His claws dug into the latex. He gulped. Gulp after gulp his stomach swelled steadily. The croc moaned. Felt nauseous. Felt bloated. About to burst. Felt great. His stomach swelled and swelled, becoming the size of four Kron 4 vans. His confidence upped a size. His gut burbled with air. When the rush of air ceased, the seahorse was naught but a flat wrinkle-y sheet of latex on the lot. . . . He was a part of the croc—the pleased croc belly-up on the lot.
“Magistar Dacorda . . . you were wrong about the child,” the man murmured. He lay on the lot, lifeless. Everyone thought he was lifeless. He wailed a wail of impending revenge! Then he died.
Morris rejoiced. He rushed the croc. Flung himself over the croc’s gurgling gut laughing. They laughed. Kron 4 zoomed in close. Touching piano music played. The stray porcupine needle had reunited with its porcupine. Fox News viewers went ape-shit. They hoorahed twice, waving their American flags. Morris’ father Vernon appeared. He sped toward Morris and Uncle Louis with open arms.
“Morris! Am I thankful you’re okay. What’s gone on here? Where’s your mother? Where’s Lola?”
The croc snickered. He rubbed his gut, making small burps of air.
“Uncle Louis ate them, dad. He ate Lola and three lifeguards, then mum, and then an employee, and air. And he gets bigger every time, and, and . . .”
“Oh,” Vernon said. “As long as it was Uncle Louis.”
“What?”
“As long it was Uncle Louis, I said.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Golly, kiddo. You’re ten years old.”
Morris smiled. “Okay. I’m glad!”
Meanwhile, Kron 4 and Fox News reporters admitted exhaustion from a long day of bullshit. They offed their cams, packed their vans, then drove off.
“I’m stuffed,” said the croc, belching deeply. “What’s the plan after I finish this air, kid? You still want a laptop?”
Morris smiled. “I wanna know more about you.”
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Category Story / Vore
Species Alligator / Crocodile
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 106 kB
Well, I will try to see this in a neutral way. Usually, you can kind of identify yourself with story characters or at least understand their actions (at least the main characters), but not in this story. We got this croc who swallows the boy's family members and innoscent bystanders and we got that boy who doesn't give a fuck and even tels him to eat more. So in the end the reader hates the main characters and symphatisis with the ones who are supposed to be the bad ones and that really isn't good. Not saying your type of writing is bad, but the concept just sucks...
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