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Dog whelks in your arteries

Derived on July 6, 2008.

“God-damned bloody dog whelks; it’s all your fault!”

The dog whelks looked back at me blankly. I stared them down, angrily flaring my nostrils and snorting out the blebs growing on my nose. “Don’t you give me that look! You God-damned unga-bunglers! You fornicatious schtupping-funglers! You worthless… no-good… two-timing dogwinkles! Admit it! It’s all your fault!”

The dog whelks—dogwinkles, in more amusing parlance—remained as they were, unchanged and unchanging. They didn’t just remain as they were, they continued to remain as they were. One poked an eye stalk in my direction, mocking me. It was almost as if they were some form of sessile crustacean, not the predatory sea snails I had been told they were. And so I was angry. And I got angrier.

Smash! I slammed my hammy fist into the glass, which cracked under the assault, much to my amusement and pleasure. The glass was thick, but it wouldn’t withstand my furor for long. I grinned. I punched it again. I grinned some more, and punched some more. Smash, smash, smash! I pounded on the glass again—again and again, in fact—until the pane collapsed, sending shards of glass, gallons of water, and dog whelks in every direction.

“That’ll teach you God-damned whelks!” I howled at the top of my lungs, flailing my bloodied hands, replete with near-severed fingers, over my head. I frothed at the mouth. I hooted in triumph. I frothed some more, and hooted even louder. I even howled—hoarsely, I’ll admit, but horsely too.

Bozo the Clown was dead, and these dogwinkles would pay dearly for it.

The miserable dog whelks lay upon the floor around me, still in their shells, bumping and gurgling softly, dying slowly. Dying. Like my gluefish. Dying, dying. But not dead.

“I’ll fix that!” I cackled, stomping one flat. Crunch! Its shell cracked, squooshing the dog whelk within, splattering its juicy innards outward in a graceful parabolic splat-mark. I cackled some more, giddy at the sound of their tiny deaths and sight of their slimy little bodies flattened flat. Crunch! Splat! “Die, die, you damnable dog whelks! Death to the dogwinkles! I’ll show you ‘dugongs in your ear canals’!” I frothed some more, for good measure.

Dugongs began pouring out of my ear canals, but I was non-fazed. I pressed on with the slaughter of the helpless predatory sea snails bumping and gurgling on the floor around me. A security guard came running. Shouting. Running and shouting, as the piteous snails gurgled to death, bumptiously. Broken glass was everywhere. Everywhere. Broken everywhere.

Smelley, still not having followed his master back to Colchis, suddenly chucked a live grenade at me through an open window next to the shattered tank. I hit the deck. Shards of glass stabbed at me in every direction, several of them lodging deep in my fleshy body. I was too angry to care, my frothing red rage having got the best of me. How dare these dog whelks continue to bumpgurgle all over the floor?! The security guards were on top of me, hauling me off the floor and attempting to subdue me. I picked up a dog whelk—the last survivor, it appeared—and crushed it between my bony, white fingers.

“I regret nothing! Death to the dogwinkles! Bozo’s dead! Dugongs! Dugongs in your ear canals! Dogwinkles in your arteries!! Bozo’s dead, at their hands! Death to the doggie winkies! Deeeaaath!! Deeeeaaath!!” I shrieked as I was dragged away by the guards. I regret nothing!!!

[Feetnote: The haberdashery remains open. I shall deal with that problem next week. Next week, haberdashers, next week…]