Here I was again. Back on Earth, the galaxy’s porn shop. I never thought I’d make it back, on this crappy little rock spinning around that flickering lightbulb they call Sol. A planet full of bastards and unlimited pictures of French maids looking over their shoulder seductively and pouting for an awaiting cock. It’s like an entire people beg perpetually for a good dicking. Normally I would love this place, but even I have my limits for smut.
My name is Abito. Nobody loves me. Everybody hates Abito. And that’s the way I like it.
I was on this rock to look for that bastard Karl, known to the universe as the Mutt Mangler. He’s eluded me for ten years now. A decade of decadence and me without my party hat and chocolate frosting. He’s slicker than an Irishman in heat, and twice as cunning. They say he could be President Commander of Mars if he put his ability to good use. Too bad he got addicted to high fructose corn syrup and butterscotch flavored dog biscuits. That’s what fried his brain. Now, I bet he’d barely be able to run for mayor of Scottsdale. Lucky for them he hates deserts, where there are no dogs for him to abuse.
My hot tip came a few days after I heard about his latest scam. Would leaked out into the ether that he was holed up in Earth, keeping a low profile and buying screws for some nameless company. He even got married. To a female! And the owe a dog and a house with a white picket fence and no Irishman anyway in the neighborhood. The Earth dream, domestic bliss. God help us all.
Anyway, my source saw him on Good Morning America on a segment on kennels. There he was, smiling like a fool and talking about how “those cute little dogs really made his life complete.” The bastard was even volunteering his precious time. I don’t think this leopard can change his stripes that easy.
Now I was in Miami, looking for Karl’s last known contact on Earth. Her name is Lola. I think she’s a gypsy. So I was on my way to Gypsy Town, near the Russia District off of South Beach. You can find in the Canopy Corridor. Great place for finding clogs.
Ah…Miami. A town built on mojitos and coconut flavored body butter. The whole town smelled like stale cigar smoke mixed with whale flatulence. Perfect atmosphere for gypsy folk, peddling their cheap wares to turistas in short shorts and fanny packs. Good, salt of the earth people wanted to visit the Coconut Isle.
I came to this planet wary of how the locals here would react to a person like me. I don’t think they’re ready for a walking, talking, half-robot, half-dog amongst them. Hell, they can barely tolerate Southerners. So I needed a disguise.
Luckily there was a police convention in town. A friend of a friend could help me out. Right, dirty old bastard by the name of McGruff the Crime Dog. While these ignorant fools thought he was just a guy in a costume, I knew better. A world renowned pedophile from where I was, he never got caught because his dad ruled half the galaxy. Now he’s a perfect fit for photo ops and children hugging. Bastard makes me sick, but I needed him at this point.
I followed McGruff around the South Beach convention as Barks McLarson, the dog fighting arson. This really made me glad I came out of retirement. God I hate child. At least they didn’t let the poor people touch me.
If I had to stay in South Beach for any extended periods of time, I think I would have to do as the locals do and mug myself. At least there weren’t any Irish people around, clogging the place up with potatoes and famine.
The afternoon was spent walking the beaches and taking pictures with drunk cops in banana hammocks and hitting each other with night sticks. Lubed up men with sticks. Fun for the whole family. I managed to escape the homoerotic lovefest as dusk hit the horizon. Gypsy Town began only a few blocks from our booth. McGruff didn’t notice my absence. He was too busy trying to lure a group of street urchins into his van with a bucket full of chorizos.
Gypsy Town at night is no place for a normal dog. The people in here tended to drug us and shave us, using our fur to make a purse. The tourists thought it was authentic goat wool from back home. Ignorant fools. They didn’t want to know what the gypsy condoms were made of.
A few blocks into this barrio, I came across a dirty vagrant sitting behind the box. The sign on the box, written in dark red paint that smelled like chicken blood, read “Lazy Stephen- Truth Teller $5.” Novel idea, selling info for cash. Enterprising young man. He bright yellow track suit and silver chains made him seem like a friendly guy, but the gigantic sombrero with “You Can Trust Me” written across the brim was what really sold me.
“Ok, here’s ten bucks. Tell me what I need to know.”
“Brother, I know exactly what you are looking for.”
He pointed down the street to a neon sign above a dark green door. A bouncer in dark sunglasses stood in front of it, arms folded against his heavyset frame. A steady, muffled rhythm boomed out from the building, filling the air with the crappy cadence of Miami house music, named the worst music in the universe by Time magazine.
The sign flickered in the moonlight, buzzing on and off in electronic bliss. It read, “Copa Cabana.”
Huh. I’d never imagine finding Lola in there. She must be a showgirl.
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