Legend has it...began the stories about infamous scourge of southern Louisiana, the monster that'd roamed the murky waters for the past thirty-five summers. Swamp Daddy, being the boogie monster of the Bayou, had heard all the tales, many of which were true. For starters, he was huge, a full tail longer than even the largest of gators, and much thicker and heftier too, a living stone. The gator had also destroyed countless boats belonging to human pursuers. He'd swallow their handguns and rifles, tear their fishing lines to shreds, and bludgeon the most tenacious hunters with his bulbous tail. He, too, was a ferocious hunter, his mouth opening into a dark chasm of his prey's certain demise—nothing escaped, nothing met the light ever again.

But that's where the truth ended—the rampant tales of hunting humans were false. They'd said he'd wandered onto back porches and stolen human young, an outrageous accusation.

Swamp Daddy simply fed in typical gator fashion, attacking whatever happened to pass by—a heron dipping too low to the water, a frog edging off a lily pad, vicious wildcats that dared challenge him, and all manners of creatures that fell from capsized fishing boats: bait, crawfish, catfish, other dead gators. He didn't feel bad for consuming his brethren, but he was grateful for their sacrifice. He'd raised himself; from the moment of his hatching he relied on the swamp to sustain him, to shield him from danger until he grew large enough to become the danger.

Swamp Daddy was convinced that nature took care of him, that nature was a patient, forgiving daddy, so he obediently followed the examples of the sun, the winds, and the fish-filled waters and led a passive existence. He disguised his shadowy presence right beneath the water's surface, eating on opportunity, consuming the gifts that were his to take. And, whenever necessary, he fought off humans, never failing to instill hard kernels of fear in their throats. The humans called him Big Daddy then—because he was big and they were excited about that bigness. They'd caught big gators before; they knew how to handle one. But years of failures transformed excitable litanies of We hooked Big Daddy! We finally got him! into panicked flurries of Swamp Daddy! Jesus almighty! It's Swamp Daddy! Help!

But as the years progressed and people realized that Swamp Daddy victims were unmaimed, uneaten, stories circulated of the gator speaking English, repeating, Stop it already! It's pointless! Once the scared pursuers got used to the idea of a talking gator, once said gator talked them off the ledge of their own terror (It's alright, I won't hurt you, your kind tastes badly anyway), he'd finally gotten around to asking—politely—for their onboard catch. That's how he intended to eat from now on, with charm, with simple predatory diplomacy. The practice succeeded, and within that same year folks began to release half of their day's catch into the waters where Swamp Daddy was said to roam, an offering to their newly recognized God.

On a sunny day in late summer, he'd spotted a motorboat about twenty yards off. A three-man crew removed the tackle box and fishing gear from the vessel. Swamp Daddy's stomach rumbled at the sight of the tackle box. He could hear the hard slaps of the flopping fish—he could almost taste them. Swamp Daddy swam up slowly, his body concealed by the waters, steadily coming into visibility starting with its eyes, then head, and finally his broad, scaly back. Thirty-five summers of this same menacing approach, thirty-five summers of fear followed by food or flight—Swamp Daddy, while passive, relished in the thrill of inciting terror, an un-daddy-like indulgence in his legend.

One long-necked man had seen the beast approaching, had stiffened in fear at the sight of the cracked yellow eyes, before quickly softening.

"Oh, hey, look guys! It's Swamp Daddy! Man, I thought I'd have to shoot you."

But Long Neck didn't even reach for the rifle at his feet; he lied because it was something good to say. Swamp Daddy felt strangely about that, an odd injury inflicted on his pride. The gator climbed ashore, disappointed. He'd adopted the human tendency to hang his shoulders like men who'd lost a large catch. But the men couldn't read any discouragement in his expression; the gator's primordial bone structure disguised all softness, all pretensions to humanity.

"You hungry, Mr. Gator?" said a second man with a potbelly.

"It's getting to that time," Swamp Daddy answered honestly.

