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Uncle Louis III [a Vore Story]
Uncle Louis III
"Occured naught. Then swam a man to the end of The Pool." — Inflatext 1:2-3
Underwater all was calm. Beams of sun lanced down from the surface. Schools of anchovies zoomed by. From behind them came our boy named Morris doing the butterfly stroke, so the waves would ripple and burble. He sprang to the sky, and a geyser of seawater sprang out too. A majestic sight indeed. His father thought he glimpsed a mermaid. His father smiled. Shook his head. Reeled.
Today’s a fine day to fish, thought he.
The first thing Morris had wanted to know more about Uncle Louis was how fast, and how far, he could swim. That night of the Toys“R”Us incident they had ridden to the beach then sailed the croc into the sea many miles. The next afternoon, Vernon sat on the back of the croc, while the croc, who had grown to forty foot, swam alongside the kid, the boundless Pacific. The kid had grown too, in his own way. Now he could draft and bilateral-breathe and tumble turn off the croc. He surfaced, spitting water out his blowhole.
“Look at me, dad! Look it, look it! Look dad! I’m a dolphin! Hehe!”
His dad eyed him. “Well, I’ll be. You’re a fish if I’ve seen any.” When the kid dove, he asked the croc, “When did he stop saying he was Michael Phelps?”
“I told him you guys were dolphins in the beginning. It’s true, you know.”
“I’m not too familiar with Inflatex, so no; I didn’t know. But its beliefs do entertain me.”
“Beliefs, huh.”
“Yeah.”
Dolphins and religion drove their conversation till something tugged on the line. Vernon’s eyes brightened. He jerked the reel. Spun it back a dozen times, intensely. Two dozen. Vernon was on a roll! He whooped and exclaimed, “Here comes a big one! . . . She’s a biggin’ alright. . . . Aw, shambles, I might just run out of line. . . . She might just—” Suddenly the rod jerked him, yanking him off his feet. He plunged into the Pacific, a cry co-occurring with a splash.
“Vernon?” The croc backtracked. “Vernon, hey!” He told the kid, Your father just took a nosedive. Get out of the water. Climb on my back.
Uh oh.
The kid did as he was told, drying himself off like a dog. He scanned the waves. No dad. No fishing pole. But his skateboard lay by the croc’s shoulder, where his dad left it.
The waves shuddered. They rocked the croc. The kid and the croc cast concerned looks. The kid fell. Doubled over on his skateboard. He was picking himself up when his jaw dropped: The most massive fish he’d ever seen erupted from out the water: Its scales were the size of his palms. Its fins, the sails of sailboats! It was an anchovy. The anchovy, ridden by a scuba diver, made a glub glubb-ing sound from its mouth. From its mouth streamed a fishing line, and on the end of the line flailed Uncle Vernon.
“Mooooorris!”
It flopped to the back of the croc, trailing fish oil, and bucking Vernon. Vernon whipped through the air hollering, holding the rod for dear life, till his grip gave. He flew. He plunged like a comet, sizzling freshly in a crater before Morris. Morris stood. Stepped in front of him. Held his skateboard like Barry Bonds would a bat. He eyed the anchovy. Eyed the scuba diver. This fiery eye contact called a challenge between them. So each side stood Wild Wild West style, preparing to combat.
Hey Uncle, you could just eat them.
Hey Morris, how about a little self-dependence? I’ll get cramps.
Uncle Louis, please?
Crocodile swimming here. Suck it up kid. Look, I don’t do this to be mean. I do this so you can prove yourself to yourself. Prove yourself to me you don’t need your old Uncle for everything. . . .
Come on! Really?
The anchovy reverted to its natural predator stance, crouching with a hunch in its back, snarling. Its rider said “Hiyah!”, so it sprang at Morris. Morris gasped. He sidestepped. Vernon got tackled. Vernon grunted to the ground, wrestling its jaws threatening to snap his head off as it hissed. Snarled. Lunged at him. Meanwhile, the scuba diver made fish noises like a maniac to the rhythm of the anchovy’s lunges. Morris seemed to ponder it. Then he sped and jumped and swung the skateboard at the diver’s skull, snapping it in two. Crackling. The diver groaned. Fell face-down sprawled in convulsions. The kid landed on his feet. Then the anchovy froze. Its pupils shrank. It seizured. All a sudden its jaws were snapping at Vernon with twice the fury and it barked this in its fish language: GLUB! GLUB! GLUB GLUB, GLUB!
