Stories

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 2)

This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Zabka steered his black Camaro off of the New York State Thruway and drove north on highway 290. He was singing along with the Grateful Dead song on the radio — “Livin’ on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine. All a friend can say is ‘Ain’t it a shame?’ Truckin’… up to Buff-a-lo!” A slow-moving eighteen-wheeler merged in front of him and wrecked his joyous mood. He laid on the horn and floored it, veering around the trucker and taking the exit’s curvy offramp at a screeching 75 mph.

After straightening out on Main Street, Zabka loosened his grip of the steering wheel. “Did you see that asshole?” he queried his passengers.

“Yeah, the nerve of that guy,” Bob answered from the seat beside him. He turned and looked at Magnum in the backseat, cramped between their luggage, and they chuckled.

Zabka’s face relaxed, clear of the black-eye that was on the horizon. He stuck his arm out the window on that sunny afternoon and floated his hand up and down like a plane as it cut through the wind. “Are you guys excited for tonight?”

“You mean for Earl’s shindig?” Magnum asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Zabka had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What are you up to?” Bob examined his friend. “You got somethin’ planned?”

“Let’s just say Zabka has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

Whenever Zabka referred to himself in the third-person, Bob knew something good was in-store. “I expect nothing less.”

Magnum added, “I hope it includes girls.”

“Of course it does, you dummy.” Zabka bounced up and down. “We need to christen the new house.”

“Speaking of girls,” Bob said. “I was just thinkin’… how many girls did we have in our house last year?”

Zabka shrugged. “Plenty, I’m sure.” He began a mental tally. “To start, there was Earthshaker — that ginormous chick from the Base that you banged. Good lord, you truly have no shame.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “First of all, I did not ‘bang her.’ We…”

“Yeah, ya did. You can’t bullshit me. No need to be ashamed — if Magnum were in your shoes, he would’ve banged her too. Ain’t that right?”

Magnum fiddled with his mustache. “Umm… I don’t know about that.”

“Oh shit! Even Magnum wouldn’t’ve banged her!” Zabka feigned sincerity. “Seriously, Bob, how low can you go? Have you hit rockbottom yet?”

“Listen, dickheads… she took advantage of me in my drunken, vulnerable state. We barely got outta the bar before her mouth was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with my balls. She was like, ‘Nom, nom, nom…’ just goin’ to town. The chick was nuts! Literally! I’ve never had a girl laser-focused on my sack like that.”

“I bet you’ve had dudes laser-focused on your sack like that,” Magnum remarked from the peanut gallery.

Bob rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”

Zabka added, “She certainly didn’t have a nut allergy!”

“Certainly not!” Bob chuckled before continuing. “Also, as I recall, we didn’t go to our house. We went around the corner to her place. And finally, she wasn’t that big — you tend to exaggerate. She just had a little bitta junk-in-the-trunk.”

Zabka threw his head back and laughed. “A little bit?! She had a shit-ton! She’s shaped like a pear, and I thought her ass was two garbage bags overstuffed with marshmallows!”

Magnum shared an insightful observation as well. “Yeah, her ass was so big, it had its own zip code”

“Okay, enough,” Bob said. “You made your point.”

Magnum looked up and tapped his chin. “Oh, I know. There was the woman that hooked up our cable. She was kinda hot.”

Bob replied, “Dude, she was as old as your mom. Plus, she worked for the cable company, so that doesn’t really count. Okay, so who else?”

Hmm… oh, I remember.” Magnum stroked his mustache. “These girls rang our doorbell and I invited them inside.”

“You mean the ones selling cookies?” Bob shook his head. “The Girl Scout and her mom? Come on, man.”

The three of them sat in silence, racking their brains.

“You see my point now? Last year… it was pathetic.” Bob glanced at Magnum and then Zabka to make sure they absorbed the gravity of it all. “Did anyone even get laid?”

Magnum moved like he was going to respond.