"You know," the third man began to say, his dimpled chin splitting like a ditch, "They finished building that Harvest Mart past the old catfish burrows. A little pricy, a little fancy, but it ain't so bad."

"Pricy? What's a price?"

"The only way you're gonna get food from a mega-mart like that," Dimpled Chin continued. "They're real health conscious. Anti-preservative, anti-gluten. They sell organic."

"You should try it!" Long Neck said, now polishing his rifle with a cloth. "That whole hipster thing isn't right with me, but they sure do have fresh ingredients."

"Couldn't have said it better," Potbelly said. "They have loads of variety too."

"Good to know," Swamp Daddy said, "I'm not opposed to some catfish."

"Catfish?" Dimpled Chin was excited—Swamp Daddy could smell several within the tackle box. "You know they got that! In fact, they got everything you can find in the swamp. But without the chemicals and cruelty."

Swamp Daddy tilted his head to the side. He couldn't quite marry the concepts of non-cruelty and fish kill. "But it's dead."

"Humanely dead!" all three said, laughing.

Swamp Daddy wasn't completely sold on Harvest Mart but he was hungry. "See you boys later!" He trudged along the muddy shore toward the nearby town. Along the way he'd cross the abandoned catfish burrows. The fish had been cleaned out by humans, but Swamp Daddy didn't fault them that. Everyone had to eat, himself included. He dragged his girth along the clay, anticipating his meal of humanely killed catfish from the Harvest Mart.

*

Swamp Daddy lumbered through the automatic sliding doors of Harvest Mart and was greeted by a blast of cold air and a nervous smile from the pimpled boy holding the samples tray.

"Here." The boy held out a paper cup. "Try Happy Farms Chicken Tenders."

Swamp Daddy shook his head, no less confused by the human insistence on happily dead prey. But his stomach rumbled loudly, a growl that resonated from his cavernous belly and vibrated along the magazine racks. He opened his gigantic mouth, his yellowed teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and the kid tossed the sample in. Swamp Daddy blanched at the distasteful breading, let alone the cooked meat, but he politely swallowed the happy tenders.

"Excuse me, but do you sell catfish here?"

"Only the happiest!" said the boy, whose nametag read ZAK.

The response ticked against the gator's nerves but he controlled his irritation. "Where is it?" Swamp Daddy asked.

"The Butcher Block."

Swamp Daddy smiled at the word butcher, and its refreshing truthfulness.

The gator mustered what he could of a nod and pushed a grocery cart with his snout to the meat section where—as far as Swamp Daddy could tell—they skinned and chopped the meat. He approached the refrigerated display and eased his head forward. The frozen air was a new sensation; the icy mist prickled his hide. He gingerly gripped a package of catfish between his teeth, struggling not to puncture the plastic wrapping, and head-whipped it into the grocery cart.

As he reached for more, his thoughts zoomed to the plastic in his mouth, the very same plastic known to trap fish in the nearby marshland. All things die, but the introduction of plastic didn't seem like a product of the swamp's all-encompassing paternity. But Swamp Daddy firmly believed that plastic was a natural human by-product, just like snakes shedding their skin—plastic was human skin, or something akin to it. Swamp Daddy imagined humans concealed within the walls of their waterfront houses, stepping out of their skin-tight plastic husks. This is normal human life, he told himself, They must need this.

But there, in the meat section, he'd finally sensed the unnatural elements in plastic, its manufactured evil. Swamp Daddy, having lots of Daddy in his nature, told himself to be understanding. It's holding the meat. It's maintaining the blood. Yet his insides boiled, producing a small ball of rage that swirled within him, contained, controlled.

He calmly pushed his cart toward the automatic sliding doors where Zak politely slid in front of him. "Your receipt, sir?"

"I don't know what that is."

"You paid for your items, correct?" The boy stared wide-eyed at the cart full of catfish, ten packs in all.

