CHAPTER THREE: OUR LOVE IS LIKE AN AFRICAN ECOSYSTEM SITUATED ON A BRINY PIRATE SHIP.
Ebony entered her man cave which was unknowingly built under Mike Newton's house. She sighed and collapsed in a saggy couch, cracking open a beer and farting deeply, passionately, truly. The flatulence created a tremor that rocked the Newton household.
Suddenly, she heard a knock at the door of her man cave, which was really just the skin of Michael Buble stitched together and hung over the opening. She flung open the skin and was met by an unexpected visitor.
"What," she said, staring into the eyes of her lover, Edward Cullen.
"May I come in?" he asked. She smiled inwardly, he was always such a gentleman. Even on their first date back in the Spanish Inquisition when he shot heretics into the sky with rockets to create an illusion of entrancing fireworks.
Still, she was taken aback by his frankness. She hesitated for a moment, which allowed him to brush past her with a noiseless grace that only a vampire accomplish. She couldn't help but note that he left behind a fruity and pleasant scent.
"Wow," she said, "What shampoo do you use?"
"Extra-strength prescription dandruff shampoo infused with the blood of puppies," he said, "But that's not what I'm here to talk about. We need to discuss our relationship."
She had the unreadable expression of a meerkat faced with a dildo shaped like another meerkat. Yet he was a hippo, majestic, strong, rippling with the unbridled power to crush depraved African children in his detachable jaws. And a meerkat could never date a hippo. It was against the basic fibers that dictated life in the savannah of their existence.
Ebony shrugged, "What relationship?"
"You know what I'm talking about," said Edward and his eyes stormed like chocolate thunder with pee rain.
"What about Bella?" questioned Ebony, "Isn't she your new girlfriend?"
"Oh, God, never," said Edward, clasping her hand in his smooth, marble dancer fingers of a Dutch baroness, "She's just a girl I know."
Ebony turned away, "Then why was she hanging off of you like a barnacle to a narwhale?"
"Look," said Edward and tears began to cascade from his eyes like waterfalls of pure beauty and magic, "I love you, Ebony Ronyld Rayvin. Who else would I tell my greatest secret?"
"Your greatest secret?" she gasped.
"Yes," Edward's dainty hands shook as he slowly took off his helmet, "I don't wear the helmet because it protects me from inertia when I run at high speeds. I wear it to keep myself from reading the thoughts of others."
"Why would you do that?" Ebony cried, "Why would you suppress your gift?"
"Because," Edward wept like a schoolgirl, "I am a monster. I am the Kraken!" he fell to his knees and cursed the heavens. His cry had the same romance-enhancing frequency as smooth jazz ballad legend Barry White.
"Oh, Edward," she sighed, approaching him with soft, lustful footsteps. She sighed as she stroked his powerful mantis arms and the smooth plane of his back, once inflicted with the crippling effects of psoriasis.
"You might be a Kraken… but you're not just any Kraken. You're a Kraken with eight pulsating arms of passion and love… You're a Kraken a thousand individual suckers to kiss me with. It doesn't matter that you're a Kraken, because you're my Kraken." She dried his tears and he found the strength of his inner hippo to meet her gaze. His voice trembled as he fought to produce speech.
"If I am your Kraken… does that make you my Davy Jones?" he whispered. His breath caught in his throat and trickled out slowly like how sometimes when you throw up in your mouth but it's not a full throw up so you can't spit it out so you just swallow it back and it tastes really weird.
"Oh my sweet lusty buns of honey mustard…. I'll be your Davy Jones any day." She smiled coyly at him.
"I like that in a woman…" he moaned. She giggled and pressed herself against his spray painted abs.
"What?" she asked playfully.
"Strength, confidence. Body odor. You're like a voluptuous nematode that has wandered into my life and brightened it with the vibrance of your flagellum." He replied, cradling her in his arms.
"Well then why don't I take you to my Davy Jones Locker…" she said, taking him by the strap of his helmet and leading him into a lesser alcove located towards the butt end of her man cave. He willingly obliged.
But they didn't realize something. Somewhere, under an old and creaky sofa situated in the mancave, someone was watching. Someone was adjusting a plastic tiara.