BOB'S SNORKLE SHACK

“You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. Pass me a fucking banana would you…” And that’s how it all began, as the baboon tourists sat, waiting with their bellies full of boredom, apathy and misery. They looked fresh off the bus from the Lithium Institute with nothing but pick axes and death in their eyes. The one big fat guy with his mask on his head, wetsuit on backwards with bulging pink limbs full of high blood pressure and cholesterol was the worst. Oh shit because that could be me in ten or less; note to self, always have cyanide handy. Hawaii is all about mirrors and being seen in public. The veil must be lifted, but I ignore, choosing instead to busy myself in the completion of photographs, my greatest distraction in life. I think of the Curse of Lono… the last big voice that came booming out of here was Hunter ST. Spreading the thick hummus of his words across the printed page. The devil surely had him, wrestling that thick tongue of his, scraping off the paste and throwing it under the might of Steadman’s bloodied blade. Two knights, savoring their collective lust.