It's My Fish in a Box Part 2

So I have this friend named Jackson.  Jackson is one of the most extreme characters I have ever met in my life.  If Hunter S. Thompson banged the Godfather while a wolf pack sanctioned it under a moonless night, with James Brown serenading and Salt and Peppa, directing the whole thing, they would have conceived Jackson. He’s one of the most foul mouthed, over the top, smart, talented, so twisted that he twists it all  back into place, then unwinds and slaps you in the back of the head, mother lovers that I have ever met.  He’s the kind of guy, that after you have a conversation with him, you don’t know if you should cry, vomit, fall in love, whip out the sanitation gloves or check your underwear for spots. And after he’s done with his mental judo assault, and your brains are strewn across the floor, he'll coolly walk away like a mafia man, and leave his boys to clean up the mess.  But that, that's just the tip, and I don't give an crap who's sayin' it, the tip is never enough.

For anyone that doesn't get the pleasure of knowing the shaft of Jackson, then you missed the meat brohem.   You got served the wet wipe with no baby back.  And though the tip can get crunk,  I'd eventually hop off feeling unfulfilled from what could be mistaken as surface or shallow.  No no, this is the true delight and art that is Jackson's life.  Jackson's Clark Kent is the innovator of offense, but his Superman is this under cover galactic empath.  For all the anthrax you swore he pumped into your brain, little did you know that it came from a place of extreme insight, soulfulness and tenderness. Dude is WISE...He is the Kali-Pa.  Your neighborhood apostle wearing the sickest kicks on the block.  Pushing you to your limit so that you might toss your cookies, isn't out of malice or  unconsciousness... it's actually quite the opposite.  It's all out of this strange love and lucidity to get you to face some demons and give you a reason to step up and get gangsta.  He's the pioneer of permission.  Love him or hate him, he’d contest that it’s the same damn thing.

Jackson aka Dusty left, Mu aka Chancey Right

Well Jackson and his friend Mu aka Dusty and Chancey started this mock hip hop group called DC Juicy.  Though I’m not truly certain what is mock about it. It’s definitely hip hop, the songs were produced and written by the duo, and it gets your booty shakin’.
Perhaps it was the white fur pimp coat that Dusty used to wear, or the bubble gum pink version of Missy Eliott’s aeronautical trash bag suit in “ I can’t stand the Rain”  that made it mock hip hop.  Maybe it was all of the obnoxious amounts of pretend blow we’d do on stage, with 9’ blunts and a big Chinese dragon that would snort and smoke it all like he was about to win the Very Special Olympics.  With songs called, “Pump you in the Butt”, “Dirty Girl”,  “Honkey Boy”, and “What You Blingin’ to the Partay” I’m sure it was more a case of people mocking us, rather than it being mock hip hop.

Anyhow, my role in this whole debacle, is that I’m an Asian prostitute named Lani Punani.  To keep a very long back story short,  my character basically smuggled herself into the states, by hiding in a crate addressed to Chancey’s house, full of bobble heads, press on nails, and cocaine.

What that translates to in the stage show is basically just prancing around like a dirty whore, to lyrics like, “I hope you like the taste of ass, ‘cause mine could use a lick”,  “Take a swig out of my skin sock, and let the chowder run down your throat,” or “Who poured the gravy on that brand new baby?”
You know, really classy stuff...the kind of show that you bring mom and dad to.

Well, the day after Red’s holiday party, we have a gig at a club called, On the Rox, on Sunset Blvd....It’d be cooler to say that it was at The Roxy on Sunset, but no, it was the tiny gimp club that latched itself on top of the Roxy like a parasite.  But it was a gig and it had been some time since I had really whored it out with the boys, The Man Slices, and  Svetlana, the Russian militant madame, that wore a patch and had one gimp leg.

Amongst the arsenal of songs featuring The Man Slices doing boy band moves in track suits, and a Christmas song with fake cocaine sprinkling down like snow, was a song called “50 Bitches.”  It was a simple piece.  All it consisted of was a train of girls, entering on stage one by one in a trench coat, dropping their coat to reveal their sexy lingerie, and then walking off as the next one entered.  As I said, it was simple...but in my opinion, a little too simple. When all of the other pieces had brilliant moments of true debauchery and big elements of surprise, “50 Bitches” just seemed too obvious with no real punch line.
Well I couldn’t have that. I could not accept that I would be a part of something that mundane.  Plus I think I was feeling the holiday fattness that day, and didn’t want to step out and pretend to be sexy.  So what’s the next best thing?  Being totally unsexy.

What could I possibly do that would be utterly unsexy?  And instantly a plan was hatched.

Ring....Ring... “Yo Red, you still got that fish I brought to your party?....Yeah, that one, can you bring it to the show tonight?.....Don’t worry about why, just bring it. Thanks”

And that was that.  The first domino had been struck and shit was about to go down.

Well once Red arrived to the show, we only had moments before it was show time.  With a mere vague idea of what I was about to do and no real plan hatched, the lights were dimming and we were about to start.
One by one, we go down our set list and the crowd is rowdy that night.  I did my normal routines, dancing it up with my fellow sluts, and finally it’s time for “50 Bitches.”

