Years of liberal seed-sowing had equipped Jim “The Money” Devereaux with a smorgasbord of sons. Was being a father a massive drag? Yes. God, yes. But the sheer size of Jim’s litter was occasionally useful. His sons’ agonising attempts to earn his attention were what kept Jim “The Money” Devereaux so adequately informed.
It was his seventh son who sent the clip. Jim saw the message and dutifully left it on seen. He didn’t need to tire his thumbs typing a response—the fact that he’d bothered to look at all was a handsome reward for the boy.
Fishmen vs Fisherman, Jim read, gazing at the elaborate and eerily familiar thumbnail, and then all of a sudden, it clicked. And he clicked. And the video began to play.
There they were—right there! In the palm of Jim’s phone-holding hand.
“YOU!” he shouted aloud, as he recognised at once who and what he was seeing.
“YOU!” he repeated, glaring at the mocking smiles of the fishmen taunting him from the screen! “I knew you were fucking real. I KNEW IT! If you bastards think you can escape Jim “The Money” Devereaux! Then, I’ve got news for you—you slimy sons of bitches!”
Jim quickly scanned the comments section, gauging the reaction to the prank.
“TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!” declared a caps lock enthusiast.
“Weta level Visual FX!” said EditFiend_07.
“Unless I see a fishman, and place my fingers upon his gills, I will not believe!” declared DoubtingThomas69.
Jim grinned like a Cheshire Cat—feral, triumphant. There was still time.
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“But where are you?” he whispered, scrubbing the footage for clues. He watched it once. Twice. A third time, painstakingly analysing each frame. The devil was in the detail, and no pixel would remain unseen!
On the fourth watch, he spotted that accursed cameraman—Gary.
On the fifth, he saw the remains of a seahorse buried in the sand. A message, perhaps? A warning?
On the sixth, he flipped the screen diagonally, scanning for a match on Google Earth.
On the seventh, he muttered, “Enhance,” which might have worked if his phone were a sci-fi crime lab. It wasn’t, but it didn’t matter, because on the eighth viewing – Jim had it!
He’d recognise that rocky outcrop anywhere—Medlands Bloody Beach.
“See you soon!” typed Jim, cackling as he posted the comment. Then, he strolled over to his laptop and booked a flight for the following morning.
***
Jim glanced nervously at the pilot, who appeared to be a prepubescent boy. Any pilot worth his salt, thought Jim, should have the decency and actual ability to grow a moustache. A luxuriant one, too. A moustache like Jim’s! Still, sometimes you had to take extreme measures to get the story—measures like putting your entire faith in the piloting skills of a child.
Jim needn’t have worried. The baby-faced pilot came from an aviation-obsessed family and had already clocked up thousands of hours of flight time. The youth flew the plane straight and true, all the way to Great Barrier Island, where he executed a flawless landing—proving, once and for all, the age-old maxim: you can’t judge a pilot by its cover.
Jim stooped as he exited the rickety old plane, gazing at the modest island runway. In the distance, he noted a sleek and magnificent jet. Now there was a craft that ran on money! A craft worthy of a man like Jim. He ogled the jet like a prize as it taxied over the grass runway. Who would deserve such superstar treatment? Who else but…
THEM!
“No!” Jim exclaimed as he saw the face of a fishman framed in the jet’s tastefully designed window.
“No!” he shouted, his legs kicking into action.
“No!” Jim thundered, lunging forward, cursing and screaming and spluttering as he ran.
But even Jim’s maddest dash was no match for the rapidly departing jet, which was going… going… gone!
Up it went, leaving Jim “The Money” Devereaux stranded, storyless, on the runway. And as he gazed angrily up, shaking his fist at the sky, one of the fishmen saw him.
And waved.