Bob stopped him with his hand. “Before you say it, your hand doesn’t count, Magnum. We had zero, zip, nada, none.” He hung his head and held up his hand in the shape of a circle. “Zero fucks.”

“Okay, Bob,” Zabka responded. “You made your damn point. We didn’t fuck any women last year — zero fucks given. The closest we got was that cock-n-mouth tryst you had with Earthshaker. I agree, it’s shameful.”

“You wanna know what the really sad part is?” Bob asked rhetorically. “No women got to receive pleasure from our dongs.”

With an exaggerated frown, Zabka added, “Yeah, I feel sorry for them.”

Bob continued, “All that aside, here’s the good news — it’s a new year and we’re in a new house. We’ve officially hit the reset button. Plus it’s our last year in college. We need to go out on a high note.”

“With a bang!” Zabka added.

“Should we set a goal?” Magnum asked. “Like the number of women?”

“Well, there are six of us in the house, soooo… we should easily be able to pull in two girls each. Real girls — not girls working for a utility company or selling shit door to door.” Bob did the quick math. “So that’s twelve.”

Zabka offered, “Shit, I could pull in a dozen myself. What are you guys gonna do?”

Magnum said, “Yeah, I could do that too.”

Zabka slapped his knee and laughed along with Bob. “But seriously, think this through. The others in the house are Satan, some other useless bastard that Satan knows, and Jimmy “The Italian” — so, a stoner, probably another stoner, and a short guy who’s prematurely-balding and talks like he’s been kicked in the nuts. Something tells me they won’t be chipping-in.”

“Yeah, they’re completely useless,” Bob agreed. “No way they’re putting any points on the scoreboard.”

Zabka nodded his head. “Yep, so that just leaves me — the lone wolf. I’m gonna get more tang than a Space Shuttle mission!”

“Whoa… don’t put all your vaginas in one basket.” Bob tapped his chest with both hands. “I’ll contribute.”

“Perhaps,” Zabka replied. “I guess you did show some promise last year.”

“Yeah, and what about me?” Magnum asked.

“What about you?” Zabka replied. “With all due respect, this is clearly a two-man operation. But don’t let that stop you from giving it the old-college-try.”

“I’ll show you guys.” Magnum folded his arms. “Heck, I may even decide to get a girlfriend.”

“Highly doubtful,” Zabka responded. “Sorry, just being real.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Magnum leaned forward. “I have a plan.”

“Um-hm, sure ya do.”

Zabka eyed a car full of girls in his rearview mirror and put on his black Ray-Bans. He slowed down to take a closer look and let them pass on his left. They were cute and having fun car-dancing to some Janet Jackson song. He awarded the girls with a head nod and Magnum gave them a friendly wave. The girls laughed back and continued on by. The bumper of their car had a blue and white UB sticker on it.

Bob said, “Oh well, at least you tried.”

Magnum shared a pearl of wisdom, “Never put pussy on a peninsula.”

“Um, it’s pedestal,” Zabka replied. The phrase jogged a memory of a conversation he had with his father soon after he tried to court Nicki O’Shea and failed miserably. The embarrassment of what happened still lingered. The pain of it still stung. He reentered the present with his head glowing like a light bulb. “You know what? You’re goddamn right. I’ve been too nice for too long.”

“Yeah, you’re Mr. Nice Guy, alright.” Magnum half-joked. “Although not as bad as Bob.”

“Well, at least we can talk to girls without chewing on our tongues.”

Bob nodded in agreement with what Zabka said.

“I”m being serious,” Zabka emphasized. “And you guys have been too nice as well. Bob, take you for example. When we were in Panama City last year for spring break, remember what happened?”

Bob shrugged. “Not really.”

“Then I’ll remind you. There was this girl that you were chatting with and going after. After a while, her friend told you to buy that girl a drink, and what did you do? Even though you didn’t have much money? You bought her a drink. And then what happened? She left and you got nothing. That ring any bells?”