The boy was perturbed! He backed up. He got a running start, then hopped and bounded off the diver, landing mounted on the spazzing anchovy. It spasmed the way a helicopter would with its blades off balance, its tailfins (the tail rotor) cleaving the air, its pelvic fins (the blades) chopping at Vernon’s chest, and its eyes (the cockpit) vacant, void of intelligible thought. Morris pounded it with his fists till his fists turned sore. But it felt no thing. Vernon’s wrestling arms gave. The anchovy’s jaws clamped his head, lifting him writhing. The thing slimily slurped. Jerked its head back. Gulped. Jerked again. Gulped again. It devoured Vernon’s shoulders. Vernon’s arms, Vernon’s chest, waist—the bulge of its neck blossomed, all thanks to Vernon.
“Dad! Dad! Stop! Let go of him! Stop it!” cried the boy.
But the feeding frenzy raged on. A vile sound from its stomach (that resembled the grumbles of a groggy swamp monster) robbed the boy of his strength. He gasped. Less and less, his fists pounded. He collapsed over the anchovy, shaking his head. Whimpering. It slurped again as his father’s feet vanished from sight. Gross creaks and croaks (possibly from that same swamp monster) funneled down its throat to its stomach. Digestive juices raged on, loud, ferocious swamp monsters. The boy paled in the face. The anchovy flipped over and tossed him. “Ungh,” went the boy. The boy lay beneath its imposing mound of belly without any will left. Its eye squirmed a gaze toward him. It looked him stupidly. It went slack-eyed. Then, the anchovy belched up socks, shoes, a shirt, pants—every article of clothing Vernon wore—including his hat and vest and all what was left of the fishing pole.
“Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuup! My, weren’t you filling!” said the anchovy.
A little of Morris died inside. The anchovy looked him dead in the eye, then burst out laughing. The boy just stared. The scuba diver grabbed the boy. Put the boy in a headlock. The boy didn’t care. “Very good, Aunt Jovi; you learned how to talk! I have you to thank for that, boy. Rather, I have your father. Rather, Aunt Jovi had your father. Hah! Ah hah! Hah hah! HAH HAH HAH HAH huh, hum. Ho.”
Uncle Louis growled. Sounds like your pops got eaten already. I let you at self-independence for one second and you go and blow it.
“We’ve found the kid and the croc,” the diver told a walkie-talkie. “38.0999°N, -130.6494°E. Approximate travel direction is northwest. Fifty-two miles per hour. Yep. Yezzir!”
The croc continued. Are you just gonna hang there and let your pops get fried?
He’s not dead yet?
Sheesh. So much disappointment in your voice.
No!
Sorry to break it to you: It takes us pool toys time to work our meals, just like you.
Hey Uncle Louis. You gave me an idea.
Oh yeah?
“This is a token of my gratitude,” said the diver, holding the boy over Aunt Jovi’s glubbing lips. “A token of our gratitude.”
“You’re not gonna let me rub her belly?”
“A-hum?”
“I don’t wanna die just yet. I wanna rub her belly. Can I?”
Aunt Jovi and the diver raised a brow at each other.
Remind me not to give you any ideas, the croc said gruffly.
The diver had started to answer when Aunt Jovi said: “Yes boy! Rub me as you so please. Please me as I enjoy this morsel you call your father. . . . A-hurm. Hur hur a-hur a-hurrrrrm.”
So the diver released the boy. The boy tended to Aunt Jovi the way he would Uncle Louis, kneading into her gut with love. She purred, mmm-ed, and a-hurrrrrm-ed with such vigor. She squirmed and moaned. She was enjoying this more than necessary. Morris grinned. This was Morris’ most top-notch massage, all the more reason Uncle Louis sent his disapproval; quit that Morris. . . . Ugh, you have no shame, huh? . . . This is indecent. But Morris kept on, and his fingers fell lower. Lower. Lower. They fell into the danger zone right above the anal fin. Aunt Jovi gasped! You may have thought she came but this was not so; instead came a high-pitched whine of air. Her eyes went. She just stared. Stared at the ripped away nozzle in the boy’s hand. She watched as she deflated. Shriveled. All those coherent thoughts she had . . . they were escaping . . . they were . . . glub.
“Got’cha!” the boy said.
“GIVE ME!” the fish rasped, reaching its fins at the nozzle. “Boy! Hand it, I—glub—command—glub glub!”
Instead of handing it, he hopped away. He ducked the diver’s lunging arms, grabbed one half of his broken board, then booked it toward Uncle Louis’ head. Aunt Jovi flopped after him in hot pursuit, wheezing with gasps, glubs, and a-hurrrms. She sputtered air.
