Irascible Ie and the Human

"Finish your vegetables!' the human said.

"You're a fascinating monster, but it's bad luck knowing you," Ike said. "I should never have left the Congo."

"My ass, Ike! You needed the money, but you were too busy with your nose in the slut's twat to realize it."

"Hold it, mister! I won't sit here and have you speak about Potty that way."

"Hold this!" shouted the human, jumping up from the dinner table and breaking out his schlong.

"Ike scooped up a paw full of sour kraut, splattered the human's cock, then leaped across the table.

"Hard over!' yelled Ike, following through with his hardest slap to the human's ball-sack, then biting the head of his cock.

The human ran around the room howling, tears streaming down his cheeks while bloody sour kraut dangled from his joint.

"That'll teach you not to disrespect my girlfriend," said Ike.

"She was a fertility goddess to a band of ne'er-do-well pygmies," said the human, stuffing Q-tips in his pecker's punctures. "Los Angeles might not be much, but it beats the hellhole you were stuck in."

"An invidious comparison if ever I've heard one," Ike said. "Rot in hell!"

Ike scampered out the door. Once on the street, he could breathe. It's a big world, and there are possibilities. He thought about Potty, and his heart fluttered. My precious Potty, he mused. Little did he know.

***

Across town, Potty had just pulled a change of clothes from her backpack: hot pants with a halter top and a pair of Manolo Blahniks. She'd tossed her other clothing, a yellow chiffon dress and lace panties, in a stinky dumpster puddle at the other end of the ally. Surrounded by Fez-wearing convention guys who'd just had a whack at her bits, Potty was eager to freshen up with sparkling French water and a bar of Neutrogena, kept in her purse for special occasions, but first had to lose her admirers.

"Ok, guys, one more group selfie, and then we've gotta break it up. And remember, no throwing stones at your wives."

"You're the best, Potty!"

***

Ike said, "I suppose I've nothing better than to hook up with the Space-horse and get lousy on fermented oats. Afterward is anybody's guess. I'll move through the treetops and avoid assholes."

He curled his tail and scampered to the top of a Ponderosa pine. The night's starry drama reflected in his eyes. The fragrant, sticky cones, as did the sappy needles, excited his senses. The entire glimmering city was a pallet of delicious fruit!

"I'm alive!"

The human had nothing better than to swill his whiskey. Oh, God, what will life be without my furry little companion?

***

Heading for the Space Horse's stall, Ike dropped onto a streetlamp.

A young man tugged his fiance's arm and pointed.

"Look, Honey, a monkey wearing clothes."

Ike dropped his britches, dumped a load of shit at their feet, then jumped back into the trees. He knew that, as the crow flew, it was a good three clicks to his buddy's stall.

Where can I scare up a few bananas for the trip? The human has a good stock, but I'm damned if ever I speak to the bitch again. I reject humiliation! It depends on the angle, but I'm not bending over for bananas. Those days are over! I need something butch to wear that'll put the Space Horse in a lather. Sissy-chaps! But first, I'll get waxed.

Ike had not forgotten the lay of the city. He knew it like the curl of his prehensile tail. I'll get waxed at The Nut Hut and swing by It's a Monkey Thing for the chaps. No cash is required. I'll pay them with my farts. That's the ticket; gas the dogshit out of them and slip out a window. Three shakes of a monkey's tail, and off I go.

Ike motored uptown, then sashayed through The Nut Hut's door.

"Wax me," he growled.

A receptionist pointed to a chart, "Today's special is..."

"Wax me to a phosphorescent fucking glow," Ike shrieked.

"Please follow me, sir."

She escorted Ike to a windowless room.

"I don't like this room, numb-nuts; it's got no window. Get me out of here. If I don't get a window, I swear I'll destroy this place."

"Ok, ok."

"No, I'm ok; you're so-so, numb-nuts."

The technician arrived. Ike glared at him.

"Don't test me, fucker!"

"What?"

"Oh, like you don't know. Try missing a hair, fuck-nut. You'll soon regret it, Mein Fräulein."

Ike grabbed the nearest chair, smashed it through the window, then did a backflip.

"Somebody call a doctor! My guts are about to explode! Oh, Christ, it's coming." He started jitterbugging.

"This is what happens when you push a fellow too far. I'd stop it if I could."

The technician and the receptionist held their noses and staggered out the door. Ike leaped out the window.

***

Meanwhile, back at the shack, the human sobbed into his smartphone.

"He's gone. H-he left me!"

Jerry wasn't new to the intervention line, and he recognized the tone.

"Let's talk about it. What's your name?"

"I don't have a name, dipshit. I'm the human. That's all I've ever been."

"That's ok, as long as you're ok with it."

