Super Upset

“What?”

“What?”

“Too fancy?”

“Not at all. I love it.”

“How are you doing this evening?” A musk tint sprung from his sleeves. He set two fogged glasses atop the white cloth. His blithe eye contact ephemeral. “Would you like to hear our specials?”

Desmond’s spine stiffened. His fiancé attuned his gaze by a frown. Into a kiss of her opalescent lipstick. She smoldered the mood. “I will have the lobster special.”

“Thanks,” Desmond said.

“May I say excellent choice madam.”

“Excellent for who?” Desmond said. “Lobster makes me shudder. It’s odor alone can kill me. Not to mention. One hundred dollars a plate!”

“Allergies sir?”

“Deadly.”

“I will notify the chef. And you will be having?”

“Filet Mignon, steamed veggies, sweet potato, Merlot, one glass, one Stella, and bring out some rolls please.”

“What will you be drinking madam?”

“Stella.”

“Our one year anniversary and you have to order fucking lobster.”

Desmond leaped up and perused some mollies. Their green-silver scales gleamed red. He looped the aquarium for the rest room. The waiter at his fiancé. Like a vulture with a water pitcher. The blurred glass captured her oval head. Titled up at him. That is what you get for marrying an ex-stripper. I am in hell. “Do you guys have flowers?”

“No we don’t sir.”

Desmond shoved the oak door. The stalls shined black. Above, a hovering lavender mist. He locked the door and held his dick. He played dead through the neighbor’s tinkling. Continued through the splattered sink. Once the door shut out the prick, he peed.

“So what did Mr. bones want?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“You know who I am talking about?”

“Gus.”

“Who the fuck is Gus?”

“Our waiter.”

“Well did Gussie offer you his cock for desert?”

“Will you sit. He can hear you.”

“Did you get Gus’s digits?”

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!”

“Keep your voice down.”

Gus rested two hot plates. Desmond probed his cheekbones. Stopped below his eyes. Fancied his own pique in the mirror. He peaked into super upset. “Thank you Gus.”

“You are very welcome. Please enjoy.”

Page squeezed the nut cracker. With two hands she shot gunned tail particles. One chip surged against Desmond’s brow. “Everything okay over there princess?”

They pushed along Duval street. Soaking chocolate mint oil. Gus plopped them on the linen like dice. Wrapped in emerald green boxes. “Where is our bed and breakfast?”

“This way hon,” she said.

“So why did Gus give our temptress his number?”

“He wants to look at my paintings.”

“I’m sure your taut polyester glued to your bubble ass cheeks had….”

“—Did I not give up stripping for you? Now I do art, okay?”

“Sounds like a couple of love birds!” Up front, a Harley chopper with long chrome pipes. Behind it, a bed of eggshell pebbles. The chopper ticked. Pockets of gasoline tickled their olfactory bulbs. Beyond that, in a black crevice, a child’s voice. “You two are cute.”

“Fuck off little boy,” Page said.

“Page for Christ’s sake. Walk!” Desmond said. One block over, their tranquil blue bed and breakfast. The old conch house’s fresh painted pickets. Done with the healing power of God. Everything blue, even the refrigerators. “You know that little shit could of had a gun. It is teenagers who shoot up schools.”

She shut the bathroom door in their room. Not slammed but burgeoned with force at an inch. Both of them capricious. One of them needed to be stable. The crux of their engagement. Her body naked, sultry, toe printing the ivory ceramic below. Her bare bottom cold against the toilet lid. She flamed the X-ACTO like a salivated joint. Her lighter skills pure magic. She fossilized marijuana cigarettes and murdered any living goo about her scalpels. Her ankles bare like warm butter. Cotton balls swallowed the red drips. Her sketches of stray cats and faceless human eyes sundered flesh.

“What the hell are you doing in there?”

“Hold on,” she said.

Her legs erected from the blackness. The flushed toilet simmered. They carried a red bikini thong and a silver toe ring. Her breasts spilled out of the top. Like engorged water balloons. “You are going in the jacuzzi like that?” Oh God please let there be nobody there.

“You should be proud that your girlfriend has a body like this. Do you want me to be fat?”

“I just don’t want to attract douchebags. I’m in no mood!” His eyes followed Page’s behind wobbling the kitchenette. Gussy upped in enough fabric for a handkerchief. “Two Pina Coladas, one joint, two Stella’s in my pockets, and the room key. Anything else?”