When she got close, he cocked back the board. Held it like Barry Bonds would a bat. He let her get a little closer . . . then WHAM! Skittles and lollies and all sorts of sugary treats would have hailed from the sky if she were a pinata in that moment. Instead a pop exploded, a powerful gust of air rippled, and, lying on a flat bursted strip of latex appeared Vernon. The diver saw. He shook his head in horror!, not fathoming the sight! His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He foamed in the mouth, fell backward into the Pacific with a woe-is-me splash, then died.
“M-m-my mind’s all boggled,” a naked Vernon said, staring up at the boy. “We’re still fishing, aren’t we?”
“Not anymore, dad. The fish ruined your pole.”
“That’s a shame. She was a biggin’. Plus, I had that pole since before I impregnated your mother.”
“Yeah.”
“Ah well. Uncle Louis could fix me a new one, I reckon.”
I’ll fix you a new one, alright . . .
“Please put your clothes back on, dad!”
His dad rummaged through the tattered attire. “They’re all covered in fish loogie. You want me to put these on?”
“Yeah.”
“No can do, kiddo.”
“Dad, please!”
Incoming at twelve o'clock, the croc said.
From out of a fog arose an oil tanker the size of an ark. It sirened its horn, sailing toward the croc, and miniature silhouettes of divers and pool toys dropped from its front deck into the ocean. They sailed toward the croc too.
“Hold on you two,” said the croc. He revved his tail like a jet ski impeller. Vroom vroom. He rocketed full speed in a trail of turbulence. “Coming through!” The croc zipped through the scrambling divers and pool toys like pins in an alley. They whizzed skyward then spun limp back into the sea; harmonious splashes occurred; this is where the narrator shouts K.O.!
In his unrelenting pace, the croc reached the tanker, washing up under its hull. He pulled himself up. Shook himself dry. He drove his claws into the midship. He began climbing it inch by inch with one hand and two feet (because he was holding Morris and Vernon), and sailors looked over the deck, shouting from above. More sailors looked over. They had tranquilizer rifles equipped. They took aim. Fired! Syringe needles clacked into the croc’s arms and shoulders as lights flashed from smoking barrels above. He kept climbing. He shrugged off the pain. Sailors drew back to reload their arms. Bad move. This gave the croc an opportunity. The croc’s jaws snapped up from behind the railing, snatching three men. They bloodily wailed. He sprang, thudding to the deck before row upon row of cowering men. He set down Vernon and Morris then brought his head back. He gulped. The shapes of the men sank one by one down his gullet. His belly growled . . . sated. Cowering rows of men dropped their rifles, broke formation, and fled. The croc tsk-tsked, belched a couple uniforms to the deck, then trotted after them.
“Coming along?”
“Yeah!”
“Y-yes, I suppose.”
A sniper lay prone on a catwalk. He eyed his scope. His crosshair pinpointing the croc, a gunshot rang out. Smoke clouded his lens. The sniper squinted. The lens cleared. He saw the scales of the croc zoomed-in, so he zoomed-out. Something was wrong; the scales weren’t shrinking. He lowered the scope right when the croc hefted him into the air, working a snarl from his lips. The sniper was choking. He dropped the rifle. He yanked on the croc’s claw, trying to tear its grip from his throat. Uncle Louis slowly shook his head, as if to say, don’t even try, then held the man higher. They both cackled: one cackled in laughter; the other cackled for breath. The man’s neck was released and hot hair-raising breath flooded him. A tongue lapped him. The roof of a mouth shut down over him, folding him. . . . There was darkness. A squelch of a throat and throat muscles flexing over him signaled his descent; down the hatch he went. He met a familiar three men in a loud gurgling gut of acids screaming their heads off. He screamed too.
Uncle Louis said, “Aah.”
Uncle Louis took a lie on the deck, sprawled out all silly. Vernon reckoned he hadn’t a clue what happened next. Morris did. Already Morris was lounged over the belly of the beast, kneading how he should. Uncle Louis growled, eager. Uncle Louis rrrrr-ed, and his claws scratched up the iron. Thunder rang all about the ship; you can thank Uncle Louis whacking that tail into the thing, denting it up. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. He Louis grabbed an iron pipe, crushing it between his claw like scrap metal, not even realizing it, he was enjoying himself so much. The croc had Morris struggling to stay mounted, quaking up and down. Finally many quakes later the croc calmed. His gut queased. Morris: burnt out. The croc’s tongue hung out. The croc’s eyebrows formed the shape of a rainbow as he beamed wide.
“Huuuuuuuuuuuuh,” was his sigh. A quick quiver of his body and a belch followed it, like: “HEH-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-P!”
“Having fun down there?” asked a familiar voice. It was the commander’s. A commander hologram. He stood on a mast above the catwalk with his arms behind his back.
“You’re alive?” the kid said.
“Who’s that?” the dad said.
