More erotic dreams.

I have a daily ritual before I submit myself to sleep - during which I shut my eyes and think very hard about what I want to dream of, in the hope of imbuing it onto my subconscious. Unfortunately, this method rarely, if ever, works. For example, last night, whilst mentally focusing on a crowded seal-pool perfect for invading, I dreamt I had an out-of-body experience.

I was in a sterile hospital room that smelt strongly of lemon-scented disinfectant. A closer examination revealed the shocking identity of the single bed's ill occupant. It was myself. Wan being an understatement, my normally mottled complexion was bloodless, as if I had been assaulted by a thousand hungry vampires who'd gnawed upon me in various unspeakable places. I had also been ruthlessly intubated, my formless shape bound tightly to the side of the metal frame. Even my whiskers were flaccid beyond recovery.

At last, karma had bitten me in my lumpy walrus arse.

By my side was Walrus Mastur, decked out in a spotless doctor's coat about three sizes too small. It accentuated every magnificent fold of blubber I used to admire so. Looking at my best-walrus-friend, I felt a sharp pang. Gone were our wholesome summer days of youth. Gone were our days of bouncing energetically on seals and the infrequent Eskimo (Walrus Mastur always collapsed on our victims triumphantly and inconsiderately; I often stopped to worry if I'd squashed them right).

Sadly, I wondered how Walrus Mastur would cope without me. Lacking my esteemed guidance, advice and occasional blockage, that fat fucker would probably end up in prison for indecent behaviour. Or kneeling pathetically at the flippers of some cheap, shiny ho abducted from the nearest zoo.

In a corner of the room were members of my old pod. I was surprised they'd bothered to turn up. I had never been part of the family, but more of the gay uncle in exile. Useless fucks probably just wanted a significant share of my inheritance. To my astonishment, some of them were weeping visibly. To be fair, they did belong to a critically acclaimed drama troupe.

"I'm afraid it'll have to be done," Walrus Mastur was saying, regretfully. It was the grave tone of regret Walrus Mastur used while suggesting that touching those pups had, in truth, been a bad idea. Insincere to the very last syllable.

My cousin raised his tear-stained face. "Are you so sure? The doctors told me it was a mere head cold -"

"It is undoubtedly imperative," Walrus Mastur said firmly.

Pause. A choked sob. "Well, if we absolutely have to..."

"Very well!" Walrus Mastur said enthusiastically. "My Euthanasia Kit has been prepared, and without further ado, I must request everyone to leave the room." With a flourish, Walrus Mastur threw aside a curtain, revealing a systematically-arranged series of tools and colourless chemicals.

My relatives looked taken aback. My knees buckled and I took a few steps backwards. "Oh no," I said weakly. "Not the Euthanasia Kit. Please, no." Walrus Mastur swiftly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

My body stirred in its comatose state, as if in mild protest. In equal parts invisible and mute, I was powerless to alter the course of my fate. As Walrus Mastur administered the last drops of the fatal injection, I fell to my knees.

Walrus Mastur gently took my limp flipper and gazed thoughtfully at my corpse. Any onlooker would have been touched at the sight of an ageing walrus mourning their dearest, lost friend. But I knew, deep down, that Walrus Mastur was critically checking my pulse to confirm I was completely dead. It was understandable. Neither of us liked loose ends.

Suddenly, I heard a cough. Walrus Mastur swivelled round threateningly.

At the door were four lawyers, all of whom looked almost identical. They were bespectacled with slicked-back hair, and carried black leather suitcases.

"Excuse me, sir - "

"Can't you tell I'm saying my last goodbyes?" Walrus Mastur snarled impatiently.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've been instructed to inform you of a legally binding clause in the deceased's will."

"What clause?" Walrus Mastur asked suspiciously, whiskers twitching slightly. "Don't tell me my late snuddy had a few illegitimate little children that I now have full custody of. Haw haw!"

"On cremation, the deceased has instructed every family and friend to drink a measured quantity of the resulting ashes. The required amounts are directly related to the amount of affection the deceased had for these individuals." The lawyer coughed again, this time ominously, and from his suitcase, whipped out the biggest jug I had ever seen. It was baby blue with yellow sunflowers and butterflies printed garishly on it.

"This, sir, is your portion."

I saw genuine horror in Walrus Mastur's eyes. A long, drawn-out silence followed.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" Walrus Mastur asked feebly. "Can't I just - pour them into the ocean, or something?"

The lawyer shook his head. "We're afraid, sir, that it is imperative. Bear in mind that we will be present at the funeral to ensure the deceased's final wishes are duly fulfilled. With the necessary ropes, chains and sedatives, of course."