"I'm not ok! See here, dipshit; I'm about to kill myself."

"There's time for everything, friend. Let's talk about it. I'm not going anywhere, and I care."

"I'm drunk."

"That's happened to me many times, but tomorrow's another day, a better day."

"I'm an alcoholic, a crossdresser; I've violated animals."

"You need fentanyl with vodka," said Jerry, slamming the phone.

***

Meantime, Ike had made it to It's a Monkey Thing and was flaunting in a mirror. His new chaps looked tough and went well with his pill hat and genie vest. Plus, there was plenty of room to wriggle his tail suggestively. But the salesman was getting on Ike's nerves.

"Those are all hand-stitched. It's a Monkey Thing is the place to shop. I've seen you before. Where was it, social media, children's books?"

"Piss off, cunt."

"Most monkeys couldn't pull off an outfit like that. But you lookin' cool, bro'."

"Leave me alone! What, you all down now? I'll slap the Will Smith out of you, bro!"

Ike rocketed past the salesman, knocking over clothing racks and mannequins. Screeching at the top of his lungs, he attached himself to the salesman's leg and started the jitterbug.

"You've turned me savage, but lord, ain't this some scratchy bark!"

The salesman stumbled sideways, kicking his leg violently, trying to shake Ike free.

"You hittin' my spot, fuck-stick, workin' it like John Henry. Giddy up, mutha-fucka!"

"Oh, please stop!" cried the salesman, falling in a heap. "Give me back my wallet!"

"Pony up, pussy. Here I am, just about to bust a nut, and you go down like your mind is tied to his behind. I'm heading for the carnival; bro. Catch you on the rebound."

***

A bit about the Space Horse.

He'd hitched a ride on Jeff Bezos's spaceship and came to Earth from the deepest reaches of space. Bezos and the Space Horse crossed thousands of galaxies, trillions of light-years, boatloads of nebulas, and other heavenly bodies along the way. Finally, the ship streaked into the earth's atmosphere. It crashed in a cornfield, and he was soon discovered. As legend has it, he was led to a magnificent stall.

All that watched him run agreed; there was never a greater stallion. The other legendries paled in comparison. Secretariat was a broken nag, Man o' War, a stumbling gluepot, Dancer's Image, a straw dog. Space Horse was the terrible runaway freight train, the dreadnought comet steaming unchallenged along the rail. Any attempt to close on him in the stretch, to match his monumental stride, to strip away the smallest part of his dominance was an exercise in futility. He was the touchstone of the country's best tracks, the thunder of his hooves, his blast-furnace lungs. He was the admiration of every colt who dreamed of a career on the track.

His eminence took his victory lap alone, free from the tethers of a meaningless jockey, independent and resplendent, his silver-buckled saddle gleaming in the sun.

Amid much fanfare and applause, the mayor of Louisville presented the noble steed with a key to the city. He wore it proudly around his neck at all celebrity functions and photo shoots.

He was an industry unto himself, commanding outstanding stud fees. And the country's breeders were only too happy to lead their fillies into his stall at any cost. He was the glorious prince of horseflesh, the indomitable equestrian powder keg, and perhaps the greatest runner of the century. He was queer as a three-dollar bill.

***

Meanwhile, Potty Petals was strolling along the boulevard, excited that her work was done for the evening. "Ah, but there is ambrosia on the night's breeze," she waxed. "I am more desirous than Ulysses and just as wont to suffer a siren. Can it be that the carnival has come to town?" She hailed a cab.

"Where to, lady?"

"Take me to the carnival, buster."

"Whatever you say, lady."

***

But even as Ike and Potty prepared for the carnival, trouble was brewing there. Drexel Pusser, a sideshow grotesque and owner of the Whimsy World carnival, was in a foul mood.

He had consumed as many rodents as his partner in his career, the crowd-nauseating Lobster-Boy.

Together, Drexel and Lobster-Boy enjoyed the billing of World's Foulest Geeks.

But the fabled Lobster-Boy met an untimely end at the hands of his club-swinging wife, the so-called "Whore of Babylon." She'd beaten his deformed body to a pulp while he sat in a wheelchair, unable to raise a claw in defense. The thalidomide babies wept grievously at the funeral, and Drexel Pusser became the carnival's sole owner.

***

When Ike arrived at Whimsy World, he took a perch atop a light pole, admiring all the carnival wonders: the aroma of roasted peanuts, the spinning pinwheels, the gobs of cotton candy. Simply delightful! Where should a monkey start? He needed a playmate, but all the people looked mindless and dull. Hold everything. Here is a woman with towering, teased-up hair. That must have taken hours to construct. If she gets close enough to my pole, I'll leap on her head and destroy the entire hairdo. If she doesn't scream shrilly enough, I'll pee.