“Come here, you,” the croc said. “We’ll show you how things are done a second time, yeah? I wouldn’t mind seconds, either.”
The commander ignored the latter two but responded to the kid: “Of course I’m alive! I’ve never met you before, either! Especially not you, nudist man.”
“A fish loogied on my clothes,” Vernon said in self-defense.
The croc hmphed. “Are you senile?”
“No.”
“We deflated your seahorse at Toys“R”Us.”
“Wrong! I’ve never been to Toys“R”Us. My seahorse is alive and well. He is next to me as we speak.”
“Huh?”
“We have been misled by illusion,” the hologram said. “Illusion preys on the malleable. We are but its subjects until we become men, until we learn to separate what we think we know from the immutable truth of the universe: It was yesterday night I was faced with this revelation. . . .”
And so, the commander relayed his enlightenment of the previous night:
* * *
“You live.”
“For fuck sake, I’m dead.”
“Your death is illogical.”
“You saw it on Kron 4. What other proof do you need?!”
“The logical conclusion is that what I saw and you experienced was an illusion: A miscalculation of information processed by the mind. Illusion is illogical, illogical is magic, and magic is . . . heretical. I shall refrain from dabbling in heresy.”
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never dabbled in heresy? That you always refrain?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Because I was thinking . . . Magistar.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I was thinking . . . that maybe . . . maybe some magics are logical.”
“What!”
“Just a thought, Magistar.”
“Magic is miscalculated logic, fool!”
“Yes, I was just thinking.”
“To dabble in magic is illusional thus illogical! You idiot! Stupid, stupid! How utterly halfwit!”
“Excuse me, Magistar.”
“How about you magically go fuck yourself?”
“I would fulfill your request without hesitation, Magistar, sir, if I were alive.”
“You are alive. Yesterday was an illusion. Don’t you argue your existence with me, Alphadammit. You are dead when I decide you are dead. You obey logic and logic obeys ME. If I say you are alive, you are live, and all exceptions are illogical. You have not yet met the child, have you understood?”
“U-understood, Magistar.”
“You will kill the child.”
“Yes, Magistar.”
* * *
The hologram concluded: “The immutable truth of the universe is logic. Magistar Dacorda is The Declarer of Logic, The Definer of Truths of The Universe, as declared by The Alphatoy himself. You must repent, boy. You may only show The Alphatoy your love by accepting His immutable truth.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Morris said.
“It’s not right,” the croc murmured, “and if I’ve stressed anything with you, it’s believing yourself. Believing me. Some things happen even if logic can’t explain them. You can’t second-guess your gut feelings.”
“Gut feelings!” the commander exclaimed. “The boy feels your gut before me; it is logical!”
Point made: He doesn’t get it, the croc continued. “If logic can explain everything, explain this.”
A stream of energy was siphoned from Morris. He fell as the croc stood. The croc radiated that same yellow-green as before. The croc’s stomach acids resounded loud, having kicked in double-time. The croc’s belly shrank, melding its meals into pudge. The belly moaned deeply. Uncle Louis did not endeavor a growth spurt as per usual; Uncle Louis bawled his fits and grunted and squinted his eyes and shivered. Finally he howled to the sky. From his back sprouted wings! He grabbed Morris and Vernon in a leap to the above, swooshing round the mast as simply as a seagull would, with green translucent dragon wings. He summoned a breath of fire to the heavens that exerted Morris more. Then the croc dove. The croc slashed its claws at the commander hologram. The hologram’s fizzled away with the wind as just that: a hologram.
“It is but an illusion,” the commander’s voice echoed, “but an illusion . . . but an illusion . . .”
But an illusion . . .
Two bangs. Something launched. The croc whirled around to find two fat missiles guided toward him. He bolted. He took to fighter jet speed, folding inward. He streamlined. Streams of smoke painted the canvas round the oil tanker; there were zig zags and loop-d-loops. He shot straight over the front deck. Sailors lost their hats and awed. Behind him the heat-seekers built speed. Their thrusters crescendoed. They nipped at his tail, inches from it. . . . then they collided.
A blinding flash lit the sky. First it was like an atom bomb with the sound off. Kaboom. The sound turned on, and a torrent of fiery winds assaulted the tanker. It leaned like a palm tree in a storm. One sailor’s lips were being blown back behind his head, and he smiled—smiling wide—shouting, “THIS IS GREAT!”, although no one could hear him.
When the sky became calm, you could see a croc with wings spiraling stiff into the sea. One of his arms kept Morris and Vernon secure by his chest. The other one waggled with the breeze. His wings faded. A faraway splash in the sea. A blip on the tanker’s radar. . . . This concludes our narration of the story of the kid and the croc until next time.
