Just Ducy

Yeah. Yeah. I know. So what's the deal with a fucking plastic duck? Well, listen up and I'll give you the straight shit. This all started when I was younger, happier duck. I always sat on a shelf in Finnegan's Toys and Gifts at 9th and Yamhill. I was near the store's front window and could watch the people passing by.

Occasionally some kid would peer in at all the lesser toys scattered around the joint, then stare longingly at me. I would hop up and down yelling, "Me! Buy me!" But then they would pass on when their self-centered, bitch mothers grabbed them by the hand and dragged them off down the street to Nordstrom's to look for shit for their own selfish asses.

So what's a duck supposed to do? Right? I sat. I hopped and hoped some nice kid would want me so bad he or she would throw a tantrum until their bitch mother bought me. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Oh, I got sold, but not to some nice little kid. Oh, no. I got screwed, so to speak.

I can remember the day as if it were yesterday. A sunny July afternoon. The temperature was warm, not a cloud in the sky and a light breeze blowing off the Willamette. And who comes in the shop? Igor the Horrible. Actually, his name is Randy, but I still call him Igor. The name seems to fit. After all. What the hell does a grown man want with a ducky? Well, I found out the answer to that one. Sick fucker.

The guy was short and ugly. He smelled like a garbage man when he reached out to pick me up off my shelf. He pawed me with his grubby hands. He scratched me with his dirty fingernails. I wanted to barf. Then it got worse. He started licking me. I screamed for help.

Juanita, the hideous, Goth sales girl with the pimply-faced boyfriend came to my rescue. "You gonna buy that?"

"Oh, yes. He's perfect for what I have in mind."

Now I am, of course, perfect in every way. But I had to wonder what Igor had in his filthy little mind. With a sense of foreboding, I knew I wasn't perfect for whatever this deviant little bastard had dreamed up.

Anyway, he had me stuffed in a paper bag and took me home. Did I say took me home? Not directly. First he tortured me. He swung the bag over his head, bounced me off a lamp post then threw me in the trunk of a car like I was some cast off piece of shit. I nearly threw up. It was completely obvious to me after one minute of my slavery to Igor that he had no respect for the finer plastic toys of the world.

So, next I was bounced around in the trunk over the worst roads in the Pacific Northwest. I admit I couldn't see anything, being locked in the blackness of his car trunk and all, but I'm sure he ran over boulders the size of Mount St. Helens, pot holes that resembled the great caldera that made up Crater Lake, not to mention his erratic driving. He'd slam on the breaks at every stop sign. Pound the gas peddle when he took off leaving rubber all over the road. He constantly laid on the horn and I could hear him screaming at the other drivers like he was a New York cab driver or something. Igor drove like he should have been committed to a nut house for criminally insane speeders or something.

By some miracle we finally arrived at his home in Raleigh Hills. I have to say, I held some glimmer of hope, thinking maybe Igor had purchased me for a child, even a mini-Igor, but preferably a cute little blond daughter who would play with me, love me and treat me in the gentle, kind way I truly deserve.

"Hi, honey," he called opening the front door of his home.

"Hi, Randy. How was your day, baby?"

I didn't mention Mrs. Igor, did I? Her real name is June, but get this one - short, squat, about two thousand pounds over weight, wart on her ugly witch's nose, the whole nine yards. This bitch came right out of a Halloween horror story. Damn! The woman even cackled like a witch. I had a horrible feeling she was going to pound on me with her broomstick or something. But that would have been better than what really happened. Oops. I'm getting ahead of the story.

Picture this. I'm still in the paper bag. Plastic Ducky blood from the death defying ride in the trunk is everywhere. My vision is a little weird because one of my plastic eyes seems to have slipped a little out of place. And I'm coved with plastic ducky barf.

"What's in the bag, Randy?" Mrs. Igor asks, obviously hoping the bag would contain about twenty pounds of some confectionary delight.

"Oh, just something, I picked up. We'll talk about this later," Igor said.

"Come on, Randy. You know I love your surprises."

"Son of a bitch," I thought to myself. "I doubt very much there is a kid in the house. I'm screwed."

So what happened? They started fighting over the damn paper sack. She wanted it. He played keep-away. I'm got shaken all over the place. More plastic ducky blood and barf. I'm screaming, "Corpsman! Medic! Anyone help me!" like some wounded marine in Iraq who just encountered the world's largest IED.