Bob folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You see? Too often we play it safe… and safe doesn’t win.”

“So what do we do different?”

The Dead song ended and a Mighty Taco commercial was squawking in their ears.

“First, you need to fix the tunes.” Zabka whacked Bob. “You’re in charge. Put in the Jackyl CD.” He grinned. “And go to song eleven.”

Bob slid in the CD, skipped ahead to the requested song. It didn’t take long before the guitar riff had their heads banging.

Zabka waited for the right moment, cranked up the volume, and sped up to the girl’s car.

Bob, almost in a panic, said, “Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

There was a devilish look in Zabka’s eyes. “You’ll see.”

Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 1)

This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

The day before…

Tracy Cohenstein’s real first name was Tirza. She went by Tracy so she didn’t sound quite as much like — in her words — “A super-Jew.” Not having classes on Friday, she spent her day engaged in, again — in her words — “Doing happy stuff.” That morning, she served breakfast at a homeless shelter, and in the afternoon she finished knitting a sweater and completed some extra-credit homework for her Investigative Journalism class.

Now, with her roommate Nicki O’Shea not around and the place to herself, she was enjoying her favorite guilty-pleasure — watching a romantic-comedy. As the final scene in Pretty Woman began, Tracy sat on her living room couch with a box of tissues in her lap. Having watched it nearly a dozen times, she could quote practically every line. She’d been told she looked like a younger, and perhaps even more attractive, version of Julia Roberts, the female star of the movie. Tracy’s chocolate-colored eyes were the kind that pulled you in and could’ve been Van Morrison’s inspiration for “Brown Eyed Girl” had she been born when he wrote the song. She looked stunning, even in baggy-sweatpants, a t-shirt, and no makeup. Her appearance was unblemished, except for one flaw. One embarrassing, yet well-hidden, flaw.

Tracy watched intently as Richard Gere’s character stood out of a limousine’s sunroof while he was driven through a rundown L.A. neighborhood. With Verdi’s La Traviata opera playing for all to hear, Julia Robert’s character went out onto her fire escape and saw him below holding a bouquet of red roses. As he climbed the ladder to her top-floor apartment, she couldn’t wait and rushed down. When the love-crazed couple met in the middle, their lips inches apart, Tracy pulled out a few tissues and spoke along with the dialogue.

Richard Gere asked, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”

With a half-smile, Julia Roberts answered, “She rescues him right back,” and they kissed like they meant it.

Tears ran down Tracy’s cheeks — just your average day in Hollywood where a rich businessman “saves” a prostitute. Not feeling the least bit odd about longing to be Julia Robert’s character, Tracy’d gladly turn a few tricks to have a fairytale like this one come true.

While the closing credits rolled, she wiped her tears and wished that Chad Stanwick, the president of Sigma Alpha Mu and her ex-boyfriend, would’ve been her “knight in shining armor.” Ironically, if the rumors were true, Richard Gere and Chad Stanwick shared the same fetish — a rather peculiar one satisfied by prostate-tickling gerbils.

Tracy clicked-off the television and double-checked that her roommate wasn’t around as she moved to her office. Once in the room, she shut the door for additional privacy. She went to her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Waiting for her inside was a package that had been delivered two days before and she knew it contained her dirty little secret. She ripped it open and pulled out a videotape. After reading its label — a play-on-words for what happened to be her favorite romantic-comedy — she was immediately intrigued. Before putting it in her VCR, she read the blush-inducing title once more and sincerely hoped it would live-up to expectations.

Scene 0 | Scene 1 | Scene 2

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 0)

This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Once upon a time in Buffalo, NY…

A waitress walked through the dinning area of The Steer that Saturday with a tray of orders balanced on her palm. Upon reaching a table with three young men, she handed them their lunch and said in deadpan, “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Sugar-Tits,” Zabka replied.

Daggers shot from the waitress’s eyes. “Nice shiner. You should put some ice on that,” she commented before walking away.