The jacuzzi water still and drab. Peppered with Banana leaves but warm. Desmond flipped a light switch and poked a bubble button. Blue Green Bromine water bloomed and gargled. Like a gleaming oasis in a dingy jungle. From the front, Page’s red bikini not so inflammatory. She carried two white beach towels. Placed them in a chair outside the bubbling murkiness. Outside the circle of garden flood lights. Staked in the soil spraying a small morning sun. Bright pink and loud enough to see from a helicopter. Her legs carried her into the new light. Her left hand caressing the handrail. Page’s ripe onion booty absorbing the buzzing glow.

She paused as to let her ass be fine art. Desmond shuddered at the several second story windows. Blackened glass, lascivious irises, blinking in delight. Sliding Quicksilver bathing suits over their hard cocks. An army suited up to impose.

“Will you submerge that thing,” he said.

“Will you stop,” she said.

“Just stop advertising for an influx of perverts. Am I not good enough company?” he said.

They boiled themselves and dipped their hair. Her soaked top jutted her nipples. Oh my God, you can see her breasts! 

“What now?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. Not a peep from the other guests. The midnight Atlantic gusts blew Page’s blonde bangs. Things blinked red in the sky. Orion’s belt glittered above. Duval street murmured past the tall grove of palm trees.

“Look at those love birds,” a voice said.

“Not you again,” Page said.

“Not you again!” it said.

“Ignore him Page,” he said.

“Yes. Ignore me Page!” It’s male voice cracked from a tenor to a bass in mid-sentence.

“I’m calling the cops so I suggest you leave us alone,” Desmond said. We left the phones upstairs.

The large black crevice of a Banyan trunk ceased to speak. Instead it moved. Protruding a bald man in a leather jacket. His head like a small moon with tiger eyes. His phone out in front for snapping a selfie. But the camera pinhole aimed at her. “Nice clear pic of you Page!”

Desmond stood up. Jet streams fondled his calves. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass in a minute dude!”

“All I have to do is hit send to Mr. Clemons and the longitude and latitude of your whereabouts goes with it!”

“No! Please don’t!” Page said.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Desmond said.

“You want to tell him or should I page?”

“What do you want?” she said.

“Just a ten minute swim and I will be on my way. I couldn’t fucking believe I recognize you in Sloppy Joes. My lucky day I guess!”

“I’m calling the cops right now,” Desmond said.

“With what your dick?” he said.

“What do you want—Mr.—?” she said.

“Call me Jake. Just a quick bath darling,” he said. Jake peeled off his leather coat. His golden ripped biceps, grey sieve-like wife beater, and tattered jeans left. His Dr. Marten boots oiled like an amphibian. He slide them to socks and unbuckled his crocodile head waistband.

Desmond flopped out like a seal. He rose to his feet.

“One more step. I press send.”

“I could give a fuck. I’m going to send you back to the nuthouse you came!” Desmond said.

Page sunk down. Her breasts obscured by the lathering surface. “Desmond stop.”

Jake stood as a moonlit monkey in Speedos. He held is cell phone like a magnum. Desmond slapped the phone and jabbed Jake’s belly button. His lungs tied themselves in a knot. His kneecaps nested in ferns. He coughed and crawled to his phone. Desmond punted his underbelly. “Stop it Desmond!” Page said.

“I am going to kill him unless you tell me what the hell is going on?”

Jake’s testicles leaked out his Speedos. His eyes locked on Orion’s belt. “Your little stripper girlfriend likes to gamble. She owes the boss eighty grand then she split. Mr. Clemons…”

“Fuck you and your boss!” Desmond said.

“He will kill you both,” Jake said.

“We don’t have eighty grand and she quit stripping. Ask Mr. Clemons if he would like to buy one of her paintings for eighty grand?”

“I have something of Mr. Clemons. I stole it. He thinks Page did it,” Jake said.

“You have the crab? You’re a son of a bitch!” Page said.

Desmond reddened his fist and placed all his weight on his left leg. He stood to punt Jake’s brain out of his skull. “Wait! Don’t! Mr. Clemons will forgive you Page. He loves you. I will give you the crab so you may return it. The crab means more to him than a measly eighty grand. He spends that for one of his house parties.”

“What is the crab?” Desmond said.

“It is a solid gold crab. Beautifully sculpted, and the size of a pine cone. Its red ruby eyes smell like heaven. It sounds crazy but they do,” she said.

“And you will just hand that over and leave?” Desmond said.

“On one condition,” Jake said.

“What?” Desmond said.

“I have wanted to fuck Page for seven years,” he said.