Without telling anyone else what I was planning, I quickly run to change into my lacey underwear and black bra.  Here it is.  This is the moment.  I pick up the frozen fish, that’s pretty sizable at 8” long and a pregnant belly.  I examine it and have a seemingly long moment of hesitation, though it was probably only 3 seconds in real life. 
“Really? Are you really going to do this? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a sick woman...yes, yes you are sick. But I love being sick and twisted! It’s hilarious!  Ah fuck it. Here it goes.”
And before I know it, I take the frozen fish and stuff it into the front of my panties....eeee!!! It’s so cold! And it’s a dead fish!
“Oh god.  What am I doing?  Seriously! What the fuck is wrong with me! Ugh...it's seriously twisted how much you are going to enjoy this.  I'm mentally sick. ”

And with that, it’s go time!  I quickly throw on my trench coat and stand in the wings with my black pumps on, waiting for Svetlana to hobble off the stage.

My turn... I step out onto stage, the lights are blinding me and I can’t really tell how many people are out there.  In some ways there is comfort in that space.  Yes, you are a mere specimen for all to examine, but when the lights are on, and everything around you is dark, you strangely feel like you are in your private space of solitude.  I really think it allows people to go further than they normally would, because there are no witnesses to witness.

Well here it is, I walk out in my pumps and coat, in the sexiest way possible. I turn with my back to the audience and drop my coat.  The crowd instantly cheers...a cheap thrill.  I get down with myself, showing off my awesome ass, bending over to give them a little show, and then bam! I turn to reveal a bulge bursting from the crotch of my panties.  Still cheering, the crowd doesn’t really know what to expect, but I know that they don’t expect this.  I pump my bulge a few times, and then slowly pull the bulge out from the tail to reveal, my very real frozen fish.  Short pause and then, complete audience freak out.  With all the hootin’ and hollerin’ I let myself go in the moment and started slapping the guy in the front row across the face with my frozen fish.  He is loving it!  There is nothing but pure wonderment and joy from this guy’s face, as I watch his cheeks peel away from his lips in true, slow motion slapping style. He looks like a refugee getting airlifted into safety.  Like I am his G.I. Joe.  Classic. Feeling particularly confident at this moment, I stand up and gently lob this fish into the crowd.  My work here is done, you guys can scavenge for the remains.

By the end of the show, most people are genuinely offended, disgusted, upset, turned on and in disbelief.  The true mark of success by DC Juicy standards.  After the show, we all step outside for a celebratory drink and smoke when all of a sudden I get a hard tap on the back of my shoulder.

Guy: “Are you the bitch that threw the fish?”
Me: “What?”
Guy: “Are you the BITCH that threw the fish into the crowd?”

Now at this point, I am still in character. I am still Lani Punani the heartless whore from the land of general Asia, with a general Asian accent that’s demeaning to all Asian countries.

Lani Punani: “Ooooohh you rike the phish? I make goo’ phish por you.”

Guy: “That shit ain’t funny yo!”

Lani Punani: “Why not so punny? Is goo’ phish. I make speshure por you. Is from my
home rand.  We make goo’ phish.”

Guy: “I told you, that shit ain’t funny!”

Lani Punani: “No punny? What no punny?  You want mo’ phish?  I make por you, no probrem punny man.”

Now with his face turning red, and spit spraying out of his mouth,

Guy: “Listen bitch, you THREW that fish into the audience and it nailed my friend straight into the chest.  I heard the thump over the music!  When I looked over at him, he was on the ground.  You brought my friend down with your stupid dangerous fish!”

At this point, I’m hearing everything that he’s saying but for some reason, it’s coasting right over my head.

Lani Punani: “Risten, you no rike the phish, you no have to pay! No probrem! Your prend no rike the phish, he no have to pay! No probrem!”

Guy: “What the hell are you talking about! You knocked my friend out and I heard it over the loud music up there!”

Lani Punani: “I tole you! You no rike the phish, you no have to pay! No probrem! You no understand punny man? You git out o here befoe I carr my pimp! You git out o here!”

And sure enough, after a good debate, he took one good look at me, red in the face, and then stormed off.  Mostly because I think he didn’t want me to see him cry.  I cackled as he walked away, and suddenly the trance of Lani Punani lifted from me and I was back to being me.

Oh god, what did I do? Oh my god. Is that guy going to cry?  Oh my god, I was being such a dick.  A true, bonafied dick.  Damn it. I hope his friend is ok.  I feel bad.  I should apologize, but this time I’ll drop the character.

So I hopped back into the club to find him and the fish. But alas, neither one were to be found.  Too bad because I really wanted to say sorry, AND I really wanted to get more mileage out of that fish.  I can only hope that they were both able to look back on it and laugh.  And in some way, I feel good about my deed.  Like I gave them a legendary story for life,  Who else can say that they got knocked out by a frozen fish that came out of the underpants of a sick Asian prostitute?  Probably only 13 people in the world still living today!  But those other 12 probably happened in somewhere in Asia...so he’s kind of like the Charlie of the U.S. with his golden ticket.
Anyhow, I had learned my lesson after that. No more frozen fish.  From then on, it was only noodles in a spicy fish sauce that was coming out of these panties.