Ike prepared himself, curling his tail into a tight spiral. Closer, just a little closer. Now jump! The woman's body went stiff as Ike landed. Clutching the sides of her face, she emptied her bladder and screamed her husband's name in paralyzed horror.

"Harold! Oh, Harold," screamed she, "Save me!"

"Oh, Bernadette!" Harold cried.

Ike went ting-ting, then slapped and pulled furiously at his prize. Harold smashed a snow cone in Bernadette's face, trying to dislodge Ike. Bernadette went to her knees as Ike tore her dress aside and shredded her panties. He drove his dick up her ass. "Eek...eek...eek," grunted Ike.

Bernadette's eyes rolled up, and her tongue wagged. Harold leaped in to save his wife.

"Get the fuck away from us," Bernadette moaned.

A crowd closed around them and took up a chant.

"Ike. Ike. Ike."

"He's splitting me in two," Bernadette cried.

Ike shot his load, pulled out of Bernadette's ass, and wiped his dick on Harold's trousers. He ran off to catch a viewing of Squirt the Wonder Squid.

***

Potty Petals arrived moments after Ike's antics; she walked straight into the aftermath. Bernadette had regained a part of her composure and was complaining bitterly.

"I'll sue this fucking place!" she shouted. Then she turned a glare toward her husband. For Christ's sake, Harold. Anybody can see I'm not a healthy woman, yet you stand by like a limp dick while a wild animal ass-fucks me."

"You seemed to be enjoying it," Harold offered.

"That's not the point. Good God, what were you thinking? Don't answer that! I should know better than to expect your help when I need it. When I married you fourteen years ago, you were a simp, and nothing has changed. Screw you, Harold. Just stay away from me."

The slope-shouldered Harold, holding the remnants of the dirty wig in one hand and the crushed snow cone in the other, looked apologetically around at the group of onlookers, who'd begun to snicker at his wife's diatribe.

"It's ok now," Harold said, "but a wild beast, a vicious beast, ass-fucked my wife."

"We all saw it," laughed a boy scout.

"There ain't no wild animals in Whimsy World!"

Drexel Pusser approached menacingly.

"We have no loose animals here," he said, with an evil glare, "so haul your asses off my ground before I call in the law."

"But it should be us that calls the police," started Harold.

"Shut fucking up!" roared Pusser.

Bernadette grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Just forget it." she said, "Never mind it, honey."

Harold started to speak, but she checked him, holding his hand and leading him away.

Potty disappeared into the crowd.

***

Meanwhile, Ike was in the Freak House, but Squirt was a bust. He wasn't a real squid, just a sad sack in a rubber suit wallowing in a kiddy pool. For an extra buck, you could throw sushi in his face. Ike thought it over. There was Squid's self-esteem to consider.

Squid was probably an orphan who donated his time to charities when not working--more reason to bury his mug in sushi.

Ike somersaulted to the fish bar and slapped down a twenty.

"Gimme sushi and keep it coming," he chattered.

His astonishing accuracy with the sushi attracted a crowd. I feel utterly burlesque.

"More sushi," chanted the crowd.

Ike tumbled back to the fish bar in a complete frenzy.

"Give me fish heads!"

He adopted a Jai alai motion, throwing the fish head with such mustard that it knocked Squid cold. The crowd shouted their approval and doubled over at Ike's magnificence.

One man screamed quite madly at the spectacle. Ike let him have it, too, then started backflips at a terrific speed. The crowd cheered. Ike jumped behind the fish bar, grabbed fish heads, and launched salvos into the crowd. Chaos ensued.

"Christ on a rubber crutch!" screamed a woman. Let me out of this place."

"He's gone insane. He'll kill us all!" bellowed a fat man.

The crowd clambered for the exit. Ike drove them before him, bonk-bonk-bonking them with fish heads. There were no injuries, save Squirt, who was just coming to as Ike hid under a bucket and started inching his way toward the exit.

"Holy smokes, that must be some show," said an onlooker.

"Who's the guy with the slime in his hair?"

"He must be part of the act!"

Nobody noticed the galvanized bucket. Ike enjoyed this play immensely. Several rust holes allowed him to peak up skirts, maintain direction, and jerk off on ladies' footwear. It was all the latitude a monkey could ask for, but suddenly, his progress was checked.

"What mischief is here?' said a voice.

"Piss off."

"Saucy rouge!" admonished Potty. She performed a curtsy and smiled brilliantly at the gathering crowd.

Ike stayed cool. He checked the topside rust hole. It was covered over. He gave it a lick. Hmmm, Manolo Blahniks. The port side hole showcased a lard-ass.