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"Occured naught. Then swam a man to the end of The Pool." — Inflatext 1:2-3
Underwater all was calm. Beams of sun lanced down from the surface. Schools of anchovies zoomed by. From behind them came our boy named Morris doing the butterfly stroke, so the waves would ripple and burble. He sprang to the sky, and a geyser of seawater sprang out too. A majestic sight indeed. His father thought he glimpsed a mermaid. His father smiled. Shook his head. Reeled.
Today’s a fine day to fish, thought he.
The first thing Morris had wanted to know more about Uncle Louis was how fast, and how far, he could swim. That night of the Toys“R”Us incident they had ridden to the beach then sailed the croc into the sea many miles. The next afternoon, Vernon sat on the back of the croc, while the croc, who had grown to forty foot, swam alongside the kid, the boundless Pacific. The kid had grown too, in his own way. Now he could draft and bilateral-breathe and tumble turn off the croc. He surfaced, spitting water out his blowhole.
“Look at me, dad! Look it, look it! Look dad! I’m a dolphin! Hehe!”
His dad eyed him. “Well, I’ll be. You’re a fish if I’ve seen any.” When the kid dove, he asked the croc, “When did he stop saying he was Michael Phelps?”
“I told him you guys were dolphins in the beginning. It’s true, you know.”
“I’m not too familiar with Inflatex, so no; I didn’t know. But its beliefs do entertain me.”
“Beliefs, huh.”
“Yeah.”
Dolphins and religion drove their conversation till something tugged on the line. Vernon’s eyes brightened. He jerked the reel. Spun it back a dozen times, intensely. Two dozen. Vernon was on a roll! He whooped and exclaimed, “Here comes a big one! . . . She’s a biggin’ alright. . . . Aw, shambles, I might just run out of line. . . . She might just—” Suddenly the rod jerked him, yanking him off his feet. He plunged into the Pacific, a cry co-occurring with a splash.
“Vernon?” The croc backtracked. “Vernon, hey!” He told the kid, Your father just took a nosedive. Get out of the water. Climb on my back.
Uh oh.
The kid did as he was told, drying himself off like a dog. He scanned the waves. No dad. No fishing pole. But his skateboard lay by the croc’s shoulder, where his dad left it.
The waves shuddered. They rocked the croc. The kid and the croc cast concerned looks. The kid fell. Doubled over on his skateboard. He was picking himself up when his jaw dropped: The most massive fish he’d ever seen erupted from out the water: Its scales were the size of his palms. Its fins, the sails of sailboats! It was an anchovy. The anchovy, ridden by a scuba diver, made a glub glubb-ing sound from its mouth. From its mouth streamed a fishing line, and on the end of the line flailed Uncle Vernon.
“Mooooorris!”
It flopped to the back of the croc, trailing fish oil, and bucking Vernon. Vernon whipped through the air hollering, holding the rod for dear life, till his grip gave. He flew. He plunged like a comet, sizzling freshly in a crater before Morris. Morris stood. Stepped in front of him. Held his skateboard like Barry Bonds would a bat. He eyed the anchovy. Eyed the scuba diver. This fiery eye contact called a challenge between them. So each side stood Wild Wild West style, preparing to combat.
Hey Uncle, you could just eat them.
Hey Morris, how about a little self-dependence? I’ll get cramps.
Uncle Louis, please?
Crocodile swimming here. Suck it up kid. Look, I don’t do this to be mean. I do this so you can prove yourself to yourself. Prove yourself to me you don’t need your old Uncle for everything. . . .
Come on! Really?
The anchovy reverted to its natural predator stance, crouching with a hunch in its back, snarling. Its rider said “Hiyah!”, so it sprang at Morris. Morris gasped. He sidestepped. Vernon got tackled. Vernon grunted to the ground, wrestling its jaws threatening to snap his head off as it hissed. Snarled. Lunged at him. Meanwhile, the scuba diver made fish noises like a maniac to the rhythm of the anchovy’s lunges. Morris seemed to ponder it. Then he sped and jumped and swung the skateboard at the diver’s skull, snapping it in two. Crackling. The diver groaned. Fell face-down sprawled in convulsions. The kid landed on his feet. Then the anchovy froze. Its pupils shrank. It seizured. All a sudden its jaws were snapping at Vernon with twice the fury and it barked this in its fish language: GLUB! GLUB! GLUB GLUB, GLUB!