Swamp Daddy briefly studied the specimen of Zak—thin, gangly, fragile. The gator became concerned, figured that the boy simply didn't know how to hunt, so a short lecture began.

"I normally make my own catches. I feed from the exact waters ya'll found these fish. We all can eat for free—nature provides. I can teach you how to fish. My techniques are for everybody. The way I see it, fish is for sharing." Swamp Daddy was proud of his response, of his handing down of a valuable lesson to the boy. If anything, the humans would be impressed by his guidance for their young.

But the lesson didn't appear to sink in as Zak fidgeted before the cross-eyed gator. "I'm sorry, sir. Let me get the manager." He ran across the next couple check stands and spoke to a tall, slightly muscular man with a trimmed beard, hair bun, and moccasins—Swamp Daddy recognized the material as rabbit skin. The man turned toward Swamp Daddy and smiled. His swift pace triggered the gator's skin sensors, activating his predator's instinct. Everything in him told him to eat this man, but Harvest Mart wasn't the place for that; violence wouldn't have left a daddy-like impression on the locals.

"Swamp Daddy!" The man outstretched his arms in welcome. "Never expected to be in the presence of a legend."

"Thank you..." Swamp Daddy read the employee nametag hanging from the apron strap. "Tom."

"I understand you are concerned about our system of payment. And I understand those concerns. You're right—we raise our catfish locally in these same waters you roam every day. However, we have a system that cares for everybody. Our goal is to compensate those who primarily hunt and gather, those who raise the fish and sell them, and those like our buddy Zak who greets customers with fresh samples. The way we do things, everybody wins."

"I suppose so..."

"I get it, Swamp Daddy sir. It's not your way. We at Harvest Mart are an all-inclusive community, and we do everything in our power to include newcomers to our community vision of health, which includes offering fresh, affordable food to our patrons." Tom pulled his cell phone from his apron pocket, tapped into his screen, and read to himself. "Says here alligators eat once a week. Tell you what—we pay once a week. We have new specials weekly, even daily. I'd be honored to offer you a position with the Harvest Mart team."

Swamp Daddy opened his jowls to respond—

"Zak!" Tom yelled, "Grab Swamp Daddy an apron." He then turned to the gator. "Stop by tomorrow and give our way a try. You might like it. And don't worry about these fish." He patted the cart. "Take 'em, take 'em, you're the gator lord. I'm sure this is a small haul for the likes of you. I'm just glad you decided to shop with us today."

"It's okay, Tom—"

But Tom was gone—he'd pushed the cart of catfish through the automatic sliding doors as Zak rushed after him with an apron. Swamp Daddy, baffled, followed the slim, top-knotted gentleman out.

*

Swamp Daddy's first day. Zak stood over the gator, confused, baffled as to how to put an apron on him.

"Drape it over me," Swamp Daddy suggested. "So the logo shows."

"Ah, a cape." Zak grinned, his excitement palpable as he made his adjustments.

"Whatever that is, but yes."

"Yes, this looks good. Real snazzy Mr. Daddy."

Mister. He kind of liked the sound of it.

"Great cape-ron!" Zak was amused at his own joke.

When Tom saw the apron he beamed a benevolent smile, "That'll do, gator, that'll do," before walking toward an elderly lady to explain the benefits of the gluten-free lentils—Glentils they were named—which she held in her hands.

He felt gratefulness toward the twiggy child. "Thanks, young man."

"Don't mention it. Let me show you around."

Swamp Daddy followed Zak into the produce section, cape-pron strings dragging across the floor. He studied the expansive building: customers compared labels and turned jars in their fingers. Young patrons poked at cereal boxes and ran around their parents' legs. Strange business, but business as usual it seemed. Folks noticed Swamp Daddy and offered smiles, nods, waves, tipped caps.

