So, it was written in invisible ink on the severed bill of a swordfish: the all-important words—the words… of prophecy.
“Invisible fucking ink! Whose idea was that?” moaned the thing from the deep as the camera crews crabbed closer and the microphone at its lips squealed.
Its lips were fishy, its legs, a man’s. It had webbed feet with abundant toes—seven on the left foot, nine on the right. It possessed a vaguely human pelvis and an entirely fishlike head, and when people saw this monstrosity shuffling towards them, they often remarked, “Holy shit! It’s a fishman!”
It was indeed a fishman—and not the only one in the room either. For behind fishman numero uno stood a second, and for comedy’s sake, a third. Each of the creatures was unique in colour. The first, green, the second, purple, the third, duck-egg blue.
Minutes earlier, when the bizarre creatures burst into the boatshed, many of the assembled media exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s three fishmen!” But the nature of their work involved seeing weird shit aplenty, and one could only be amazed for so long, particularly now that the green one, their leader, was beginning to speak.
“FETCH ME A LEMON YOU PUSTULANT SLUGS!” roared the creature, fully expecting a chorus of volunteers.
No one spoke for a moment (or fetched a lemon), instead, they began recording, and through the lens of their many cameras, you could see the shock—the horror—on the fishman’s face.
“Why is no one… FETCHING A GOD DAMN LEMON?! I am your ruler, and I demand a lemon immediately!”
At that, every media man and his dog burst out laughing. Cameras shook, and shots of the creatures were temporarily ruined. For the fishmen, the laughter of their inferiors stung like poison. The green one flushed a temporary shade of red. The other two remained purple and duck-egg blue, respectively.
“You insolent slugs!” roared the previously green but now red one, waving the bill that contained the indecipherable prophecy. “The penalty for not fetching me a lemon is DEATH.”
“No one’s trying to die here, bros,” said Gary Graves a not-so-prominent lenshound/content creator. “We’re just wondering like why you need one. I mean, what’s it for?”
“The lemon will reveal the prophecy,” the reddish-green one explained. He didn’t know the specifics of how the ink worked or why. His gut feeling was that it ran on lemon-activated prophecy magic, and what the fishman knew for a fact was… when you juiced up that bill, the magic happened.
“Makes sense to me,” said Gary Graves with an affirming nod.
“What doesn’t make sense,” spluttered the now restored-to-green creature. “Is why none of you are responding to the orders of me, your master!”
“In this country, we have a free and independent media,” declared Jim, a moustachioed corporate broadcaster. “So, unless you’ve got money…”
“I understand you used to be free and independent,” agreed the fishman, “but together, we can change all that!”
The crowd roared, their laughter like a hail of arrows—an assault. These were proud creatures, entitled creatures who would settle for nothing less than what they were promised: total and absolute control!
“The prophecy will explain everything,” said the creatures’ clearly frustrated leader. “Please tell me that one of you muppets is fetching a lemon!”
“We can’t sit around all day waiting for a lemon,” said moustache-man Jim, whose time was, as they say, money. “Can you give us the gist of the prophecy at least?”
“The gist is: We are to rule both land and sea. It is our right. As written on the severed bill of a swordfish, or as we call it, the bill of rights!”
“The sea part is already sorted,” explained the purple creature. “We control the movements and minds of every fish in the ocean.”
At this, everyone scoffed, and a reporter even muttered, “Fake news!” Just as tensions threatened to escalate, a subservient production assistant named Mike arrived, clutching the long-awaited lemon.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Finally,” cried the chief executive fishman, while Mike stood there, dunce-like, contemplating his next move.
“What are you waiting for, you incompetent fool?” snapped the fishman in purple. “The prophecy requires immediate juicing. Squeeze that lemon and squeeze it good!”
At that, the chief fishman handed Mike the all-important swordfish bill. There was an awkward pause as Mike attempted to squeeze the fruit in front of the impatient creatures. A minor problem—he hadn’t actually cut the lemon and was attempting to squeeze it whole.
The purple fishman swiped the fruit from Mike’s useless hands, sliced it (with a fin on his elbow), and finally, squeezed. Lo! Did the juice flow onto the bill of the swordfish, and when said bill became good and juicy, the prophecy appeared!
“I’ll just read the relevant parts,” said the green fishman, prompting nods and murmurs of agreement from the crowd. “At 11:15 a.m. on the Third of September in the year 2027, having successfully mind-controlled all those who dare to inhabit the sea, the ancient beings from the deep will leave it, to claim for their own, the land!
