The prank went off without a hitch. This time, they substituted snapper for striped marlin, which Gary reckoned looked better on camera. The fisherman—and first-time prank victim—Tony, had a rubber face and cartoonish reactions. The way he screamed at the sea, and the seemingly uncatchable fish was pure perfection.

Also perfect was the chemistry between the fishmen. Gorbachev’s dark humour, Greg’s grandiose pomposity, Gideon’s heightened sense of confusion. It all popped.

When the fishmen finally charged over, bellowing their evergreen catchphrase, “It’s just a prank, bro!” the tension only skyrocketed. Now, poor Tony was face to face with three nightmarish creatures from the deep. His pupils made a break for it, rolling straight to the back of his skull. Seconds later, he fainted, tumbling into the sea in the most comedically limp fashion.

Gary waited. Tony didn’t resurface.

“Yeah, you should probably rescue him,” he said after one more beat.

The creatures dutifully dragged Tony to the safety of the rocks, where he lay coughing and spluttering in terror. The prank was over, the camera off, the aftermath, still in full swing.

“Get back! Back you demons!” the fisherman screamed.

“It’s okay,” said Gary, his tone soft and soothing. “It’s just a prank, a harmless prank. You’ll probably laugh about this later—and again when you see the cut online.”

“So, the c-c-c-creatures,” Tony stammered, “they’re n-n-n-not real?”

“What if I told you they were paid actors?”

Tony gulped. “In… highly convincing suits?”

“The name’s Greg,” said Greg extending a scaly palm.

“You don’t mind, do you? If we put the prank online.”

“You scared the shit out of me, and now you w-w-w-want my permission.”

“We could give you a fish,” Gorbachev offered, “to sweeten the deal.”

“What sort of f-f-f-fish?” said Tony, his interest piqued.

“A big one,” said Gorbachev, clicking his fingers.

As he did, a great fish shot from the depths like a gleaming spear. The marlin leapt, soaring high above them, its vast body arching in the golden sunlight. Tony screamed as the enormous fish slammed into the rocks beside him with an almighty THWACK.

There was none of the usual flailing or twisting. It just lay there, the fish, casually expiring. With a resigned expression and, if Tony wasn’t mistaken, a knowing wink of its monstrous eye.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Right-io then! You can take it from here,” said Gorbachev, leaving the gormless fishcatcher with his four-hundred-and-fifty-pound prize.

“This is the single greatest day of my life,” Tony whispered. He had started to cry.

The pranksters backed away slowly, leaving the fisherman to his “catch”. Gary offered a half-assed wave, but Tony was no longer looking. He was busy stroking the enormous fish and whispering sweet nothings into its ear.

“Did we get it?” Gideon whispered as they stumbled back up the beach.

“God, I hope so,” Gary replied. Maybe the prank was a bit much—but if the footage was good? If they’d caught the fisherman’s limp collapse, the perfect comedic timing? Then… then it was worth it.

He turned to the fishmen. “Alright, bros. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

***

There was a decrepit old MacBook back at the beach house. It even had an outdated version of Premiere Pro. Sure, the render time would be painful, but at least he could edit the piece and see what they had.

But… when they got to the house, there was, of course, a problem.

“These on buttons are a joke, A JOKE!” exclaimed Gary. He hammered the defective button over and over again. “What a total and utter JOKE!”

“I don’t get it,” said Gideon, confused once more.

“Not a joke—A BLOODY JOKE!”

Gideon shrugged.

“What I mean is, this thing is a piece of shit!”

Enraged, Gary flung the laptop at the wall—and upon impact, heard a familiar DING.

“Engineering 101,” he declared as the laptop whirred into life.

Gary connected his camera, his A27R, and began transferring the footage. “Copying 129 items,” said the task bar, the estimated time? “About 1 hour”.

“Might be a while, bros,” said Gary, aware of the fishmen looming over his shoulder.

“We’re experienced waiters,” said Gorbachev, who’d literally just spent untold eons waiting beneath the sea.

“Fine, but you can’t just lurk in the background. Off you go, bros. Let me cook!”

Gary cooked and continued cooking until late in the evening.

At 9:30pm, the edit was finally ready. Done! Done like a dinner.

Gary flung open the door and called to the creatures, who were playing Paper, Scissors, Fishman on the lawn. One of the major problems with Paper, Scissors, Fishman was that throwing a Fishman comprehensively beat both paper and scissors, so the game always ended in a Fishman v Fishman stalemate.

“Paper, scissors, fishman!” the creatures chanted as Greg and Gideon once again threw dual fishmen, the result, as always, a draw.

“Next time, I will thoroughly wipe the floor with you,” declared Greg. It wasn’t true, of course. It never was.

“Alright, bros,” said Gary, “It’s time!”

He led the excited creatures to the clapped-out old laptop. “Showtime,” he said, hitting spacebar to roll the clip.

Gary wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the creatures, but it certainly wasn’t a stinging critique.

“Well, for starters, the pacing is ludicrously slow,” said Gideon, his webbed fingers steepled like a seasoned film professor. “We need to open with a shot of all three of us cackling away to establish ourselves as pranksters. Then, hard cut to the hapless fisherman, and after that, the open sea.”

“Ummmm.”

“We need to establish struggle—show him reeling in nothing. The despair. The futility. Then, we go to that shot of Gorbachev, the dramatic arm gesture. Then—boom—back to the sea, except now it’s teeming with marlin. From there, we can mostly stick with what you’ve got, though I do think a judicious sprinkle of voiceover could help clarify the narrative.”

Gary blinked. “Who are you? And how do you know about pacing?”

“Sometimes you just know,” said Gideon with a wink as if that were explanation enough.

Gary squinted back. “You just know?”

The creature sighed, shaking his head. “It’s called a plot hole, Gary. Don’t overthink it. Anyway, shall we fix this cut.”

“We don’t have half the shots you seem to think we do,” Gary said, exasperated.

“We’ll shoot some pick-ups in the morning,” Gideon replied, smoothly commandeering the laptop. “But for now—” he cracked his knuckles over the keyboard, eyes gleaming—“let me cook!”