The boy was perturbed! He backed up. He got a running start, then hopped and bounded off the diver, landing mounted on the spazzing anchovy. It spasmed the way a helicopter would with its blades off balance, its tailfins (the tail rotor) cleaving the air, its pelvic fins (the blades) chopping at Vernon’s chest, and its eyes (the cockpit) vacant, void of intelligible thought. Morris pounded it with his fists till his fists turned sore. But it felt no thing. Vernon’s wrestling arms gave. The anchovy’s jaws clamped his head, lifting him writhing. The thing slimily slurped. Jerked its head back. Gulped. Jerked again. Gulped again. It devoured Vernon’s shoulders. Vernon’s arms, Vernon’s chest, waist—the bulge of its neck blossomed, all thanks to Vernon.
“Dad! Dad! Stop! Let go of him! Stop it!” cried the boy.
But the feeding frenzy raged on. A vile sound from its stomach (that resembled the grumbles of a groggy swamp monster) robbed the boy of his strength. He gasped. Less and less, his fists pounded. He collapsed over the anchovy, shaking his head. Whimpering. It slurped again as his father’s feet vanished from sight. Gross creaks and croaks (possibly from that same swamp monster) funneled down its throat to its stomach. Digestive juices raged on, loud, ferocious swamp monsters. The boy paled in the face. The anchovy flipped over and tossed him. “Ungh,” went the boy. The boy lay beneath its imposing mound of belly without any will left. Its eye squirmed a gaze toward him. It looked him stupidly. It went slack-eyed. Then, the anchovy belched up socks, shoes, a shirt, pants—every article of clothing Vernon wore—including his hat and vest and all what was left of the fishing pole.
“Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuup! My, weren’t you filling!” said the anchovy.
A little of Morris died inside. The anchovy looked him dead in the eye, then burst out laughing. The boy just stared. The scuba diver grabbed the boy. Put the boy in a headlock. The boy didn’t care. “Very good, Aunt Jovi; you learned how to talk! I have you to thank for that, boy. Rather, I have your father. Rather, Aunt Jovi had your father. Hah! Ah hah! Hah hah! HAH HAH HAH HAH huh, hum. Ho.”
Uncle Louis growled. Sounds like your pops got eaten already. I let you at self-independence for one second and you go and blow it.
“We’ve found the kid and the croc,” the diver told a walkie-talkie. “38.0999°N, -130.6494°E. Approximate travel direction is northwest. Fifty-two miles per hour. Yep. Yezzir!”
The croc continued. Are you just gonna hang there and let your pops get fried?
He’s not dead yet?
Sheesh. So much disappointment in your voice.
No!
Sorry to break it to you: It takes us pool toys time to work our meals, just like you.
Hey Uncle Louis. You gave me an idea.
Oh yeah?
“This is a token of my gratitude,” said the diver, holding the boy over Aunt Jovi’s glubbing lips. “A token of our gratitude.”
“You’re not gonna let me rub her belly?”
“A-hum?”
“I don’t wanna die just yet. I wanna rub her belly. Can I?”
Aunt Jovi and the diver raised a brow at each other.
Remind me not to give you any ideas, the croc said gruffly.
The diver had started to answer when Aunt Jovi said: “Yes boy! Rub me as you so please. Please me as I enjoy this morsel you call your father. . . . A-hurm. Hur hur a-hur a-hurrrrrm.”
So the diver released the boy. The boy tended to Aunt Jovi the way he would Uncle Louis, kneading into her gut with love. She purred, mmm-ed, and a-hurrrrrm-ed with such vigor. She squirmed and moaned. She was enjoying this more than necessary. Morris grinned. This was Morris’ most top-notch massage, all the more reason Uncle Louis sent his disapproval; quit that Morris. . . . Ugh, you have no shame, huh? . . . This is indecent. But Morris kept on, and his fingers fell lower. Lower. Lower. They fell into the danger zone right above the anal fin. Aunt Jovi gasped! You may have thought she came but this was not so; instead came a high-pitched whine of air. Her eyes went. She just stared. Stared at the ripped away nozzle in the boy’s hand. She watched as she deflated. Shriveled. All those coherent thoughts she had . . . they were escaping . . . they were . . . glub.
“Got’cha!” the boy said.
“GIVE ME!” the fish rasped, reaching its fins at the nozzle. “Boy! Hand it, I—glub—command—glub glub!”
Instead of handing it, he hopped away. He ducked the diver’s lunging arms, grabbed one half of his broken board, then booked it toward Uncle Louis’ head. Aunt Jovi flopped after him in hot pursuit, wheezing with gasps, glubs, and a-hurrrms. She sputtered air.
When she got close, he cocked back the board. Held it like Barry Bonds would a bat. He let her get a little closer . . . then WHAM! Skittles and lollies and all sorts of sugary treats would have hailed from the sky if she were a pinata in that moment. Instead a pop exploded, a powerful gust of air rippled, and, lying on a flat bursted strip of latex appeared Vernon. The diver saw. He shook his head in horror!, not fathoming the sight! His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He foamed in the mouth, fell backward into the Pacific with a woe-is-me splash, then died.
