Any connoisseur of whiskey knows the law of diminishing returns—the diminishing part being the intellect, balance and coordination, critical thinking, reaction time, sense of sight, smell, taste, and hearing, as well as clarity of speech, bladder control and even consciousness of the over enthusiastic imbiber.

By hour three of the podcast, the many happy returns of the whiskey had well and truly diminished, and Joe and the Fishmen were straight-up hammered.

“BRAIN PILLS!” shouted Gorbachev, completely unprompted, and everyone fell about laughing.

“What are you guys all laughing at?” said Greg suspiciously. He’d somehow missed the punchline and wondered if the laughter was a personal slight directed at him.

“Your friend just yelled ‘brain pills’ for no reason!” Joe roared.

“What’s it to do with you, Joe Rogan?” slurred Greg, who was entering an unprecedented and dangerous phase of drunkenness.

“Don’t make me wrestle you, bitch, because I’ll put in a submission hold REAL quick.”

Not again, thought Jamie, who, as the only sober man standing, knew all too well where this soon-to-be-trainwreck was headed.

“I’ll wrestle you out of existence,” said Greg, trying to recall the lessons he had learned at fish wrestling school.

“Forget wrestling,” his instructor had said, “and paint me a picture of a kraken, because the truth is that behind all the smoke and mirrors, wrestling is ART.”

That day, Greg had painted a great and powerful kraken. Did it make him a better wrestler? No. Was it a substitute for actual training? Of course not. But what he was lacking in fight acumen, he made up for in a gut feeling that he was about to whoop some ass.

“In fact,” Greg spat, brimming with unearned confidence, “let’s make it interesting. If I lose, you get all the fish you can eat. If you lose, we get control of The Joe Rogan Experience.”

Joe blinked, processing the absurdity of the wager. “That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t do it, Joe,” said an exasperated Jamie.

“But let’s be honest—the real reason you’re not gonna do it,” Greg taunted. “Is because you’re too scared to fight a fish.”

At this junction, the smart money was on not risking your entire podcast empire on a high-stakes wrestling match. But then Joe glanced at the chat.

@JamiePullThatUp: Jamie, pull up, “Joe Rogan is a massive coward.”

@GripStengthMatters: Greg just called you a beta, Joe. You gonna let that slide?

@ElkMeatEater: Imagine explaining to the boys at the gym you refused to fight a fishman.

Joe rubbed his temples. “I mean… it’s not like I have anything to prove, right?”

“And do you honestly want to go back to recording in a garage?” said the only remaining voice of reason.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

But Jamie was immediately drowned out by a sea of unreasonable voices (who, let’s face it, are always the loudest).

@AlphaBrainWashed: Greg just said jiu-jistu is hugging for grown men.

@GigaChadMindset: Joe knows he’ll get dominated. You can smell his fear from Australia.

“Are you not an apex predator?” asked Gideon.

“Dude, I don’t blame you,” said Gorbachev mockingly. “I wouldn’t want to get ragdolled on my own show either.”

“You know how this ends!” declared an already triumphant Greg. “With a grown man tapping out to a fish.”

“Goddamn it,” Joe sighed, and then after a moment. “It’s on!”

Chaos erupted in the chat. Bets were placed—ludicrous and legally binding bets—with one unhinged viewer wagering his entire soul on Rogan.

The podcast studio, cluttered with whiskey bottles and ineffectual brain supplements, was transformed into an impromptu wrestling arena. Greg, seven feet tall with the build of a malnourished greyhound, cracked his barnacled knuckles. Joe, an actual trained fighter, just rolled his shoulders and smirked.

“I’m gonna eat you alive,” Joe taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Greg was too focused to answer.

“All right, gentleman,” said Jamie, assuming the mantle of adjudicator. “I want a good clean fight and—”

WHAM!

A slimy kick from Greg landed well below the belt. And now it was on proper.

Joe, relying on years of training, went for a low takedown, expecting minimal resistance. What he never saw coming, was Greg uncoordinatedly flopping onto him with a frankly surprising amount of mass. The impact knocked Joe onto his back, his arms flailing as Greg flopped across him like a dying tuna.

“That’s some slippery fish shit right there!” cheered Gorbachev, “And now you’ve got him right where you want him!”

Which was true—for a moment. And then Joe fought back.

He twisted himself free, trying to manoeuvre Greg into a submission hold, but the fishman’s biology made him impossible to grip.

Joe scrambled to his feet, while Greg—emboldened by his accidental success—launched an attack. There was only one move for a moment like this, a move Greg had painted thousands of times—a move scholars (of wrestling) would later refer to as The Kraken’s Embrace.

The Kraken’s Embrace can be broken down into two major steps. The first involved wild, gelatinous arm wriggling. The second? Giving your opponent an effusive and ineffectual hug.

Joe effortlessly moved from ineffectual hug to ruthless choke hold, and for a moment, his victory seemed assured.

Until, out of nowhere, he slipped on fish slime, stumbled backwards, lost his balance and smashed headfirst into the edge of the podcast table.

That was it. Lights out. Game over.

@NeuralinkThisBitch: OH MY GOD DID HE JUST KNOCK HIMSELF OUT?!

@SlipperyFishShuffle: WE HAVE A CHAMPION!

@GripStrengthGod: BRO JUST LOST TO A DAMP HANDSHAKE!

@ReleaseTheKraken: NO ONE CAN ESCAPE THE KRAKEN’S EMBRACE!

Gorbachev and Gideon were on their feet, screaming.

“FISHMEN! FISHMEN! FISHMEN! FISHMEN!”

“The Joe Rogan Experience is OURS!” roared Greg.

“And I have got big plans for the inevitable redesign of the studio,” said Gideon. “Water, for starters—maybe a nice lagoon! And can we get bigger tripods for the cameras? A high angle is kinder on the aquatic complexion.”

“Welcome!” said Gorbachev. “To The Fishman Experience! With your new and clearly superior hosts: Supreme Admiral Gorbachev, Question Master Gideon, and newly crowned Champion of Wrestling, Master of the Kraken’s Embrace, the Slippery Destroyer himself… GREG!”

Jamie sighed. “Spotify is gonna be so pissed.”

The chat was now overrun by fish fans.

@KrakenConfirmed: Finally, intelligent hosts!

@JoeGotFilleted: Someone update Wikipedia—the pod is Gregs!

The fishmen, arms aloft, began performing victory laps of the studio. Someone brought ice for Joe, who was finally coming around.

“Are we actually going to give them the pod?” asked Jamie.

“W-What?” Joe stammered, still spinning with a healthy dose of concussion.

“We get the pod! We get the pod!” chanted the fishmen.

“Yeah dudes,” said Joe, coming to his senses at last. “You’re not getting the podcast.”

Silence.

“What?” said Gideon. “But… but we won.”

“It’s my show, bros. And you’re not getting it.”

The fishmen stared at each other, dumbfounded. You might even say… like fish out of water.

“No way!” said Greg. “That’s bullshit!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to podcasting,” said Jamie. And with that said, they showed the still-bickering and justifiably outraged fishmen the door.