“Oh no; you don’t. I will kill you first,” Desmond said. “Go take your little crab and sell it.”

“Mr. Clemons has an army looking for it. He created a network to keep tabs on jewelers around the world. Who can I sell it too for what it’s worth? Not a pawn shop.”

“You look like the type that would know some drug dealers,” Desmond said.

“They would rat me out to the boss. I have thought about this a while and when I saw Page at the bar, I knew this was fate,” he said.

“Fucking my fiancé is not your fate,” he said.

“Desmond, come here,” she said.

His dry legs splashed back into the still tub. He waddled to her, displacing water. It rippled like the morning ocean. His left eye fingered Jakes crawl. Jake reversed into a new Indian style position. Both of Desmond’s blue eyes squared back to Page. Her brown eyes frowned. Her lips puckered into the start of a sob. She held steady. Jake found the moon. He tucked his balls beneath the black nylon. Look at those love birds whisper. He spoke nothing. The air picked up spraying haircuts and clothing.

“Where is the gold crab?” Desmond said.

“It is close and in a safe spot,” Jake said.

“I want the Crab here now in our possession or you get nothing!” he said.

“You both could just jump me and take it,” Jake said.

“Then you can tell Mr. Clemons about it,” Desmond said.

“He will kill us all,” he said.

“Go get the crab!” she said.

“Fine but if you call the cops, I will send my photo to the boss!” he said.

Jake crawled back into his denim. Than slipped his phone into his butt’s pocket. Bare feet slapped the pavement. He hopped a fence in the warm shadows of the Banyan. Two teenagers plopped in the Jacuzzi like penguins. The jet currents like soft aquatic hands. It tickled around everyone’s bones. Desmond emptied his head to reload an image of his fiancés ass framed in a museum. But it submerged into the squirmy bromine stench. Her gold breasts, however, perched afloat. Beavis and Butthead took notice. Their braces streaked with blue moonlight. “You guys want to smoke?”

“Not right now guys,” Desmond said.

Desmond leaned into Page. “What do you want to do?”

“Smoke,” she said.

“Okay guys, light it up.”

The nineteen year old unzipped his Vision Street Wear hip sack. The sack’s fabric thinned from years of sunlight, dirt, and sweat. In one zip lock bag, a blunt. Could have been wrapped from a brown lunch bag. The teenager’s skull zippo flipped open. It squeaked and perfumed the air with naphtha. He toasted the end of the copper fusiform. A cherry burned like hot lava. “Let me know if it runs and I’ll fix the shit.” He toked. Coughed around like a wounded fish. Bromine soaked the flat sediment. He handed the blunt to Desmond.

“Thanks.” Desmond’s lips tasted the sweet cigar paper. A pool of hot white smoke punched his lungs. He coughed and handed it to Page. Desmond sank down the acrylic shell. It took about two minutes before the green talking skull appeared. “Habbit-Habba-Habba Habbitch-ula- Habby-Habba-Lights-Nights,” green skull said.

“What the hell is in this shit guys? I am hallucinating!” Desmond said.

The two teenagers laughed. The blonde eighteen year old blew a soft cloud into everyone. It stuck to the jacuzzi mist and lingered. Like a rainforest fog, a jungle atmosphere formed. “PCP,” he said. “You will love it.”

“I hate it asshole. There is a green skull yelling at me in my peripheral,” Desmond said.

“Dude, that is Tank. He always serves on first timers. He is your guide dude. You’re lucky bro, I haven’t seen Tank in years,” Rick said.

“What the fuck are you talking about Rick?” Ed said.

“Page is it? Is Tank talking to you too?” Rick said.

“My boyfriend is just nuts,” she said.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Rick said.

“I wanted to smoke to relax. Not be in a keen hell!” Desmond said. “Where the hell is that idiot with the lobster?”

“Crab, baby?” she said.

“I am not a crab. I am stoned out of my mind and a bit scared,” he said.

“No Jake’s crab,” she said.

“Who the fuck is Jake?” he said.

“Oh boy,” she said.

“Motherfucker, you are cracking me up!” Rick said.

“What is a keen hell?” Ed said.

“Tank sucks. For a guide at least. He muddles. He muddles me up. That green muddle-fucker!”

“Tank is a gal,” Rick said.

“Oh my God. Stop it. I am going to piss in this jacuzzi dudes,” Ed said.

Rick fingered his hip sack. He pulled an orange capsule and passed out oval pills. “Take one, these will calm you down. Get rid of Tank and shit,” he said. “We need some fucking beer, bro.”