He didn't know how to feel about the comfort to his presence. After all, his mystique had been carved in fear. And he liked it that way. But the changes he desired, the gentleness he attempted to project, ran counter to the intoxicating feeling of being feared. He slowly, over the course of his lifetime, had grown out of the snug, comfortable mold of terror. But now, suddenly thrown into life as a food vendor, relinquishing the terror-inducing persona made him anxious. It was hard to let go, to become new.

"Okay, Mr. Daddy. First lesson. Produce."

Zak immediately tackled tricky subjects, focusing mostly on similar-looking vegetables—basil and mint, cilantro and clover, garlic and shallots, yams and sweet potatoes. He talked about kale, a leaf most holy, healing agent for all. Each of Zak's words floated on the surface of Swamp Daddy's mind, a whole new lexicon including anti-oxidants, organic, farm fresh, non-GMO, non-pesticide, non-caged, non-cruelty.

As Zak spoke about the current state of the food industry, Swamp Daddy's expression became rigid and stony, a gator gargoyle of horror. Swamp Daddy had always walked past local farms but he never realized the truth: that humans altered the growth and lives of their food through these so-called pesticides and preservatives. Humans poisoned themselves, something he'd never known a creature to do.

He learned about diabetes. He learned about cancer. His mind darkened with the threat of a predator growing inside of you, a foe you couldn't smash or bite or swallow, a foe you willingly consumed. A disturbance formed in Swamp Daddy, actual fear, his first time feeling it since he was young and small. And it didn't feel good.

"I eat Harvest Mart stuff because it helps with my acne."

"That's good," Swamp Daddy managed to say, refraining from asking about acne. He hoped to nature for a cure to Zak's disease.

Swamp Daddy tried different roles throughout the first week. Zak taught him the organization of the aisles and how to shelve products accordingly. Even within a single food group such as the bean aisle, there were sub-groupings of said beans—gluten-free, soy, refried, black beans, and even bean paste. For five glorious minutes, Swamp Daddy deftly organized the lower shelf, but was thwarted by his inability to reach the upper shelves—not to mention the punctured cans from his toothy grip. Zak pulled a leaking can of black beans from Swamp Daddy's mouth. "Let's try something else."

They were to the back of the store and entered the gray double doors. Swamp Daddy admired the wooden cabinets, cardboard boxes, and steel trolleys. A cramped situation but impressively organized. He was reminded of his own onshore nest where he stored meat scraps and pilfered eggs. "Storage!" Swamp Daddy said.

"Yes!" Zak pushed the steel trolley toward Swamp Daddy. "Here use this." Throughout the day, Swamp Daddy stayed in the back and head-butted the heaviest boxes onto the trolley for Zak. Teamwork, the Harvest Mart way, and Swamp Daddy took pride in his helpfulness. After Zak restocked he approached Swamp Daddy with a hi-five—against which Swamp Daddy bopped his snout.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Later, when the sun lowered in the sky and carts littered all corners of the parking lot, Swamp Daddy retrieved them himself. He went to the parking lot and used his headbutting technique to bully the carts into the designated metal frames. The sun was oppressive, the air thick with moisture, which constituted sweet paradise for the king of gators. All the information, the human interaction, the strange food culture, exhausted him. For a blissful half hour, Swamp Daddy returned to his gator element, warming in the sun as he performed everyone's least favorite job.

"Swamp Daddy!" Tom ran outside toward Swamp Daddy, brandishing his phone.

"Hi Tom! Just sunning."

"Golden hour has come!"

"What's that?"

"When the sun is low and everything is golden—picture perfect for a first-day commemoration(!)."

The gator understood little but liked Tom's energy. "Beautiful," Swamp Daddy said.

Tom bent down beside the gator's head and stretched his arm out in front of them. Swamp Daddy recoiled from him and Tom's reflection within the phone, the tiny square capturing their image like water. He'd seen phones pointed at him just as much as guns—but he never saw himself in one. It's only another human thing, Swamp Daddy told himself. It's alright. Golden hour is nature's gift.