"No," Walrus Mastur protested, trembling vigorously. "NO!"

I woke up at that precise moment, Walrus Mastur's last despairing cries still ringing in my ears. In the background, I heard the same voice shouting that I was a stupid lazy walrus, they were starving to death, and it was now my turn to make breakfast.

Damn, I wish I had more erotic dreams.

From time to time

"This is disgusting. You're disgusting," Des said and tossed out a grubby old blanket with utter distaste.

That was the blanket under which I used to curl up with Benedict whenever there was a storm outside. I remember our routine. First I would blot Benedict with a fresh towel (too moist to cuddle). After that I would flop onto my favourite couch, pick Benedict up and tuck him into one of my stomach folds. Then I would drape the blanket over the both of us and pet Benedict to sleep with my flippers. I'd watch him sleep serenely and blot him again from time to time.

missing benedict

Des and I just set up our new study, which we made room for by relocating Benedict the seal. I am mighty pleased with our new arrangement---walls lined with beautiful mahogany shelves of academic journals, reference books and classic literature. Behind the shelves are secret compartments where we keep our stash of pornographic materials. Our subterfuge is contrived and ironic, though, because we have a large, lurid calendar of "Seals Every Month" on our study table. Only the wettest, most playful, most skilled ball-on-nose-balancers make the cut every year, and those limited-edition calendars make every walrus go "ouwr". However, I do keep my most incriminating materials featuring young seals (some mere pups) under lock and key because the authorities are very uptight about that kind of thing. Des and I don't want a repeat of last June.

Honestly, the authorities misunderstood my love for young pinnipeds. I know it's unusual for a magnificent, full-grown walrus to have such an affinity for seal pups, but like most abnormalities, this one stemmed from an unresolved childhood issue.

Daniel was my childhood seal-playmate. We went to different schools, stayed in different neighbourhoods, and really had no business knowing each other. But one day after school, I stopped by my "secret place", which was really a large abandoned igloo--okay, it wasn't abandoned, I relocated the eskimos---and saw someone else taking a nap in it. Someone who looked a little bit like a walrus pup, but smoother. Shinier. At first I was affronted and angry, but when I went closer I was immediately won over by the intruder's charm. Even asleep, the creature looked so peaceful. So benevolent. So moist. Then it stirred and saw me. With bright, curious eyes, it said "hello! I'm Daniel. Who are you?" His voice was not that of a walrus'. It was more pleasing and melodious. I was disoriented (in my own igloo!). "I'm a walrus. What are you?" I replied, somewhat gracelessly. "I'm a seal!" he barked happily with laughter. Then he tagged me with a wet flipper and cried, "come on, let's play!" So we played. We chased each other underwater, herded tuna and went diving for seashells. And after we exhausted ourselves, we'd huddle in our igloo and nap together before heading home.

This became an after-school routine for me. I grew very attached to my seal friend. Then one day, Daniel refused to take a nap with me. He explained uncomfortably, "my parents say that one day you'll eat me because you're a walrus and I'm a seal. They say that it's not right for a walrus and a seal to be friends. It's not natural." I sputtered, "but you want to play with me, don't you?" He looked at me with regret, anguish, and if I remember correctly a touch of newfound contempt in his eyes, and I knew the answer. Crestfallen, I pushed my ball all the way back home with my nose. I went back to the igloo the next day as usual, hoping that Daniel would change his mind, or that I imagined the whole thing, but he wasn't there. He never came back, and I never saw him for the rest of my childhood. I never got over the hurt and the rejection, but worst of all was the lack of closure. We never got the chance to discuss things reasonably, and I never got to explain that I really meant no harm when I sleep-nibbled him.

So naturally my heart leapt when I bumped into him a couple of months ago. He was a fully grown seal, with a wife and two-pups, and a pet otter. Poster family. He greeted me cheerfully, and asked me out for lunch. I really planned to be polite and non-chalant about, you know, the whole abandonment thing, but I couldn't resist blurting it out. "Daniel, why did you stop being friends with me so suddenly? We had such a wonderful, special friendship. So what if your folks thought it was unnatural? The only thing unnatural about our friendship was your cold departure."

To which, he replied, "What? Cold departure? That's not how I remember it. Sorry if I gave you that impression, old pal, but I guess I was just getting too busy with school. Sure sounds like you enjoyed yourself, though!" Then he smiled kindly and asked me about my hobbies. Well that rang the death knell for me. My heart turned cold and I loathed Daniel for his denial. His feigned innocence. That son-of-a-seal enjoyed himself just as much as I did. But even though I disgustedly severed all ties with Daniel after that, I realize that I've been looking for Daniel-the-seal-pup in every pinniped I meet.