Finally, Mrs. Igor (AKA The Porker) throws Igor to the floor and sits on his face, grabs the bag out of his hand and tears it open. I am totally exposed in all my misery.

"Oh, my God! You didn't!" she screams.

"Yes, I did," he mumbles, gasping for air, his head tightly clenched between Mrs. Igor's massive butt cheeks..

"Let's do it right now? I want to try this," Mrs. Igor pleaded, batting her eyelashes.

In a muffled voice Igor said, "No, baby. I have to go to a dinner meeting. We can do it when I come back. Okay?"

Mrs. Igor began to sulk, but too damn bad. This whole scene was getting too weird for me. What the hell did they have in mind? I dreaded finding out.

Anyway, Igor went someplace in the house and was gone for a while. In the meantime, Mrs. Igor fondled me. Can you believe it? She fucking fondled me. Like, what they hell did she think I was? Some nine year old choirboy or something? And she was just as nasty as Igor. Dirty fingernails. Bad breath. I prayed for my salvation to the great God of plastic ducky toys. It did no good. I knew I was screwed beyond any redemption.

Finally, Igor reappeared neatly dressed in a really tacky, ill fitting suit from K-Mart or someplace. He leaned over and kissed Mrs. Igor and made for the door. I could hear the car start and Igor laying rubber as he left the driveway. That fucker needed to be arrested and his car impounded for the good of all humanity.

No sooner had Igor left when Mrs. Igor started talking to me. She told me about how much she was going to love me. She said she was going to shower me with jelly and all kinds of stuff like that. I began to suspect this might not be as bad as I first thought. I was wrong.

Busily Mrs. Igor picked me up and took me into the bathroom where she stripped naked. It was really disgusting, you know. Huge rolls of Jell-o like flab undulated everywhere. I was forced to watch while she primped and preened in front of a wall-to-wall mirror, dabbing and rubbing icky shit all over her fat body. Then she started the water in the tub. Next she opened the medicine cabinet and took out a tube. I thought it was tooth paste, but when she squirted some out on her hand it was clear and kind of stinky. I looked at the tube. What the hell is KY Jelly? This is not exactly what I had in mind.

Then she picked me up and started smearing that crap all over me. It was really icky. I screamed. I tried to escape. She held me in a deadly grasp.

The witch took me to the tube and settled her fat ass in about three inches of tepid water. Meanwhile, one of my eyes had fallen completely off and the KY Jelly in the other made it really hard to see what was going on. I fluttered my little plastic ducky wings against my face and blinked. Holy Shit. It looked like I was diving into hairy Grand Canyon. I hit bottom. I couldn't breath. Then, as if I was bungee jumping or something, the bungee cord caught up with me and I went springing out of the canyon again only to fall back into the horrible hair-lined pit again and again.

I have no idea how long it went on. After the third plunge into the great abyss I must have become delirious. When it was over, I lay panting and humiliated on the bathroom floor, thrown away like an old rag. Mrs. Igor picked me up and took me to the sink and tried to drown me. Then she tried to gag me with some foul tasting soap. So this is what "waterboarding"is like? I truly felt sorry for the terrorists in prison in Cuba. I knew their pain.

Fortunately, it was over. Mrs. Igor dried me off, took me in the bedroom and put me in a drawer in the lamp stand next to the bed. I wiggled into the softness of the nylon panties she stored there and drifted off into ducky dreamland.

It must have been hours later when I was rudely awakened. Igor was there. Both he and Mrs. Igor were butt naked. Igor manhandled me, tossed me in the air a couple of times then proceeded to smear me with that same KY Jelly. "Oh, Shit," I thought. I was right. More bungee jumping into the Grand Canyon.

So you can see. My life really sucks. I had high hopes of being owned and loved by some sweet and innocent young thing who would love and care for me all my life. But no. That was not to be. Instead it's the daily grind being used by Mrs. Igor in her perverse pleasure, then by both of them as they tortured me late into each night. They tell me I'm the best slave they ever had, but I doubt it.

But on the bright side, they did discover that real Strawberry Jelly and whipped cream work just as well as KY Jelly. I've come to rather like that, even if it is a prelude to my nightly freefall into the unknown zone.