Banana Hammock (24 page)

Poop spent the next hour sodomizing Bunny.

When Poop was finished, he poked Bunny repeatedly with a very sharp stick.

After Bunny died, Poop raped his eye socket, and then he continued on his journey to Jiglet’s house.

He was halfway there when he ran into his dealer, Trigger. As usual, Trigger was bouncing up and down on his tail.

“Hallo, Trigger!” said Poop.

“Hallo, Poop!” answered Trigger. “Need some meth? That’s why Trigger’s are so bouncy, don’t you know.”

And Trigger began to sing his song:

The wonderful thing about Triggers!

Is they love to smoke dat rock!

I’m so goddamned bouncy!

I just bounced on my cock!

Poop waited patiently while Trigger sang his song about eight thousand fucking times, jumping up and down like he’d been given a caffeine enema.

Finally, Poop had had enough. He pulled out his 9mm and blew off Trigger’s tail.

“Take your Ritalin, you ADHD freak,” said Poop.

“My bounce!” Trigger cried, picking up his bloody tail.

“Hurry the fuck up with that crack,” chided Poop. “Or I’m killing your parents.”

Trigger dug out some crack vials, and Poop threw a twenty at him.

“You had better see a doctor, Trigger, and get that looked at,” said Poop.

Then Poop continued on his way to Jiglet’s house.

He was almost there when he saw Rooga the kangaroo standing next to the trail.

“Bitch, where’s my money?” Poop asked.

He slapped Rooga in the face.

“I’ll get it, Mack Ninnie,” said Rooga . “It’s been slow! I swear to Christ!”

Poop grabbed one of Rooga’s tiny arms. He stared at the track marks.

“Don’t lie to me, ho! You’ve been shooting smack again!”

Poop kicked her in the pouch.

“I’ll make some cheddar, Ninnie! I promise!”

“Damn straight you will!” Poop forced Rooga to her knees. “Now nibble on this furry bear hotdog.”

Rooga made a face. “Poop—it smells like Bunny shit.”

“Suck the poop off the Poop. Get to it, or I’ll pimp stick you up the stank.”

So Rooga got to it.

When she finished swallowing, Poop gave her a friendly slap across the face.

“You know I love you, bitch,” cooed Poop. “Now get that sweet marsupial ass back on the street and make Daddy some money. And tell the same to your bratty kid. If he don’t earn, the child will burn. Dig?”

Then Poop once again continued on his journey to Jiglet’s house. But being a Bear of Very Little Intelligence, Poop got lost again.

“Oh, bother,” said Poop.

Poop logged onto the Internet with his iPhone and tried to use MapQuest.com. He followed the directions closely, but came to a dead end.

MapQuest had fucked him, like it had so many others.

“Cock sucking monkey fucker,” said Poop.

Poop finally arrived at his destination by pure luck, several hours later.

“It’s about fucking time,” Poop thought.

He knocked on the door.

“Hallo, Jiglet!” Poop yelled. “Are you home?”

“I’m taking a shit! Fuck off!” Jiglet yelled back.

Poop picked the lock and let himself in.

Jiglet appeared behind the corner. He was naked, brandishing a stiff six-shooter. He also had a gun.

“Oh, Poop! It’s only you!”

Jiglet put down the gun and leaned against the counter, leaving a brown smear because he didn’t wipe his ass.

“Who were you expecting, Jiglet?” Poop asked.

“My bookie, Guido. He told me he’d hammer my nuts flat if I didn’t pay him.”

Poop squinted. “He wouldn’t need a very large hammer.”

Jiglet farted.

“Fuck you, Poop. What the fuck do you want, you fat fuck?”

Poop smacked his lips. “I was wondering, perchance, did you have a smackeral of honey?”

Jiglet sat down, leaving another brown smear.

“Sorry, you freeloading fat ass. I don’t have a thing to eat.”

Poop took out his gun. “Maybe I’ll just eat you instead.”

Jiglet tried to get up, but his sticky poo-butt was stuck to the chair.

“You don’t want to eat me, Poop! I’m just a little animal, small and stringy!”

But Poop wasn’t listening. He was thinking about pork chops and bacon strips.

Poop preheated the oven to 350 degrees.

“Poop, please!” pleaded Jiglet. “We’re friends! Friends don’t eat each other!”

“We aren’t eating each other,” said Poop. “I’m eating you.”

Poop yanked Jiglet out of the chair and shoved him into the hot oven. While Jiglet screamed and screamed, Poop sang this song to himself:

I’m cooking my best friend!

I’m cooking my best friend!

See what happens when

You don’t wipe your rear end!

Then Poop pulled out his crack pipe and lit up a rock.

Unfortunately for Poop, he was careless with his Zippo, and accidentally set himself on fire. Within seconds, the fur had burned off of his arms.

Poop tried to beat out the flames, but soon his whole body was ablaze.

“Oh bother,” said Poop, as his face burned away. “I really fucked up this time.”

The end.

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“Excuse me,” I said, putting a hand over my mouth and rushing past Haknort. But before I could even get out of my chair, I bazooka-vomited all over the elderly man.

“Blah! I got some in my mouth!” complained Haknort.

I hurled again, and let me tell you, it tasted even worse coming out.

“Damn you, General Tsao!” I cursed. “Damn you and your funky, spoiled chicken!”

Then I threw up my lungs through my nose, and died.

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Andrew Mayhem is really dead.

Unless Strand gets uppity and wants to sue. If so, this section was all just a dream.

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Author’s Note:
This is the very first Harry McGlade story. It began at my friend Jim Coursey’s house, when we both were fifteen years old. We wrote the first few pages on his Apple IIe, parodying private eye fiction, giggling like fools at the dumb puns and crude sexual references. I wound up finishing it three years later, and naïvely sent the story to Playboy Magazine to see if they’d publish it. Playboy wisely declined, sending me my very first rejection letter. But I eventually wrote several dozen Harry McGlade stories, similar to this one, and eventually used a toned-down version of him in Whiskey Sour over fifteen years later.