This sometimes exasperates my best-walrus-friend Des, who's been my friend since birth. It was Des who comforted me after Daniel disappeared. "Forget about that stupid seal," young Des grunted, "anyway you've been neglecting me. You forgot all about our plan to relocate more eskimos and build a complex, you fat walrus." I sighed in agreement, "yes, seals are a waste of time. They're hos." Des reassured me, "if you ever get caught up with a seal again, rest assured I will be there to beat it out of you."

So when Benedict arrived, Des had to beat it out of me on the very first day. He looked so young! So fresh! So curious! So pup-like! I could not resist him. When our new seal friend came to, I chatted with him, gave him some tea and engaged him in some beach volleyball. In the room. Just as we were having great fun, Des thundered over, ploughed through the wall, sedated Benedict swiftly and dragged me out by the scruff of my neck. Then Des smacked me upside the head with a course flipper.

"What were you doing?" Des demanded.
"I was just---"
"Were you playing with the seal?"
"But Benedict---"
"Now you've named the seal?" Des shouted, turning purpler by the second.
"Come on, this isn't some childhood regression. I really do get along with Daniel!" I protested.
"What was that name?" Des bellowed, and slapped me twice. Any interjections from me were met with more swift slaps. I became extremely indignant and my whiskers curled with defensive rage---then I got stirred by my own distress and laughed along with Des. Then we bumped bellies and rolled Benedict back into his tank.

Damn, I miss that seal.

Revisiting memories.

The doorbell rang. Walrus Mastur and I looked at each other and smirked. "Don't leer," I warned hypocritically.

The doorbell rang again, politely.

Walrus Mastur carefully hid a stain on our designer couch with a strategically-placed cushion. I got up and unlocked the door, hands vibrating with lecherous anticipation.

"Hello!" Benedict said, smiling a cheerful seal smile. He looked so fresh, hydrated and wholesome I had to actively restrain myself. I heard Walrus Mastur's equally sharp intake of breath. In fact, I heard Walrus Mastur's trademark heavy breathing. We hadn't had a seal, a real seal, in ages. His accordion was slung rakishly around his neck and he wore a comely bowler hat, which he gently hung on our coat-stand.

Our fears of suspicion - his suspicion - were soon allayed. Benedict wriggled past us and bounced into his chair. "What's for dinner?" he asked curiously.

"It's cooking, but might take a while," I said quickly. "Why don't you just help yourself to the wine." I brandished a bottle of Pinot Noir, which he clapped approvingly at, and poured him a full glass. Blandly peripheral conversation (how much do you earn, where do you stay, do you have other seal friends you can invite over) flowed as rapidly as I poured him another. And another. And another.

He didn't seem to notice that Walrus Mastur and I were tensely sipping our water.

"I'd like to dedicate a popular song to both of you," he said warmly, cheeks flushed and whiskers somewhat frizzy. "Take your pick, my pinniped pals."

I was about to suggest some classic, beautiful opera, but Walrus Mastur crudely interjected. "Samwell's What What (In The Butt) or the Bloodhound Gang's Bad Touch."

Benedict opened his mouth, either to protest or enthusiastically acquiesce. "O -" was all he said (Okay? Oh no?) before he collapsed to the floor, serenely unconscious. I noted that he was shinier than the polished tiles.

Walrus Mastur and I slapped each other a walrus high-five. Then we got out our ropes, gag and rolled him into the spare room. Till this day, I am proud to recount that there was hardly any friction involved.

A better place.

Damn, I sure am exhausted. Walrus Mastur and I took the day off to tie up some loose ends that we were too fat and lazy to attend to previously. Admittedly, after what I'd been experiencing at the law firm, it was about time I did some serious tying up of my own. We rose earlier than usual and finally settled the stack of bills and fines (overdue library books, various criminal charges) that had steadily accumulated over the past year.

More importantly, we decided to clear out our our spare room, which involved sweeping up cobwebs, relocating rusty, rarely-used equipment (the Catherine Wheel had to go), and disposing of its only inhabitant.

Benedict the Seal came into our possession, I mean residence, several years ago when we lured him over under the pretext of agreeing to hear him sing in his rich baritone and skilfully play the accordion. He's a good seal, but often makes the mistake of being too friendly. Since then, he lived in our spare room where we locked him up interminably - until Walrus Mastur decided we needed more space for our academic journals and pornography collection. It was strange to see him bathed in daylight. Albeit paler but otherwise unharmed, he seemed to have survived his stay. We stuffed him into the back of our helicopter where he lay huddled in resignation, trussed up like a turkey and his mouth doubly duct-taped. He seemed to be trying to mutter what sounded like "mmf mmf grmmph". It might have been a very futile "let me go". Or it might also have been "what the fuck".

