Without Gary dragging them down, the Fishmen were finally free to shine. Shine like highly intoxicated and unpalatably slimy diamonds. They had Rogan now, and he was like Gary on steroids, and whiskey, and brain pills, and weed.
“You control every fish in the sea?” said Joe. “Bullshit. That’s the whiskey talking.”
“You dare to call me a liar!” slurred Greg. “Bring me a fish, a live one, and I’ll prove it to you. Right now!”
“Have we got a fish, Jamie? Can you bring out a fish? I used to have these Siamese fighting fish—bro-ho-ho-ho! These things were gnarly. Do we have one out back?”
The chat was overloaded. The criminally desperate came to the fore. Influencers, brands, and governments shamelessly inserted themselves into the massively viral moment.
@MrBeast: If they pull this off, I’m giving $10,000 to a FISH!
@McDonalds: Filet of Fishman, anyone? We’re kidding. KIDDING!
@OceanTruther88: The government doesn’t want you to know this, but fish are ALREADY mind-controlled. 🧐!
@USGovOfficial: The Pentagon is monitoring this situation closely.
It was five minutes and six nonsensical tangents before they found the fish.
“Oh damn!” shouted Rogan, spying the assistant, carrying the bowl that contained a single Siamese fighting fish.
@HighAsTwoKites: BRO! They got a fish!
@FishKing420: What are we about to witness?
“You ever seen these, guys?” said Rogan to the Fishmen, who obviously had. “Siamese fighting fish. Put two of these fuckers in a tank—they’re gonna fight—and a lot of times—they fight to the death!”
Everyone in studio was riveted, waiting for the demonstration. Not to mention the billions around the globe glued to their screens.
“Well, we’ve delivered the fish,” said Rogan, gesturing to Greg to step up.
“You want me to prove it, do you? I’ll prove it!” said Greg, huffing cigar smoke through his gills. “Who’s ready for a ruthless display of power?”
“Dude, he is on form,” chuckled Gorbachev, who was already adopting some Rogan-isms.
Jamie swung a camera into place as Greg stalked the set like a magician.
“Now, no sane, un-mind-controlled fish would do what this fish is about to do. Drum roll, please.”
Camera 3 zoomed to a tight close-up. The bowl. The fish within. Joe drummed on the table as the anticipation reached fever pitch.
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“Dude, I feel like I’m about to witness history,” he gushed.
The fish circled. Circled again.
@AquamanOfficial: It’s just swimming in circles. What a letdown.
Suddenly, the fish swerved, plunging deep into the bowl, gathering speed like a coiled spring. Then, with a sudden burst, it pivoted sharply—a perfect 180—before rocketing upward, slicing through the water’s surface in a spectacular, gravity-defying leap.
“We rule the sea!” Greg shouted swiping the fish from the air. He opened his palm to reveal the completely calm, unstruggling creature, which he handed to Gorbachev, who duly and gruesomely consumed it.
@PETAofficial: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! 🚨🚨🚨
@ScreamingInternally: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
@DMTGoblin: This is exactly what the elves warned me about.
@GordonRamsayOfficial: That’s RAAAAAAAAAW!
@JackedToTheGills: Is this how they gain power? Like some kind of aquatic Highlander??
The studio was silent. Even Rogan, normally unfazed, just stared at Greg, who stood triumphant, gills flaring like a rockstar who just obliterated the encore.
Joe exhaled, rubbing his temples as if working through a cosmic revelation. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “So, you can control any fish?”
The fishmen nodded as one.
“Dude, you realise you could OWN the entire seafood industry. Jamie, how much money is there in seafood? Can you pull that up?”
He did—and immediately saw the dollar signs. The astronomically high dollar signs.
“Says here the U.S market alone is worth around $100 billion dollars a year, and it’s at least $400 billion globally.
“400 billy! Holy shit!” screamed Rogan, and then, “MORE WHISKEY!”
@afishianado: Can I get in on that $400 billy?
@scamhappy: Launch a fishcoin immediately🐟$$$!
“Bros, you have to capitalise. You’ve got worldwide attention—half the planet on the stream! Now, are we gonna sell these people some fish or what?”
“Why would we sell them fish?” said Gideon, who was admittedly lost in whiskey and hype.
“Look fame’s a trip, I know. But if you’re serious about ruling… you’re gonna need to get rich!”
***
It was two blocks from the studio to the hotel, where Gary was quietly seething, and then loudly seething, and then cacophonously seething—until the apocalyptic roar of Gary’s seemingly unstoppable seething resulted in complaints from seven of the eight neighbouring rooms.
“If you can just keep the seething to a reasonable level,” beseeched an overworked and underpaid employee.
“My life is RUINED,” said Gary, who, by now, was openly weeping.
This openness flustered the ill-equipped staffer, who merely responded:
“Oh.”
Then, after a moment’s pause. “I have to go.”
Alone again, Gary turned to the comfort of social media, wincing as he joined the stream. There they were. The traitors! Swanning around like masters of the motherfucking universe. Greg with his arrogant swagger, Gideon with his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, Gorbachev whose tongue was always at-the-ready with a disarmingly charming quip.
Were they drunk as hell? Yes. Were they swearing like sailors? Also, yes. And yet, somehow… THEY SOARED! Like magnificent fishman angels.
As Gary watched, he experienced a very modern malaise. One that we’ve all felt as we gaze at people far more charismatic or talented than we’ll ever be, rising to heights that we’re statistically unlikely to achieve.
Gary couldn’t keep up with the Joneses, because the Joneses were fishmen—highly entertaining and hilarious fishmen—and he was just Gary “The Nobody” Graves. He’d already lost his mother, and he was about to lose his fishmen, too—his meal ticket out of this seemingly inescapable hell.
Break for tears.
And then, as he closed the stream in disgust, Gary caught a glimpse of the first of many incisive and incredibly brutal memes.
It was a low-res image of Gary’s battered head inside a deep fryer.
The text read: Filet-O-Failure.
“AHHHHHH!” he shouted, hurling his phone across the room.
Social media had failed him. And what was there left? Food?!
There was only one dish that would fit the bill—a special meal that his mother once made for her desperate-to-be-special boy.
“I’m getting a snapper,” Gary declared, grabbing his wallet and heading for the door.