Andy Seven, former rock star/male model/bon vivant, the man with the action-packed expense account, the fabulous free-lance creator of stories and images is available for your entertainment NOW! on Blogger.
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Friday, December 4, 2009
The Cannery Bear
There’s a bar by the docks where all the torn up toys go, the ones you don’t want to run into in a dark alley. Discarded and long-forgotten toys like The Street Sharks go there for a few shots of rotgut, but this story isn’t about them. It’s about a mean, vicious teddy bear with most of the stuffing knocked out of him and one of his cute button eyes practically hanging out of its socket, and his name is Mister Butch. Mister Butch worked at the cannery down by the darkest corner in the pier, where most men fear to tread. If there’s one thing most bears love it’s fish, but Mr. Butch loved to eat the by-products of the fish instead, like the dead fish faces, the fish turds, the rotten roe and its birth sacs, their marine entrails, the slimier and skankier the more he loved it.
It was well after quitting time from work and as work days go it went pretty slowly, i.e. only three punch-ups with his co-workers. Not a satisfying way to make a living. He did manage to put food on the table for his loved ones, a decaying Topper doll named “Salty” with a dated Fifties beehive and her two twin daughters, the Barbie Bowling Tramps.
Mr. Butch was getting a buzz on after his fifth boilermaker. “This shit’s supposed to put fur on your chest, god-dammit”,he growled.
“Butch, you got the furriest puss in town”, Buzz the bartender whined. Buzz was the ugliest vulture on the docks. He had only three feathers, all sprouting from his crown. “You’re damned straight. Honey ain’t for bears, that piss is strictly for jellyfish”.
He scanned the room with a sneer. A fat hyena was passed out in a puddle of his drool at a nearby table. Furtively picking the wallet out of his pocket was a cheap ferret with a lip ring and an ill-fitting party dress.
“Jeez!” whistled Butch. “Who’s the tomato? She looks like a distressed goddess”. Buzz frowned. “That’s Skrinkle. She’s crazy”. Butch turned to her. “Hey, baby! Drop your cocks and grab your socks!”
Skrinkle quickly jammed the hyena’s wallet down her flat bra, which gave her the appearance of having an ample bosom. She walked up to the bar with the kind of smile that wouldn’t fool a priest. “Hiya, stud muffin!”
“Pick your poison and I’ll shower ya with piss”. “An offer like that, how can a girl can resist?” “Pre-zackly!” “What’s your handle? Mine’s Skrinkle, as in qwzrk, qutwee”. “Sounds like fucking poetry. My name’s Mister Butch, Butch von Butch, a bastard so nice they named me twice”. Skrinkle giggled. “I’ll have an Old-Fashioned, innkeeper”. Buzz bristled. “I ain’t no innkeeper, I’m a fucking bartender”. He stormed off to fix her drink. “Don’t mind him”, Butch’s one good eye got all misty, due to his glaucoma. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’ve got that movie star kinda look? You got that 'come on' kinda look".
Skrinkle giggled and bit her thumb, eying him fetchingly. She turned on her best baby voice. “You big, tough, hunk of stuff. Careful or I’ll steal your heart!” She wiggled nervously because the purloined wallet slipped down from her bra to her stomach. She now looked like a pregnant weasel.
“I believe ya. You look like you could steal anything! Those lips, those eyes. Are you a rock star?” “I play bass. Tee hee”, she giggled in her weasely best. She picked up her drink. “A girl who plays bass. I knew you were talented!” “And I’m formally trained, too”, she sipped her Old-Fashioned and ripped out a loud belch. “Imagine that, Toots, you’ve more than won my heart. Stick with me, baby, and you’ll be fartin’ through silk!” His head weaved, getting woozy from his boilermakers finally kicking in. “Drink up, Kiddo, there’s more where that come from…” Skrinkle’s eyes bugged at his wallet. “You don’t know the half of it”.
Just as he was about to pass out a rusty clown toy, all thin and dented, stomped in, slamming the door and rousing Mr. Butch from his crash.
“Zingo!” Skrinkle plastered her brightest fake smile, feeling nervous. “There you are, you bitch!” He raced over to her. “I tried to make a respectable woman out of you but you’ll never be nothing but a hoor!” He back handed her making her reel by a few feet. “Now just a second, bitch”, Mr. Butch roared, “That’s my future fiancée you just decked, sucker”. Zingo squinted his teeny painted clown eyes at him. “And who the fuck are you?” “I’m Mister Butch, you clowny motherfucker, and don’t you forget it!” Buzz slammed a baseball bat on the bar. “There’ll be no rough housing in my establishment, fellas. Take it somewhere else”. “I’d rather take this”, Zingo grabbed the bat and bashed it into Mr. Butch’s face, the bat cracking in half. Butch just shook his head and roared. “Now it’s my turn!”
Butch grabbed Zingo by the throat and lifting his paw clawed open Zingo’s face, half the innards of his face sticking out of his tin head. He ripped off Zingo’s right leg, and not happy with enough of that damage, did what all angry men love to do. He pulled out his pierced bear penis and sodomized the poor tin clown. “Nooooooo!” Zingo wailed with the half of his face that was still working. “Take it, bitch!” Butchie growled. “Take it all, take it like a clown!” Jamming his scarred teddy bear member into the wailing tin toy. “Hah! Jailhouse justice!”
Buzz shook his head. “I knew you were gonna get lucky tonight, Butch, but not like this”. “Look, Prince Albert in a clown’s can”, Butch’s flat back pushing his love gristle missile in. “Awwwwww, Butch!”