“M-m-my mind’s all boggled,” a naked Vernon said, staring up at the boy. “We’re still fishing, aren’t we?”
“Not anymore, dad. The fish ruined your pole.”
“That’s a shame. She was a biggin’. Plus, I had that pole since before I impregnated your mother.”
“Yeah.”
“Ah well. Uncle Louis could fix me a new one, I reckon.”
I’ll fix you a new one, alright . . .
“Please put your clothes back on, dad!”
His dad rummaged through the tattered attire. “They’re all covered in fish loogie. You want me to put these on?”
“Yeah.”
“No can do, kiddo.”
“Dad, please!”
Incoming at twelve o'clock, the croc said.
From out of a fog arose an oil tanker the size of an ark. It sirened its horn, sailing toward the croc, and miniature silhouettes of divers and pool toys dropped from its front deck into the ocean. They sailed toward the croc too.
“Hold on you two,” said the croc. He revved his tail like a jet ski impeller. Vroom vroom. He rocketed full speed in a trail of turbulence. “Coming through!” The croc zipped through the scrambling divers and pool toys like pins in an alley. They whizzed skyward then spun limp back into the sea; harmonious splashes occurred; this is where the narrator shouts K.O.!
In his unrelenting pace, the croc reached the tanker, washing up under its hull. He pulled himself up. Shook himself dry. He drove his claws into the midship. He began climbing it inch by inch with one hand and two feet (because he was holding Morris and Vernon), and sailors looked over the deck, shouting from above. More sailors looked over. They had tranquilizer rifles equipped. They took aim. Fired! Syringe needles clacked into the croc’s arms and shoulders as lights flashed from smoking barrels above. He kept climbing. He shrugged off the pain. Sailors drew back to reload their arms. Bad move. This gave the croc an opportunity. The croc’s jaws snapped up from behind the railing, snatching three men. They bloodily wailed. He sprang, thudding to the deck before row upon row of cowering men. He set down Vernon and Morris then brought his head back. He gulped. The shapes of the men sank one by one down his gullet. His belly growled . . . sated. Cowering rows of men dropped their rifles, broke formation, and fled. The croc tsk-tsked, belched a couple uniforms to the deck, then trotted after them.
“Coming along?”
“Yeah!”
“Y-yes, I suppose.”
A sniper lay prone on a catwalk. He eyed his scope. His crosshair pinpointing the croc, a gunshot rang out. Smoke clouded his lens. The sniper squinted. The lens cleared. He saw the scales of the croc zoomed-in, so he zoomed-out. Something was wrong; the scales weren’t shrinking. He lowered the scope right when the croc hefted him into the air, working a snarl from his lips. The sniper was choking. He dropped the rifle. He yanked on the croc’s claw, trying to tear its grip from his throat. Uncle Louis slowly shook his head, as if to say, don’t even try, then held the man higher. They both cackled: one cackled in laughter; the other cackled for breath. The man’s neck was released and hot hair-raising breath flooded him. A tongue lapped him. The roof of a mouth shut down over him, folding him. . . . There was darkness. A squelch of a throat and throat muscles flexing over him signaled his descent; down the hatch he went. He met a familiar three men in a loud gurgling gut of acids screaming their heads off. He screamed too.
Uncle Louis said, “Aah.”
Uncle Louis took a lie on the deck, sprawled out all silly. Vernon reckoned he hadn’t a clue what happened next. Morris did. Already Morris was lounged over the belly of the beast, kneading how he should. Uncle Louis growled, eager. Uncle Louis rrrrr-ed, and his claws scratched up the iron. Thunder rang all about the ship; you can thank Uncle Louis whacking that tail into the thing, denting it up. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. He Louis grabbed an iron pipe, crushing it between his claw like scrap metal, not even realizing it, he was enjoying himself so much. The croc had Morris struggling to stay mounted, quaking up and down. Finally many quakes later the croc calmed. His gut queased. Morris: burnt out. The croc’s tongue hung out. The croc’s eyebrows formed the shape of a rainbow as he beamed wide.
“Huuuuuuuuuuuuh,” was his sigh. A quick quiver of his body and a belch followed it, like: “HEH-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-P!”
“Having fun down there?” asked a familiar voice. It was the commander’s. A commander hologram. He stood on a mast above the catwalk with his arms behind his back.
“You’re alive?” the kid said.
“Who’s that?” the dad said.
“Come here, you,” the croc said. “We’ll show you how things are done a second time, yeah? I wouldn’t mind seconds, either.”