Desmond held it out with his tongue. Like a fly on a frog’s. He cupped bromine water. Lifted it up ceremoniously and drank it. “What did I just take?”

“Dude your fucked up,” Rick said. “You just drank jacuzzi water.”

“You know how many fucking times I drank pool water by accident,” Desmond said. “Where is Jay with that fucking lobster with the red fucking eyes?”

“You guys have a friend coming?” Ed said. “Can he bring some beer. Like a sixer?”

“Look at the table bro! Over there! I see Stella and Pina Coladas!” Rick said.

“That is ours,” Page said. “You guys can have the beers and the cocktails are ours.”

Rick and Ed sat across from them. As if Page transformed from Mermaid to human legs in a nanosecond, she rose. Climbed into the Island mist. Her ass popped to a stop at the table. She bent over. Her bare ass cheeks wobbled.

“Um. Holy Shit! Awesome ass Page. Sorry Desmond, it just came out.” Rick said.

“You know what guys. You are right. She does have a hot ass and I am lucky as shit. Thank you!” Desmond said. “Honey I am turning into a raisin. I am going to drink that at the table if you don’t mind.”

Desmond wrapped himself like a taco. He sucked down the pineapple and cream. The rum burned. He struggled to push his eyelids over his pupils. Like the thick metal of a car’s hood. It crashed down as he slumped in the white painted iron. His ear drums filled with soft splashes. Like a hot bath in the winter. A white owl up high in the Banyan hooted. The jacuzzi water so still. Still like in the game Marco Polo. No more green skulls. But cool summer nights by the pool in his backyard. Marco Polo and burnt bacon polluted the senses. Soft water clicked rafts and tiles. Eyes closed red. Dogs barked in tunnels afar. The water moved with purpose. No more Marco Polo but moans. Bromine waves flopped the pavement. Moans prevailed over the hoots by the stars. His mind pitch black. His eyes found red. They stayed red for minutes. Water leaped into the skies. “Oh fuck yeah!”

“Quiet dude!”

“Ugh! Ugh!”

“Be quiet!”

Desmond pulled back his red lids. The new theater painted in blue, green, and flesh. The flesh moved with purpose. The flesh bounced with hysterics. The surface crackled like blueish green fireworks. Page in between two backwards hats. Braces gleamed like silver. Tongues dangled like tomatoes. Checkerboard boxer shorts, blue socks, soaked t-shirts, and a red bikini splayed across the smooth flagstone. His neck seemed shackled. “Is Hank choking me?”

Everyone turned their heads like a tennis match. “Nobody is choking you, bro,” Ed said.

“Are you guys fucking my fiancé?”

“We are bro. You passed out,” Rick said.

“That’s a little presumptuous don’t you think?” Desmond said.

Ed’s seven inch cock barreled down her throat. Her red lips smooshed against his pelvis. Her nose tapped his tattoo. Like an Eskimo kiss on a dark blue serpent. Her septum poked the skull’s eye it slithered out from. Strands of her wet hair whipped his thighs. His right hand held her hair. Squeezed like a net bag of marbles. He directed her head. Desmond could not see her tongue as it wiggled his cock. Like an uprooted earthworm atop soft Myakka sand. His balls flapped like windshield wipers in a tropical storm. Ed slid his cock into her moans. He peaked up at the yellow eyes of the white owl. “Oh Yeah!”

Desmond’s sight dimmed. After such pornographic images collected, the water roared like a typhoon. This is not happening. He uncurled his lids. The aquatic orgy like a well-oiled machine. Rick smiled at nothing. Teeth grinded as both palms held Page’s hips. Desmond laid at a cruel angle. Rick’s cock swelled and buried itself into her ass. He pulled back and six inches wet like seal skin. Condom-less meat doused in bromine and vanished back inside. He counted seventy five times. Her ass jiggled. “You feel so good Page. I could fuck this pussy all night.” He leaned in and fondled her tits. Like checking grapefruit for bruises. “Daddy loves this pussy.” He leaned in again and molested her. Like spinning a grapefruit off the branch.

“I’m going to come in her mouth. I want to hit that too.”

“I know. Ten more minutes.”

The jacuzzi boiled like pasta.

Desmond turned around. Behind him on the fence sat Jake. His hair dry as hey. Settled in like a nested Robin. The bright gold crab perched on his denim knee cap. His eyes glowed like a zombies. “Desmond! Desmond!”

“What?”

“That right there is some fucked up shit!” Jake said.

“I’m super upset.”