Tom pressed a button on the side—click! Their faces froze within the square. The moment was captured: Tom, whose joyous mouth broke through his silky beard, and Swamp Daddy, whose smile was surprisingly vibrant—mouth stretched open, mud-stained teeth greeting the world. Swamp Daddy loved the joy—and he, especially, admired the distinctive golden glow.

*

Week 1–easy. Week 2–harder, a bit more of a grind. His unprecedented amount of activity and interaction wore him down. His pre-Harvest Mart life featured aloneness, slinking in mud, conserving energy. But humans were beyond social: they congregated like fish. Niceties weighed on the tip of every tongue. Swamp Daddy had taken over Zak's samples duty—the tray precisely positioned on top of his head. Customers approached and mercilessly told variations of the same joke.

"Oh, I get to pet a gator."

"I suppose you do."

"You kill this yourself?"

"What do you think they're paying me for?"

(Laughter.)

"Now you're not gonna bite my hand off, are you?"

"Of course not. Hands aren't even the best part!"

(Nervous laughter.)

And, most commonly of all, Is that Swamp Daddy? Wow, let's take a picture! Swamp Daddy appreciated the attention, the happiness he brought to people, but he quickly resented phones. And it seemed the more pictures he took, the more people came into the store. At some point, Zak—under Tom's instruction—had even placed a banner outside of the Harvest Mart, #WelcomeSwampDaddy. Swamp Daddy watched as the boy stood on the ladder, confused.

"You got a question, Swamp Daddy?"

"Why is it all one word?"

"That's just an internet thing."

Swamp Daddy didn't know what an internet was, but he knew best to tread into humanity one question at a time. "What's with the thing on the left? That's not even a letter."

"A hashtag. It lets people can find whatever is next to it."

Swamp Daddy was used to notoriety, but until now nobody could access him. "If these people want to find me so bad, they can at least tell better jokes."

Zak laughed, almost losing balance on the ladder. Swamp Daddy returned to the air-conditioned entrance, leaving Zak outside to concentrate on not breaking himself. Back to samples, he lamented. And small talk...

Twenty minutes passed—normally, no exceptional annoyances noted—before a hand pressed down on the samples tray. Swamp Daddy braced himself for a joke.

"These low-fat tuna crisps are delish." Tom threw back the contents of the cup into his mouth.

"Yuck."

"Yes, I know Swamp Daddy. Anyway, here!" Tom pulled an envelope from his apron pocket and held it out.

"This is?"

"Payday of course!"

"Wow, my first money."

"Yes, yes indeed." The benevolent smile shined on Tom's face. His top-knot shined under the blinding light. "Let me open that for you."

Swamp Daddy nodded slowly in ascent, careful to not drop the samples.

Tom opened the envelope and laid the check on the ground for Swamp Daddy to see. The customers shifted their eyes from the products in their hands to the spectacle of a gator on the payroll. Swamp Daddy shrunk beneath the eyes. The attention, naturally, made him nervous, battle ready. He swallowed his urge to attack and studied the paper before him. He expected actual money but instead received a white page with the Harvest Mart logo and several lines of items and numbers. The foreign words zipped through his consciousness like angry, disorienting wasps: social security, federal tax, state tax, exemptions, gross pay, net amount earned.

"That doesn't look right," Swamp Daddy finally said. "40 hours at $7.25 is $290."

Tom stood there, perplexed. "Where'd you learn math?"

"Come on, focus. Why don't I net the full $290?"

"Your gross is $290. It says it right there. But then you include the taxes, the social costs of human living. Your deductions uplift others, it maintains community, which puts your fair share at $235."

Swamp Daddy, was no less confused. What was my money being spent on? Who benefits? But he forced those questions—and the sense of unfairness—into the depths of him. He was proud. He'd earned honey. He'd done himself and unknown tax recipients some good. Swamp Daddy, tapping into the positive well of his Daddy nature, stoked the small flame of his achievement into an explosive joy. That is what he told himself to feel, simple joy, unshakable gratitude—

Click!