The ring around Zabka’s left eye was swollen and dark purple. He mumbled, “I don’t need ice. Pussies need ice.” He stabbed his fork through lettuce and a cherry tomato, and his shaky hand brought it to his mouth. He had to concentrate to not drip any dressing on his cheap suit.

Bob intentionally dropped his knife, clanging it on the table. “Who the fuck orders a salad?” He glared at his friend. “No good story ever started with, ‘So, I was eating a salad…’ But here you are, eating a fucking salad.”

Zabka chewed — his face scrunched, pondering Bob’s words of wisdom. “Yeah, but what if I was tossin’ some chick’s salad?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’d be a good start to a story, right?”

“It sure would… except you’re not.” Bob threw his polyester tie over his shoulder. “Anyway, if we don’t have a blast today, it’s your goddamn fault.” He attacked his greasy cheeseburger, devouring half in one bite.

“Whatever.” There were beads of sweat on Zabka’s forehead and his skull was pounding.

“You look like shit,” Bob commented. “Did you throw up in the bathroom?”

“No…” Zabka took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “But I wish I had.”

“Come on, you need more than a salad. We have a big day ahead of us.”

“I’ll eat what I want.” Zabka grabbed an olive from his drink and tossed it at Bob, hitting him between the eyes.

Bob wiped tomato juice off his face. “Asshole.”

“Listen, I couldn’t make it to the gym, so I’m eating light.” Zabka flexed his arm and made a muscle. “You don’t get a ripped body like mine without sacrificing every once in a while.” He looked at his friend. “And Bob, you could stand to lose a few pounds. So don’t give me any shit.”

Magnum, their college housemate, asked Zabka, “Seriously, why bother? You know today’s gonna be a repeat of last night… you’re gonna drink a hundred beers again. What’s the use?” He was also wearing an off-the-sale-rack suit and popped a new roll of 35mm film in his Kodak compact camera.

As buddies do, they called each other by their nicknames — Zabka, because his doppelgänger was William Zabka, the blond actor in The Karate Kid whose character is an arrogant prick; Magnum, although younger and taller, for his bushy mustache, naturally tan skin-tone, and likeness to the TV private investigator; and Bob, the jovial moniker for Robert. And although it was 1993, they looked like they forgot to leave the ’80s.

It was a muggy summer day, and they were having lunch in a restaurant-bar called The Steer. Located near the University at Buffalo’s city campus, it was popular with students from Long Island. Its dark wood interior and the large bull’s skull and horns that hung on the wall gave the place its western vibe. A country pop-song by Billy Ray Cyrus started playing in the bar.

Magnum commented, “I’m so sick of this song. It’s on the radio all-the-damn-time.”

“Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky Heart?” Bob was physically agitated. “This sucks donkey-balls.”

Zabka said nonchalantly, “I’d Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky that guy’s nose if he was here.”

“Why? I figured that tard was your idol. Why else would you have the same stupid mullet?”

“Cuz I make it look cool,” Zabka replied. “To be honest, I could get up and line-dance to this shit and make it look cool.”

“Oh god, please don’t.” Bob closed his eyes and shook his head. “But seriously, Zabka, why’d you make us come to this hellhole? I hate this fucking place.” He watched a group of girls in matching sorority shirts and with matching nose jobs, chat up the bartender. “Oh, that’s right… because you’re sniffing around for Tracy Cohenstein.”

Magnum’s eyes grew wide as he thought about the last time he saw Tracy the previous school year. It was the end of spring semester their Junior Year and she was sunbathing in her backyard. He was perched in a tree with binoculars.

Zabka put his fork down. “Screw you, Bob. Stop trying to stir the pot.”

“Who, me?” Bob placed his hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Zabka shook his head. “Yeah, never.”

Bob was undoubtedly stirring the pot. “You two fucktards were ridiculous yesterday. Like, over the top.” He gulped down some beer and shoved a fist full of fries into his mouth. “Hey, remember the last time we came here? The bouncer launched some douchebag off the steps outside and into the street.”

