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A very naughty excerpt from Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls
Warning: This cruise ship scene from Gary Buslik's new book is adult-rated and unadulterated.
(Message from Leap: Monster tourists really do exist - but karma hopefully bites them in the ass. If you have a monster tourist story, please share it with us.)
“Something I need to talk to you about, cupkins,” Angus puckered. He had a golf physique, short and plump, and he was slurping a piña colada without a straw, the tip of the parasol poking up a nostril. He wore burgundy Keen sandals, palm-tree Tommy Bahama shorts, and a brass-buttoned navy blazer over an untucked, white NIKE T-shirt on which you could only see, between blazer lapels, the letters IK. He also wore, for the time being, a creamy white mustache.
“Not now,” Karma panted. “I’m putting out fires.”
“Everything all right, puppy?”
“Will be shortly—soon as I kick in the captain’s testicles.”
“The captain, really? Don’t we need him for the cruise?”
“Out of my way.”
“I think we need a little talk, pumpky.”
The elevator door opened, and she was about to step in. A cabin maid was inside with her cleaning cart. When she laid eyes on Karma, she shrank into a corner, making herself as small a target as possible.
“Daddo is waiting for us in the Lido Lounge,” Angus cooed.
Karma held the elevator door open with her clipboard. She turned to him with narrowed eyes. “Your father? What the hell is he doing here?”
“Had a little time to kill before testing out the new Lear.”
“Yes, I am. Not about the new jet, but about, well, you see—”
“Cut the bullshit. I’m on a mission.”
The elevator bell started to complain.
“Well, um,” he slurped, “he and mother thought they’d like to see the ship and all—”
“Wait a second. Your mother is here, too? The tightass?”
“Yes, sweet thing, and they’re dying to see you.” When he nodded, the parasol went farther up his nose.
She turned to the maid, self-mashed into the elevator’s corner. “What the hell are you looking at, you whore?”
“Nada, nada, señora.”
She turned back to Angus. “You’re not telling me something.”
“I think they think it’s time for a little prenuptial chat, that’s all,” he said, smothering the word nuptial in a slurp. “Shouldn’t take long. Couple minutes. Then we’ll all have a nice nap in prep for an expensive dinner in town.”
Her pupils morphed into the shape of fortress gun holes. “A what kind of chat, did you say? Quit mumbling.”
“Come on, pup. We’ll be cordial to them and get it over with. They are paying for everything, so why not make them feel good about themselves? Generosity of spirit as well as purse, that’s my motto. Who knows, maybe we can even weasel out of going to dinner with them. Just spend the evening with ourselves and…well, you know. We haven’t done it in a while now, you’ve been so distracted and all, and—”
She turned to the maid. “Get out.”
“Get out! Don’t you understand fucking English?”
“No, por favor.”
“Well maybe this will help.” She strode into the elevator, pulled the door hold-open button, and, with the bell screaming for mercy, grabbed the maid’s cleaning cart and, with her back against the hand rail, kick-launched it out of the cab with such velocity that it flew across the foyer and down the opposite stairway, where it crashed into a huge oil portrait of Queen Beatrix and her Border Terrier, Chip. Suspecting what might be coming, Angus had stepped aside at the last nanosecond, fortunately without losing a drop of colada.
The queen’s nose dripped with Windex, so that it appeared for all the world as if she had a touch of blue flu, and Chip foamed at the mouth with Scrubbing Bubbles. Karma seared the maid a glare. “YOU,” she enunciated, pointing first at her, then at her cart, wrecked and strewn over the stairway landing, “YOU…NEXT!”
The maid bolted from the elevator, clutching her heart.
“Funny how they understand when they want to,” Karma said, calmly. She turned to Angus. “Maybe I should have been a translator.”
“They’re waiting, kitten. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get on with normality.”
“I’m warning you. This fucking better be good, or you’re off my anal sex list for a month.”
He winced. “Don’t talk like that, mittens—not even in jest.”