Tom had taken a picture. He bent down and showed Swamp Daddy the screen. The phone displayed Swamp Daddy bent over his check, a white border surrounding the image, and a word in a curvy font at the very top of the screen: Instagram.

"It's not golden hour. Give it a rest."

"Oh Swamp Daddy, you look good in any light." Then he turned to Zak—who, several paces away, held a device labeled GoPro, its red dot steady...recording.

Ugh!

"And is this going on the Instagram too?"

"Of course! (And don't forget YouTube)! It's for your Vlog."

"Vlog?" Another weird word, distasteful-sounding, invasive.

"Pay me for it, then." Swamp Daddy knew what he signed up for. For anything extra, he needed extra for it. Right is right. And he wouldn't compromise on that.

"Compensation can be discussed," Tom strained to maintain that wide, poster-boy smile, but it wavered at the corners.

"The discussion is now. Bring me another money claim thingy."

"A check?"

"If you know, then yes, bring me another."

"Now Swamp Daddy, you've been on the Internet for a long time now—way, way before you ever started working here. We're all captured in one way or another. Just let us be excited to have you here. This isn't about work. This isn't about money. It's about memory. Memory—not money—is what matters in the end."

"Just for that I want two more checks. A hunter gets his due. You'd be wise to remember that."

But Tom was already walking away, his beard and top-knot angled downwards as he rapidly tapped his phone screen. He muttered strange words, "#Payday...#GatorPay...#WelcomeSwampDaddy...#SwampDaddyHereToStay."

Swamp Daddy gingerly balanced the samples tray on his head as he moved toward the recording Zak—who meekly smiled and waved. He yelled for him but couldn't move—a customer arrived, a sample was taken, and a joke was told. They pay you? (The customer pointed to the Swamp Daddy's floored check with the tuna crisp.) Don't you eat for free in the wild? What you gonna buy, hahaha?

FOOD, Swamp Daddy mentally shouted. My fair share of food. But he paid no attention to the customer. He needed Zak. Who else would confirm the purpose of taxes? Who else would tell him how to turn a check into paper money?

*

Swamp Daddy returned to the marsh later that night, his haul of groceries balanced on his back, his blue plastic debit card held between his teeth. The silver raised lettering read: SWAMP DADDY. He dropped the card by the cypress he slept under, leaving it on the driest patch he could find. He shook the groceries and apron off his back; seven packs of white bass spilled from the Harvest Mart paper bag. Exhausted, the gator slunk into the waters, soaking up precious alone time. Lurking, making bubbles in the water with his guttural voice, and staring up at the half-eaten moon were all he needed during his weekend off.

He liked isolating, living under his own rules, but in passing years human homes spread more numerously into the swampland. Swamp Daddy invisibly swam through his changed world, slinking between the rows of moss-covered waterfront houses. He soundlessly slipped beneath the surface, hiding from the people that smoked and read and played cards on their porches.

He swam anonymously, unwilling to reveal himself. He wanted to surface—his taxes said that he had every right to—but he knew better. No amount of debit cards could un-do the gator fear. The simple world of decades past—the undeveloped swamp full of snake nests and catfish burrows—was sorely missed. Back before foundation stakes plunged into the swamp bottom, back before the settling humans defended their houses with guns and harpoons and fishing hooks.

They couldn't kill Swamp Daddy, though. They simply stood their ground, expanding it, edging him further and further away from his native waters.

Swamp Daddy wanted to share, just as nature shared its bounty with him the past 35 summers. He was a god amongst predators—but never greedy. Had he been any lesser, he could've been panther food or python food. He could've been plastic-wrapped and sold on special at Harvest Mart.

That's right: his power gave him the opportunity to protect himself from people, to live peacefully with them. He swam for the entire weekend, recharging, forgiving his garnished check, cutting slack to the photo-obsessed people.

(...)

Monday morning—he showed up late.

He showed up naked, too, gator in the raw.