We disposed of him on an isolated desert island by ejecting him out of our aircraft and hovered silently above, watching him regain his composure and accustom himself to his unfamiliar surroundings. Discernible relief washed over his handsomely whiskered face, but it rapidly gave way to severe alarm. After all those years, I could still read him like a book. "Hey!" he shouted, waving his flippers around helplessly. "Hey! Come back! HEY!"

Truth be told, looking down on the forlorn heap he had crumpled into, I was almost sad to see him go. It hit me that I would no longer enjoy hours of threatening to roll him off the brick roof, denying him fish and callously kicking away his handphone. I even shed a tear of regret and contrition for not having treasured him a little more. Until Walrus Mastur smacked me upside the head with the yellowed map of deserted deserts and said I was degenerating into a "a sentimental fucker teeming with fuck-ass tears at every opportunity, much like other individuals we know of" and that "hos are not to be wept over". Then we bumped bellies, chuckled and ouwred in a conciliatory fashion.

When we got home, I washed the pile of dirty dishes left over from Christmas and Walrus Mastur strategically laid ant traps all around the flat. Pesky ants are headed for a better place.

Fine with her

Dear Diary,

I think I have found a way to deal with my boisterous students. Now, instead of teaching them as a class of three, I split them up and give two assignments to do while I focus intensely on one. That keeps the pups from barking to each other all the time. The other teacher at the centre told me that I was a "nazi" in my methods, but I take my job of teaching Seal Communications very seriously. It is imperative that they mastur grammar and elocution before September because that's when they get dispatched into seal territory. I don't mean to be arrogant but they could not have a better mentor. In fact, I speak such convincing Seal that sometimes I wonder about my true parentage---and then I shelve the awful thought. ("Your father's a ho!", my other dad used to shout at me when he was drunk.)

Meanwhile, I must confess that I'm very worried about D Lim. I feel as if a part of her is always at work, and sometimes--more sinisterly--that a part of work is in her. It's been like this ever since she got that new job at the law firm. She can't stop talking about her boss: "Mr ____ wants this", "Mr ____ wants that", "Mr ____ wants me to purchase a nylon rope". Today, she took a call from him when we were out for dinner, and immediately sent back her sirloin steak, asking the waiter to remove three peas from the plate, bring them back on a separate dish, and discard the remainder. When I gently asked with great concern why the fuck she was being such a weird-ass anal shit-head, she replied "Mr ____ wants me to eat three peas on a big white plate for dinner."

I also noticed that she had difficulties sitting down, as if she'd bruised her bottom or something. I hope everything's fine with her.

Working Walrie Bringing home the Bacon.

So Walrus Mastur and I are getting used to the Working World. It is a brutal combination of heaven and hell, or rather it's heaven for Walrus Mastur and hell for me.

Walrus Mastur is giving part-time lessons in Seal Communications. Seal Communications comprises an in-depth understanding of the habits and lifestyles of seals, including their limited speech and gestures. It also explores controversial topics such as Seals: Horrific Hos, or Just Hopelessly Happy? After all, it's important to understand one's prey. The little pups Walrus teaches are youthful, furry and boisterous. What they do not know is how much they resemble seals. Walrus Mastur likes them very much*.

I work long, hard hours in a law firm. Since I started, I've been promoted from Typist, to Lawyer's Personal Secretary, to Lawyer's Personal Slave. The pay is mediocre. My boss is a steely, noble man valiantly fighting to legislate the ownership of dungeons and cattle prods as a personal right. Everybody respects him tremendously, especially me, and it's not just because I have to. I spend most of the day drafting important legal documents and the rest submitting to his commands. It's quite difficult to type and brew coffee (the way he likes it) when my wrists are cuffed together. He also likes feeding me lunch while I kneel by his mahogany desk. What he doesn't know is my knees get rug-burn and I don't like food but I could really do with some of that coffee.

Heartily dislike his monkey

Dear Diary,

As you remember, Des and I visited the zoo and caught their infamous animal show some days ago. It was then that we encountered Carlos the zoo-seal. I have to admit that we were somewhat contemptuous of him for being a shiny, vapid, odious ho who'd wave his flipper inanely at the gawking audience just for a fish, but he might not be as simple as that after all.

