Banh Mi Me On The Rocks

rat skels      The doomed assault against Ano Nuevo Island waged by the apparatchik rats commanded by soulless robots and techno-yuppie dweebs raged for less than an hour. It became a flat out rout. Offense for the winners was awesome, defense off the charts. Rats that suck so hard and swallow only dreamed they could swim in rough seas. Who more deserved to gag on acidic bile than a bunch of punk parasites? The big swell that came in from the Gulf of Alaska enabled thrilled surfers in Santa Cruz to ride high at Pleasure Point. They laughed out loud at the wannabe losers wiping out. Later, they drank beer, and danced in the sand. Lots of celebratory fucking, too. Tough shit for the scheming hucksters like the elite international robot A.I. Peter and the scummy Beverly Hills Rat. Which techno-yuppie genius from M.I.T. came up with that smart idea to land on a beach fortified by slippery boulders in darkness? Must still be strapped by a bunch of dull dictionary words to Normandy in the lame twentieth century.

in line2

The brainwashed rats who paddled like domesticated cats and dogs for shore never made it, like duh. Despite the foul lingering aftertaste of human garbage, teams of synchronized sharks and orcas made sure of that. Beautiful birds were big winners, of course, big hawks and cormorants and pelicans, sure, as well as great blue herons and egrets and scrappy little coots and loons, but an especially big shout out for a job well done must go to a spirited squad of adorable yellow warblers who flew over from Pescadero to add some shitty slickness to the sharp rocks. A small adorable songbird does not have to be big to be bold and beautiful. Plenty of down home soul in that yellow hue. Adorable otters won big, too, along with crabs and squid and abalone and sardines. Elephant seals and baby humpbacks won a ton, plus banana slugs, boars, butterflies, beavers, bats. And it sure was grand to see bald eagles flying highest in consciousness just like back in the good old days.


A small group of high flying raptors hosted by HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl and his lovely wife Thee Mrs bopped in on a moderately cool breeze from Half Moon Bay to bear witness. It would take a soulless robot or a drowning rat to begrudge that tender sight to behold. Not that any owl ever had a doubt about the outcome. HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl dug it up close from above and shook a radiant tail feather to nod and approve.

owl eyes

Ano Nuevo Island, of course, which used to be cozily attached to Point Ano Nuevo nestling close against Bonny Doon before crumbling off of the edge of western civilization and losing much loved minerals to the briny solution, had experienced far worse from despicable rats back when pale faced savages openly slaughtered and dismembered whales on the beaches. Disattachment, as it turned out, from that failed experiment in the alignment of cosmic dust, became a liberating experience that led to a deeper realm of enlightenment.


The matched pairs of monogamous birds led by HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl took off in tandem back to the Santa Cruz Mountains when the lovely Thee Mrs began to roll and tumble like Ike and Tina Turner. There’d be plenty of partying on the top of Mt Umunhum later that night until dawn. Ironically, international robots would be down below in a crummy parking lot, assessing blame. They were good at the blame game, you had to hand them that, though not so much with the ironies of loss in battle. Or contradictions either, the second most basic building block of the multiverse, that rule. If it could even be called a battle, that is. Many animals blessed by a history of higher consciousness were unfazed by the hyperbole, and referred to it as a minor skirmish, no biggie.

A non-prime number of international robots stood in rows on the slippery surface of the parking lot to await debugging. The crude oil underneath oozed menace. The elite international robot A.I. Peter, who was not programmed  for productive pacing, sat and stewed. She was highly able to brood in a sitting position. Meanwhile, the San Andreas Fault was lurking. That next slip could be costly. Worthless rubles were already lost to despair. What next, worthless euros? A techno-human dupe or lackey had to pay.

straight jacket2

I had no idea there was going to be a party in the Santa Cruz Mountains prior to my proximate arrival in the vicinity, by chance, sort of, not coincidence, which does not exist in the multiverse, like duh. Music filling the Santa Cruz Mountains from the African disapora lured me. It was not only sweet, but moist. The owls were hooting up close and steamy next to Bob Marley, Marvin Gaye, Trombone Shorty, Al Green, Magic Sam, Prince, Michael Jackson, and the Mahotella Queens. The lovely Thee Mrs started out rocking like Jr. Walker and all of the All-Stars who had ever blown ever, and then as one of those chic volcanic cuties who depend on pushed-up electronic enhancement. Who knows which one? It was supposed to be a joke. I thoroughly got it. All push-ups blend colors to look alike. What a laugh out loud hoot. It reminded me of the first time I ever saw the lovely Thee Mrs laugh. It was just as I was leaving.


I naturally was unable to get high enough to see eye to eye with any of the beautiful birds who looked down on me, like duh, but I climbed as high as I was able as a voyeur and stood on a ledge balanced above a ravine. I danced all night ’til quarter to 3, much like Gary U.S. Bonds did before me, conflicted by progressive aches, dyspepsia, shivers, and deficits in processing, which made it seem like all night. Until I thought I had experienced enough for one set of limitations as a sentient creature. But then I was happy to be wrong again. It’s often great to be a spy.

The solar powered limousine turning into the crummy parking lot that blighted Mt. Umunhum was the prime visual key. I’m lucky that I grabbed on to that branch in the act of falling and bisected my plane of vision. Myopia will only work going down so far. Even if luck does not exist in the multiverse either. But if there was any solar powered  limousine I knew by sight, it was that one. It was the only moire limousine of its kind operating in the golden state of California. Lt Guv Gav Newsom stepped out.

red limousine

At first, I felt disgust, sure. A knee does not in all cases have to bend in order to jerk. Bobbing heads, too. Mine operated no more smoothly than many under duress. There’s an algorithm for enslavement in that, very popular. But, it’s not as if I had learned nothing about politics during my ad-hoc quasi-employment that was still coming to its dire end at a location near me. Us v. Them forever. Once I was able to see Lt Guv Gav Newsom for the true inner being dimly lit as an object inside, I concluded, fuck ‘im.

He kissed the air A.I. Peter used. His win-win smile never wavered. She squeezed out a dab of lube. She had needs, too. I knew what was coming next. I was not wrong when I saw that leer in my direction. They thought they could blame me. Blame, in their context, knows no bounds. I thought, however, by my way of thinking, I don’t think so.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in AI, animals and birds, birds, culture, fiction, humor, Monterey Bay, satire and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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