First,” he continued, “they will wander aimlessly into a boatshed, commandeering a media briefing from some irrelevant boaties.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” shouted an extraneous sailor. “We won the America’s Cup regatta just this morning!”
“Can we keep a lid on these seadogs?” the fishman spat. “I’m trying to read a prophecy here!”
The media scrum shoved the irate sailor and his pals into the background. The regatta was old news. The real scoop: a previously undiscovered species of fishmen had appeared—and they seemed hellbent on ruling the world!
“Having arrived,” the fishman continued, “they will transform the yawn-inducing boat-bullshit into the coronation of the century when Gary Graves presents them with the Seal of Kings™. Upon receiving the Seal of Kings™ and the blessing of the aforementioned Señor Graves, they will proceed to rule humanity… FOREVER!”
Everyone looked at Gary. A sea of expectant eyes. Auckland’s media landscape was small and many of them knew the G-man personally. What Gary knew… was nothing. Nada. Zero. Diddly-squat. He didn’t know what a Seal of Kings™ was—let alone where to get one. And already, the silence was swelling, the pressure, mounting.
“Is there a Gary Graves in the building?” asked the purple creature.
Gary ducked behind his trusty camera, but he couldn’t escape, not now! Moustache-man Jim was already lining him up, his money-grubbing hands furiously pointing.
“This is him. This is Gary Graves!”
“It’s time, Gary,” said the creatures’ strikingly green leader. “Bring forth the Seal!”
Gary scanned the crowd for someone to save him. “GARY GRAVES! This is no time for tom-fucking-foolery! You do have it, don’t you? The Seal of Kings™!
Gary gulped as he responded, “Yeah, nah, eh.”
For the uninitiated, yeah nah is a colloquial saying from New Zealand that generally means no. The “yeah” at the beginning is simply there to soften the blow of the phrase’s true meaning.
“Which is it?” asked the exasperated creature. “Do you have the Seal of Kings™ or not?”
“Yeah nah,” Gary repeated, which didn’t exactly clear things up. In truth, he was panicking. It was like that dream where you turned up for the exam completely unprepared.
“This is your last chance, Graves. BRING FORTH THE SEAL OF KINGS™!”
“Yeah… I don’t actually have it on me right now,” Gary finally admitted.
“Why not, Gary? Why the fuck not?” screamed the fishman, his colour fading to a sickly shade of lime. “I need you to present the Seal of Kings™, or the prophecy…”—his face drooped in defeat—“…is a lie!”
Gary shrugged helplessly. There was nothing he could do as the now not-so-imposing creature began to cry.
“It wasn’t all a lie,” consoled his purple companion. “I mean, we control the sea, surely that’s a start!”
“We were promised land and sea,” replied the lime green leader, choking back the tears, “and I, for one, am not about to settle for the wet half.” The creature turned to the indignant crowd. “Get down on your knees,” he squealed, a desperate plea at best, “and pay homage to your new masters!”
Only Mike kneeled. He was a production assistant and accustomed to unreasonable orders. He’d heard and been subjected to much worse. When it became clear that no one was intending to join him, Mike rose awkwardly to his feet.
“Last chance to be ruled,” said the flailing and seemingly feeble creature, “any takers? Please.”
“Is it a paid position?” asked Jim, who would let anyone rule him for the right price.
“We were imagining more of a master and slave situation.”
“No one’s going to be your slave without adequate compensation.”
“Takers keepers, isn’t that the rule?”
“Of the jungle maybe. This is civilisation.”
“Look, we don’t have any bloody money,” said the green creature, who was starting to wonder if cash was indeed king. “So, for now we’ll just take one slave. A special one. This man is a prophecy-wrecking son of a bitch who has already cost us a small fortune…”
“Wonder who that could be,” Gary gulped as he ducked for an exit. Too late. The creatures were on him—he could feel their fury, taste their sweat.
“You, Gary Graves,” said the duck-egg blue fishman, who had so far refrained from speaking.
“You, Gary Graves,” he roared, his voice shaking the ceiling.
“You, Gary Graves,” he thundered—mercifully, for the last time, “are coming with us!”
Maybe it’s a good thing, Gary reasoned as he was yanked by the hair and slung onto the creatures’ shoulders. He was media trained, battle hardened, and well accustomed to the company of maniacal leaders, and honestly, being kidnapped could be the perfect chance for an all-important exclusive. Yes, the creatures’ message, was probably terrible, but terrible messages got clicks—and were often the most enthusiastically received.
“I’ll do it!” Gary declared, aloud and by accident, as the creatures dragged him from the boatshed and out to the open sea.