Swamp Daddy arrived at Harvest Mart prepared to exhibit patience, kindness, peace—but those intentions quickly flamed out at the sight of the banner hanging out front: PHOTO OP WITH SWAMP DADDY. FUN FOR THE KIDS! The kids, he could handle, but the endless photos were another story. Rage, impatience, indigence, disappointment—he suppressed them all.

Zak spotted him immediately and ran-up, blushing. "Here sir, let me get your cape."

"Thank you, boy."

"You sure are...a lot of gator."

"So I've been told, my boy, so I've been told."

Zak clothed him. "There, you're decent now."

Swamp Daddy just stood in the automatic doorway, his cape-pron gusting upwards from the high-powered AC.

Upon lumbering into Harvest Mart, a line of children assaulted the gator with their attention, screaming, waving, crying tears of joy. There was a line to the right of the entrance, three feet beyond the free samples area, outfitted with those black fabric barricades from the bank and a tall, green screen.

Zak ran towards the set-up and hurriedly adjusted a camera and tripod. He swung his neck toward Swamp Daddy, a worried look shadowing his face. He paled, suddenly becoming white as flour, white as alligator eggs. His pimpled nose appeared as a red sun, shiny, threatening to burst. "So Swamp Daddy...how was the weekend?"

"I swam in mud."

"Good to hear, sir." Zak nervously rotated his camera in his hands.

"What's all this?"

"Well, this is my camera and that's my tripod and that over there is a backdrop. I'm taking photography at the community college, it's really inter—"

"Okay, but why am I taking more pictures?"

"For advertising, I guess."

Swamp Daddy snorted. "Nobody told me."

"Ah yeah...Tom does things when he does them."

"Does that feel right to you?"

Zak sighed, looking pained. "It just feels like work, Swamp Daddy. I don't direct the traffic. I just help where I'm told to." His eyes were solidly black. He no longer seemed like a young man who couldn't kill his own food. He knew the meaning of work just as much as the adults, which both relieved and embittered Swamp Daddy. It doesn't have to be like this, he seethed inside. We can be freer! Swamp Daddy's frustration thickened into a suffocating fury, radiating throughout the store. Arm hairs prickled. Eyes suddenly dried. The humans shuffled about in unease.

Zak backed away from the camera, trembling. "I'll go get Tom—"

"No!" The utterance came out angry, unrestrained. Zak gasped and knocked over the tripod, camera and all, a clattering commotion which drew everyone's attention. A wave of fear dispersed throughout the store, swallowing the excitable children, the wary parents, the morose co-workers. Nobody knew the gator's next move, but everyone imagined disastrous outcomes. One child, a small boy with a Florida Gators shirt, said: "Mommy, mommy, if the ugly boy gets eaten who's going to take the pictures?"

Other children piped up as well, desperate to avoid the jowls of the gator.

I don't want to get eaten!

I don't taste good!

Can I say bye to my toys first?

Swamp Daddy flinched at the crises of the children, the grotesquery of innocent terror. He liked being a daddy, a protector. The shame rose into his throat. How could I lash out around kids? But he knew the answer. People demanded a pet monster, a docile Swamp Daddy. His rage squelched those feelings, though, and the violence he'd taken pride in, the predatory ways he'd sworn from, suddenly surged forth.

Tom appeared from within the bean aisle, holding several packages of Glentils. He'd been restocking, showing face, entertaining the customers. "What's wrong, SD? What's eating you?—Well, nothing can I guess!" He laughed at his own joke.

Swamp Daddy smoldered.

"Okay, what's wrong? Why are you being so loud in the store?"

Swamp Daddy would make this right, one way or another. He attempted the first way, the compensatory way. "Pay. I need more pay."

"It's barely your third week. You're valued here at Harvest Mart, don't get me wrong, but we all need to put in time."

"I was hired for inventory, restocking, samples. The photos and vlog are different. That's my image and I need different money for that."