The commander ignored the latter two but responded to the kid: “Of course I’m alive! I’ve never met you before, either! Especially not you, nudist man.”
“A fish loogied on my clothes,” Vernon said in self-defense.
The croc hmphed. “Are you senile?”
“No.”
“We deflated your seahorse at Toys“R”Us.”
“Wrong! I’ve never been to Toys“R”Us. My seahorse is alive and well. He is next to me as we speak.”
“Huh?”
“We have been misled by illusion,” the hologram said. “Illusion preys on the malleable. We are but its subjects until we become men, until we learn to separate what we think we know from the immutable truth of the universe: It was yesterday night I was faced with this revelation. . . .”
And so, the commander relayed his enlightenment of the previous night:
* * *
“You live.”
“For fuck sake, I’m dead.”
“Your death is illogical.”
“You saw it on Kron 4. What other proof do you need?!”
“The logical conclusion is that what I saw and you experienced was an illusion: A miscalculation of information processed by the mind. Illusion is illogical, illogical is magic, and magic is . . . heretical. I shall refrain from dabbling in heresy.”
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never dabbled in heresy? That you always refrain?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Because I was thinking . . . Magistar.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I was thinking . . . that maybe . . . maybe some magics are logical.”
“What!”
“Just a thought, Magistar.”
“Magic is miscalculated logic, fool!”
“Yes, I was just thinking.”
“To dabble in magic is illusional thus illogical! You idiot! Stupid, stupid! How utterly halfwit!”
“Excuse me, Magistar.”
“How about you magically go fuck yourself?”
“I would fulfill your request without hesitation, Magistar, sir, if I were alive.”
“You are alive. Yesterday was an illusion. Don’t you argue your existence with me, Alphadammit. You are dead when I decide you are dead. You obey logic and logic obeys ME. If I say you are alive, you are live, and all exceptions are illogical. You have not yet met the child, have you understood?”
“U-understood, Magistar.”
“You will kill the child.”
“Yes, Magistar.”
* * *
The hologram concluded: “The immutable truth of the universe is logic. Magistar Dacorda is The Declarer of Logic, The Definer of Truths of The Universe, as declared by The Alphatoy himself. You must repent, boy. You may only show The Alphatoy your love by accepting His immutable truth.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Morris said.
“It’s not right,” the croc murmured, “and if I’ve stressed anything with you, it’s believing yourself. Believing me. Some things happen even if logic can’t explain them. You can’t second-guess your gut feelings.”
“Gut feelings!” the commander exclaimed. “The boy feels your gut before me; it is logical!”
Point made: He doesn’t get it, the croc continued. “If logic can explain everything, explain this.”
A stream of energy was siphoned from Morris. He fell as the croc stood. The croc radiated that same yellow-green as before. The croc’s stomach acids resounded loud, having kicked in double-time. The croc’s belly shrank, melding its meals into pudge. The belly moaned deeply. Uncle Louis did not endeavor a growth spurt as per usual; Uncle Louis bawled his fits and grunted and squinted his eyes and shivered. Finally he howled to the sky. From his back sprouted wings! He grabbed Morris and Vernon in a leap to the above, swooshing round the mast as simply as a seagull would, with green translucent dragon wings. He summoned a breath of fire to the heavens that exerted Morris more. Then the croc dove. The croc slashed its claws at the commander hologram. The hologram’s fizzled away with the wind as just that: a hologram.
“It is but an illusion,” the commander’s voice echoed, “but an illusion . . . but an illusion . . .”
But an illusion . . .
Two bangs. Something launched. The croc whirled around to find two fat missiles guided toward him. He bolted. He took to fighter jet speed, folding inward. He streamlined. Streams of smoke painted the canvas round the oil tanker; there were zig zags and loop-d-loops. He shot straight over the front deck. Sailors lost their hats and awed. Behind him the heat-seekers built speed. Their thrusters crescendoed. They nipped at his tail, inches from it. . . . then they collided.
A blinding flash lit the sky. First it was like an atom bomb with the sound off. Kaboom. The sound turned on, and a torrent of fiery winds assaulted the tanker. It leaned like a palm tree in a storm. One sailor’s lips were being blown back behind his head, and he smiled—smiling wide—shouting, “THIS IS GREAT!”, although no one could hear him.
When the sky became calm, you could see a croc with wings spiraling stiff into the sea. One of his arms kept Morris and Vernon secure by his chest. The other one waggled with the breeze. His wings faded. A faraway splash in the sea. A blip on the tanker’s radar. . . . This concludes our narration of the story of the kid and the croc until next time.
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Category Story / Vore
Species Alligator / Crocodile
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 103.9 kB
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