“Oh yeah, that was hilarious,” Magnum responded. “No offense, Zabka, but I’m shocked that’s never happened to you.”

“Someone’s got the balls to try to throw me out?” Zabka scoffed. “Ha. That’s a good one.”

Bob commented, “Actually, I’m shocked Brewer didn’t toss you outta Third Base last night. You were a walking-talking-stumbling shitshow.”

Zabka had a crooked smile. “They’d never — they love me.”

Magnum shook his head. “Everything… and I mean everything… was a fiasco yesterday.”

Bob added, “Fiasco isn’t quite the right word. It was a… clusterfuck.”

Magnum studied his scraped knuckles. “Yep, one giant clusterfuck.”

“I’m mentally scarred by several things I witnessed.” Bob shuddered. “Actually, can we please just talk about something else?”

“Sure. How about hangovers?” Magnum finished his beer and raised the bottle. “Thank god for hair-of-the-dog.”

“More like shit-of-the-dog. Dog shit — that’s what I feel like. So no, I don’t want to talk about hangovers.”

“Okay, then how about the Bills?” Zabka asked. “Their second preseason game is today.”

“Come on, I thought we were changing subjects.” Bob rubbed his temples. “The Bills are the NFL’s version of a hangover. They lost against Detroit last week. Fuckin’ Detroit!”

“Relax,” Zabka told him. “It’s preseason — means nothing. The team’s rusty and, most-likely, partying a fair amount. I’m sure things get a little wild down in Fredonia during training camp. No big deal.”

“To be frank, Buffalo is done,” Magnum stated. “They lost the last three Super Bowls — they’re done. It’s all about Miami this year. Go ’Phins!”

Zabka picked up his fork. “Fuck Miami, and fuck Marino.” He then speared a piece of chicken with his next helping of salad. “Shouldn’t you root for a Hawaiian team, Magnum? Oh shit, that’s right, there isn’t one!” As he gnawed on the meat like it was a piece of gum, his face turned green. He spit the chicken onto the table and inspected its pink flesh “What the fuck?!” He dry-heaved. “It’s raw inside!”

Their waitress heard the commotion and hustled over. “Is there a problem with your order?”

Zabka’s adrenaline spiked. “A problem?! You’re goddamn right there’s a problem! The chicken is under-fucking-cooked!”

“I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that and get you a new salad.”

“No. I’ll handle this myself.” Zabka stood with his plate, marched toward the kitchen, and slammed through the aluminum swinging-door. “Who the fuck made my salad?!”

The kitchen staff froze, alarmed by the madman with a black-eye.

Zabka scanned for the most-likely culprit and landed on the man who’d been chopping lettuce. “Hey, chico! Did you do this?! Did you put raw chicken in my salad?!”

The Panamanian food preparer replied, “No, sir. I just make the vegetables.” His nervous eyes implicated his coworker — the Latin American guy that was cooking on the grill.

“I see.” Zabka turned to the cook. “So, it was you… Señor Fuckface, eh?” He walked over and dumped his salad on the man’s head. “Why’d you do this?! Tell me right now, or I swear, I’ll strangle your fucking neck!”

The guy gulped, fully believing Zabka’s threat. “Okay, okay. Some girl paid me fifty bucks to do it. Please don’t tell my boss. I beg you.”

“Some girl?!” Zabka looked around. “So where is this conniving little cunt? Keep talking and I might let you off the hook.”

“She was out at the bar.” He was shaking.

“Take me to her.” Zabka punched his palm. “Let’s go, motherfucker.”

Scene 0 | Scene 1

zerofucksgiven

Wait! There’s a “Squish the Fish” Song?!

The lyrics below are from the funny and catchy song “Squish the Fish (feat. Sticky)”. It accompanies the hilarious novel “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy.