"You're canceled, fat-ass," shouted Ike. "Everybody hates you!"

"Back off, or you're all going to get it! I'm warning you here. I'm sick! You'll all come down with it: Cholera, Leprosy, Ebola, the latest strain of Covid, I've got all that and more. I'll give you Alzheimer's so bad you won't remember how to wipe your own ass. You're all getting it--except for the Jews." But suddenly, the bucket came off. Upon seeing Potty, Ike did not hesitate. He threw himself into her arms, but her breasts had a flubber effect and bounced him back into the bucket.

"Oh, my God, Ike, are you ok?"

"I think so," Ike said, "say do you remember the time you bounced me off a coconut tree?"

"Yes...Aww, you're making me all misty."

"How's about a waffle cone, hot stuff?"

"Lead the way!"

***

Drexel Pusser's huddled over a boiled kidney plate. He'd sucked it greedily. Two grisly pieces of the undercooked stuff remained of the original eleven pounds. Pusser pushed them into his maw and bit down; a trickle of brown juice ran out a corner of his mouth. Along with a pound of tripe, the kidneys had stuffed his cavernous guts like sausage casings. Sleep overtook Pusser. His head lolled. The jaw went slack. His great stomach groaned, churned, and squeezed at the meat, bathing it in digestive juices until the entire mass became a row of boxcar turds. Frantic knocking jarred him awake. It was the cashier from his trinket concession. There was trouble at the freak house. People wanted refunds. A rampaging ape had attacked Squid.

Pusser shambled to his feet, pushing roughly past the woman--bruising her left tit with a clumsy elbow. He started toward the Freak house.

***

Meanwhile, Potty Petals dropped to her hands and knees at the food concession, feigning the search for lost contact lenses. The arched-back, switch, and wiggle routine was the perfect decoy, allowing Ike to sneak behind the food counter and take inventory.

He swirled cotton candy onto a finger; hmm, mostly fluff. The hotdogs looked interesting, so he smashed a couple. Boring. The clam cake smelled like puke. Disgusting.

After throwing some popcorn around, Ike tasted the caramel syrup. Not bad. He pulled a candy apple off some wax paper and waved it over his head. What the hell happened to this apple? "I'll get back to it," he said, carelessly tossing the fruit. Ike glanced disdainfully at the concession attendant, leaning over the counter with his eyes glued to Potty's backside. His pants were hitched low, gangbanger style.

"Oh," said Potty, reaching back and caressing her butt, "where is that pesky phone of mine? Whoops!" she exclaimed, laughing childishly. "Well, that certainly ain't it!"

Showtime! Ike grabbed an oversized whipped cream canister and snuck up behind, fitting the nozzle in the attendant coin slot--time for your Oscar, Will.

WOOSH! The pants ballooned gigantically, and the attendant, realizing a seizure, started a wacky turkey trot with his arms akimbo.

"Catch me, catch me, catch me. Gangway!"

Ike ran straight into Drexel Pusser's gut.

"I say, sir, stand aside," requested Ike. "Begging your pardon, sir. Allow me passage. Get your ass out of my way, blob-boy!" Pusser's hands reached for Ike's throat.

***

The human knew it meant trouble if he didn't bring Ike back into the fold. Firstly, he'd have to explain the situation to Ike's publisher, and with Ike's latest novella, entitled "Irascible Ike Loses his Winter Jacket," already behind schedule, the guy would go ballistic.

There's no one else to blame, though. I brought this entire goddam business down on myself. Laid too hard into the bottle, gave in to Ike's every whim, and now the whole thing has gone sour. That's not how it used to be, nor how it will stay!

He brought his fist down on the table with new resolve. He'd been a fool to even consider ending it all, a sucker to let a bottle of rotgut ruin his body and muddle his thinking. "Well, all that's over now," shouted the human. "The kid is back, and Ike will be back, whatever the cost!"

The human stood confidently, walked to the garage, and rolled out Mariah, his Vincent Black Shadow. She had a stiff compression, but the human stood high on the kickstart, and Mariah woke up growling.

***

Drexel Pusser's hand closed around Ike's throat with the finality of a bear trap. The pig was demonically strong, and Ike's struggles were in vain. Potty Petals attacked the asshole from the rear. Still, her feminine fists were useless against the brute, who slapped her aside and continued throttling Ike. Pusser leaned in with his jiggling tonnage. Ike started passing out, and Pusser started dragging Ike in the direction of his lair, mumbling, 'I'll make a stew with this little bastard."

"The Space Horse," gasped Ike. "Bring the Space...."

Potty Petals did not hesitate; only the Space Horse could derail Ike's fate. She ran for the carnival's exit, for the stallion's stables.