UnBooks:Sunday my Sunday

The days lasted forever.

Sunday. Listen as I say it: "Sun" "day". And all together now, "Sunday". Sigh ... the word makes me relax like those first few moments when alcohol fuses to your blood. SUNDAY. They are two beautiful sounds that roll off the top of your lips like kissing a little kitten when it's raining. Sunday's hair is light and soft. Yet it is curly at the end with shags that catch the sunlight at dawn. Sunday smells like sweet sugar-glazed beans as its nipples stick out with wild confidence. She tastes like blue and smells like red. Her eyes are golden and her body tastes salty.

I was stationed with the third platoon with a contingent of Negroes and Japanese Americans. I learned a lot from them, like how to cheat people out of money and how to hate white people like myself and how to grow a really thin moustache. I learnt how to stop reading books and roll dice, losing all my money. I got into raw fish and raw monkey brains. I even learnt Japanese opera and Deep South music even though it all hurt my ears attacking my eardrum and hurting me so much. They were so great and I still keep in touch with the ones who don't have holes in their heads.

Sunday slowly walked down the street with a slim cigarette sticking out of her small tight mouth. She batted her long eyelashes and smiled at me ... that smile that said she would give me a discount if I asked nice enough. She spoke bad English with a harsh Vietnamese accent, but it was so sexy every word she said made my loins swell up to the bursting point. And – trust me – you never want to burst in your pants when wearing fatigues.

We would munch on dead sunflowers.

We made sinful love on Sundays. She said it was ironic that we screwed at the end of the week but I didn't understand her cryptic ways. She said a lot of things I didn't understand, but eventually she stopped talking and performed deep Asian pleasure. She would wrap her legs around me while smiling her slanty eyed grimace while singing Japanese opera. Even though my ears started bleeding when I heard Jap Opera ... I still felt a sort of bliss that could happen only in the middle of a terrible war – a beautiful war – a war whose shining centre was Sunday. Incredible Sunday. Say it out loud slowly ... SUN DAY. The words will drop you to your knees.

The war ended sooner than I thought and I was shaking in fear that Sunday wouldn't come back with me. The Chinese had sent their robot soldiers to Vietnam and had taken most of the jungle and chopstick factories. My platoon was pulling out and I had to get Sunday on a plane even if in my duffel bag. We cried when we realised that Sunday would stay in Vietnam so we made love really fast and really hard while we cried tears of hot love. I promised I would send her money some time in the future. When we kissed goodbye my muscles failed me and I peed all over the ground. While flying home in my urine-soaked uniform I thought only about Sunday. Not about my friends in the ground or the Chinese robots with their laser eye-beams ... but of Sunday. Nothing but Sunday and her stretched lips painted blood red.

I organised the paperwork but I had many problems. She was a dog and I am a cat and Immigration wouldn't give her a visa. When my family found out I had paid a dog to have sex they threw me out of my house. I was a veteran with no money and without Sunday – the most beautiful beagle you ever saw – with slanted eyes and tiny feet. Her tail was long and she would smack me in the face with it while I made love to her with my feline plumbing.

The romantic grey skies of Pittsburgh

Five years passed before I made enough money to fly her to America and convince Immigration that I loved her. Our wedding was small. All my Negro and Jap friends came. They sang soul music which made my left ear drum explode. I had to go to the hospital for a few days, but once I was released Sunday and I went on a honeymoon to Pittsburgh. We could spend only one night there as I had to work the next day, but we had enough time to see the romantic sights of Pittsburgh.

I got a job fixing guns and bazookas for whoever needed them fixed. Sunday insisted that she hustle the streets ... even though we were married. I didn't mind because I knew Sunday loved me and that she needed to do the only thing she had known her whole life – have sex with guys who paid her. She did anything and everything. She gave elephants hand jobs and whipped zebras with her belt and was gang-banged by a squad of chipmunk firefighters. My brother visited her once and paid her well. Only then did he understand why I loved Sunday and he would try to convince the family to take me back. I didn't care ... because Sunday was the shimmering warmth that made me purr purr purr. Her six nipples were soft and supple. Her floppy ears were shaggy and silky. Her wet black nose was so moist and cold that it made a wave of erotic hysteria blast through my heart until I cried at how precious Sunday was. The way she ate random scraps of food off the ground. The way she whined and yelped while I serviced her in her anus. Sunday was magic. And magic was my luscious Sunday. SUNDAY!

It's hard to see the Sun when your soul is dead.

One day when I had replacement surgery on my left ear my Sunday didn't come to pick me up. I was worried and scared. She was always by my side when I needed her. She would stroke my whiskers and scratch my hairy tummy and pinch me in places that made me yelp with pleasure. I knew something was wrong. I had an I.V. and pain killers so strong I didn't know which way was up or down. I ripped off everything stuck in my body and pushed my way back home. I stopped only for a minute to buy a gram of catnip off a negro friend of mine I knew from the war. He came along with me ... 'cause he always had my back. I did the whole gram and I now had energy to run home to my Sunday. To protect her and keep her in my strong cat arms.

Once home, I saw that the doggy trap door was broken. I was scared and peed myself again. My friend took the back door and I took the front. We blasted inside and the shock ... the horror sent me to the ground like a car had run me over. A Chinese robot had tracked Sunday down and zapped her with its laser eyes. My friend popped a cap in the robot's motherfucking ass while I dropped to my knees and tried to help my sacred perfect beautiful Sunday. She had the strength only to whisper my name and to eat a dog biscuit I carried in my pocket.

I ripped a strip of fabric off her shirt and tied it around my head. No more mister nice cat. That's why I dedicate myself to the fight against Chinese terror. I spend every day travelling around the world, taking out Chinese politicians and robot scientists. I've already assassinated a thousand Chinks and I plan to take on a million more. All 1 billion of them if that's what it takes. Once in a while I meet a female spy and spend the night in her bed ... but I weep after thinking about my Sunday. I know that Sunday is in Heaven ... turning tricks and making a lot of money in the clouds. I know she's waiting for me. But first I have a job to do – I gotta take out the trash ... one chopstick at a time.

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