When I first saw her, I grabbed my fishing pole.
She gave me that look, ta slip it in her waterhole.
Advance down her field, ta penetrate that vertical line.
No block below the waist, and now it’s time to dine.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Inhale your ocean breeze, goddamn it smells dee-lish.
Time ta do my favorite thing and, squish, squish, squish the fish.

Entering your end zone, you’re as excited as me.
Your eyes rolled back so far, no way ya can possibly see.
Excessive celebration flags, the refs just made the calls.
Yeah, yeah, caress me there, and deflate my balls.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Was it good for you, to fulfill my wish?
Ya want me ta do it again? Ta squish, squish, squish the fish.

It was great at first, couldn’t imagine nothin’ better.
Got soaked in a hurricane, and you were much, much wetter.
Tired of dolphin-free tuna, at your tailgate party.
Hey, there goes a school-a snapper, I don’t wanna be tardy.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, I’m off to catch something new.
Don’t care what her name is, don’t matter if it’s Trish.
My clock’s at high-noon ta, squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish that fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this song may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Only in Buffalo!

This excerpt is from the beginning of “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy. The bestselling novel has won numerous comedic awards and been called “The Hangover” in Buffalo, NY.

Trapped like a turtle flipped on its shell, a man flails his limbs through the puffy snow. As he passes out, the alcohol in his bloodstream celebrates with wildly inappropriate dance-moves inspired by the night’s sins. The glow from a streetlamp punctures the darkness like a police helicopter’s spotlight and frames the helpless fool in his jagged snow-angel.

A few hours later, at dawn, an elderly woman is walking her Saint Bernard down the quiet street when she notices the collapsed body. Her first thought — What the fuck? — naturally is filled with compassion. But after she reminds herself of one critical detail, it all makes sense — This is Buffalo… of course there’s a drunk jackass lying in the snow. As she shrugs-off the aspiring Darwin Award winner, an alluring scent pulls the dog in the man’s direction. Tearing the leash from its master’s grasp, it dashes to investigate.

snow angel

Now, above the lush, the shaggy beast pants and stares in wonder. Masked by a pair of pink cotton-panties, the man looks like some sort of deranged bank robber. If the dog could form complex thoughts, it might speculate — For what ungodly reason is he wearing that? Is it a desperate attempt to prevent his face from freezing off? Perhaps it’s a provocative fashion statement? Or is it, quite possibly, some next-level form of perversion? But it can’t contemplate such things, so it just wags its tail in blissful ignorance. Incapable of resisting the undergarment’s exotic aroma, the hound licks the guy’s noggin like it’s a lollipop. The mutt’s tongue bursts with flavor and knows it’s struck gold — tangy, delicious gold.

Nearby, a fresh line of boot-prints marks a path up to the man and continue past him. “SUN 7:16 AM” displays on the frosty LCD of his Casio watch. Gusts of wind blow across the ground, fusing his bare hand with a frozen bottle of Genesee Cream Ale. A tattered envelope labeled “Buffalo Tickets” flaps in his other hand and scatters a rainbow of glitter dust into the breeze.

The slobbering dog belongs to a breed known for saving people buried in snowstorms, however, this pooch’s glowing eyes foretell that a rescue is far from how things are about to go down. The inebriated fellow, unaware that his forehead is the soon-to-be target of an amorous assault, remains oblivious when the canine launches into its grand-finale. The funny thing is (which can only be said when you’re not on the receiving end of such an act) humiliations such as this don’t compare with what the city has endured throughout its outlandish history.

As the animal’s pleasure-romp reaches a fever pitch, its owner strolls into the spectacle like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. While reaching for the leash, she halts abruptly and scratches her scalp. Anger builds as she reads a urine scribbled message in the snow that audaciously proclaims “GOD HATES BUF…” and trails off into a wavy drizzle.

Now in control of the tether, the old woman gives it a harsh tug. While dragging her pet away, she reflects for a moment and mutters to herself, “Is that clown, right? Does God hate Buffalo?”

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved.

"Squish the Fish" Front Cover