Today, I went back to the zoo to return some extra change that the Ben and Jerry's cashier had given me the last time I was there. I guess the guilt overpowered my laziness. While I was there I thought I might as well catch the show again, to see if they'd varied their act. But by the time I reached the amphitheatre the show was over and Carlos was bouncing offstage. I was slightly disappointed.

I didn't want to collide with the crowd so I went behind the stage area, hoping to find an exit. But I must have taken a wrong turn because instead of getting back on the path leading to the African Baboon exhibit, I landed up in a seedy little trailer park with lots of old, lurid, glitter-mottled trailers. Some of the doors had stars with cursive names on them. Just as I was examining a blue-and-yellow striped trailer with some interest, a familiar seal bounded past me and headed in the other direction. I immediately called out to him and gave chase, thinking that he'd escaped from his handler. To my surprise, he burst into a gleaming green trailer and slipped into the incongruously oppulent marble jacuzzi inside. I clicked my tongue and waved my box of Hello Panda at him, hoping to coax him out. I said in my kindest voice, the one I reserve for children and dogs, "heeyyy, Carlos, come here, that's a good seal..." and other such things. The response I got shocked and knocked the wind out of me. He spoke.

"The photo-session is over. Get out and close the door behind you." His voice was low, gruff and slightly raspy. I just froze. I may have attempted to stammer something, I don't know, but when I looked back at the star on his door, I noticed the name "Carlos" emblazoned on it. I glanced back at him and gawked. What else could I do? To his credit, Carlos maintained his composure. He looked me up and down and said, "Look kid, I don't normally do house calls--- especially when you people barge into my house---but make me an offer and I'll consider."

My face was burning with embarrassment. I stammered an inaudible apology and willed my feet to move. Then a most incredible thing happened. Carlos barked sharply and slapped his flippers together. Immediately, a dapper little monkey in a crisp green uniform emerged from some sort of trapdoor and scampered to him. The monkey decorously took a cigarette from one of his pockets, rested it between Carlos' lips and lit it. Sensing my growing incredulity, Carlos turned to me wryly and waved a flipper at me. "No fingers," he explained lazily. "If you're not getting lost you might as well have one," he drawled, slapping the pack of Marlboros over to me with his flipper. The monkey scampered away.

I held the box in my hands, not intending to smoke anything. The last time I smoked a shisha pipe I got nicotine poisoning. It was awful. Anyway the whole situation was so ridiculous and bizarre that I began to regain my composure. "Wow," I said, "I always thought they'd keep you in a miserable little tank or something."

"Compared to what I had in the wild, this is a little tank," he said flatly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean---I mean, this is a nice little place, you've got a jacuzzi---"I stammered.

"Ocean currents are far more exhilarating," he said in a bored voice, "although these jacuzzi jets provide more precision if you know what I mean!" He barked with laughter and clapped his flippers together with lewd glee. "Anyway I'd like to see you try living in a 'nice little place' like this. See how you'd like being trained with electric prods. "SPCA approved" my pinniped arse. And the trainers! Condescending pricks! Do they give a walrus'-ass about my emotional needs? I am eighteen, EIGHTEEN years old for God's sake and I have not achieved self-actualization. God!" He spat his spent cigarette butt on the floor and barked for his monkey to bring another.

I got a little uncomfortable learning more than I wanted to. I was also disturbed by what he'd told me. It completely messed up all my preconceived notions. I didn't know what to think so I muttered a polite goodbye. But just as I turned to go, Carlos called me.

"Hey, kid!"

I turned around to face him and for a few seconds we faced each other squarely. It was one of those special moments when the world has stopped spinning and the stars have stopped shining and you know, you just know, that your souls have touched and you can never go back again.

It was also one of those moments when I believed all that bull. "Leave those if you're not having them," was all he said. Then his monkey came out from nowhere, snatched the cigarettes from me, showed me out and shut the door behind me.

I heartily dislike his monkey.

CRASH COURSE IN SNUDDY-SPEAK

Fuddy: Fuck-buddy. A platonic buddy whom you fuck.

Cuddy: Cuddle-buddy. A platonic buddy whom you cuddle.

Snuddy: Snail-buddy. A platonic buddy whom you snail.

Usage:

Des: Oh Snuddy, I really need a fuddy.

Walrus: Well, all I need is a Cuddy. I used to think I was this fat horny fuck but I now realise that I would give up a lifetime of fuck just to hold someone and fall asleep together every night for the rest of my life.

Des: That's bullshit.

Walrus: I'm hungry. Is the spaghetti ready?

Des: Yeah it is.

Walrus: Later we can snail.

Des and Walrus: (walrus high five) Ouwr! Ouwr!