"Understood. A dollar more per shoot. Done!" He began restocking, placing the Glentils with the black beans—pretending, ignoring the gator.

"If I show up expecting a shoot, I want to be paid for my time. I don't get paid less just because it's not busy. I need a flat rate for the remote chance of taking a camera—or phone—photo."

"That can be discussed later. For now, let's strike while the iron is hot! Can't keep these cute kids waiting, now can we?"

The children were all around the store, holding balloons, samples, or both. They couldn't take their eyes off the gator.

"Hey kids!" Swamp Daddy said.

The children clamored for the gator, a cacophony of thrilled greetings, mostly oooh's and whoa' s and you're-so-big-you're-awesome's.

"Harvest Mart doesn't want to pay me for my time. Do you think that's fair?"

A wild response of no-fair, unfair, rip-off, how-could-they.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa," Tom dropped the Glentils, holding his hands up in defense. "I'll pay double for today and then we renegotiate later in the week."

"I'll accept my standard wage for my store-work: shelving, samples, carts. But social media promo is a different job, a different and higher wage."

"You're kidding. We all do multiple things. That's not just Harvest Mart. That's any job. If you want money, you work for it."

"You're just Tom. There's thousands of you—but only one of me. The photos are with me, not top-knot Tom. My image, my promo."

"Let me consider the rate. How about..."

"15% of the daily take."

"Not a chance!"

"And that's short, considering Harvest Mart is built atop my old stomping grounds. There were burrows for eels, catfish, turtles, all sorts of animal life. You settled there for free. And that may be your right. You humans are the bigger animal. I know well what it feels like to win and take freely. But we're working together. I'm working with you and you're to work with me...fairly."

Swamp Daddy walked past Tom, intending to retrieve his steel inventory cart in the back, when Tom fell backwards and slammed into the bean shelves.

"Are you okay?" Swamp Daddy paused, concerned, his intense eyes focused on his clumsy boss.

Tom looked around, stunned, hurt even...His eyes watered. His jaw wavered. Swamp Daddy prepared to console his wayward yet fragile boss. "I'm hurt," Tom said, almost in disbelief. "I'm hurt," he repeated as a matter-of-fact. "I'm hurt!"—with gusto this time. He laughed, a low laugh, as if sharing some secret with himself, some plot. "He hurt me!"

"We didn't even touch!"

"He's shouting!"

"Yes! Because you fell on your own!"

"His jowls! His gaping jowls...Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!"

A hush stole through the store, silencing the clamor of children and murmurings of adults. Something was coming, so said his gator senses. Vibrations skittered through his entire hide. Bulletproof as he was, Swamp Daddy froze at the metallic clatter of guns being drawn. Guns in the entrance, guns in the adjacent aisles, guns at the cash register and magazine rack. Swamp Daddy heard the hammers of three guns, and a woman beyond the sliding door pulling a sawed-off from her stroller. Outside, police sirens.

Tom stared up at the gator, a smirk playing through his shaggy, wind-blasted beard. "Aisle 6!" Tom yelled. "This trespassing gator is beyond control! He's beyond help!"

A gunshot bounced off the back of Swamp Daddy's neck, a few inches from the coin-sized weak spot atop his skull. Just like a human to know such a thing. The gator was unsurprised but disgusted all the same.

Swamp Daddy rushed past Tom as someone fired at him. The bullet burned through the cape-pron and ricocheted off his hide. Everyone ducked the deflected shot and cursed at the careless shooter.

Swamp Daddy, burst through the two gray double doors at the store's rear. Surrounded by shelves and boxes and trolleys, the gator was temporarily shielded. He rushed past them all, purposefully knocking the shelves and trolleys over, creating obstacles for his pursuers.

He reached the end of the inventory room. A large poster loomed above him of the photo he'd taken with Tom, the top of which read: SWAMP DADDY SALE. 50% OFF GATOR TAIL THIS WEEK. Swamp Daddy's heart shriveled into grains of sand. The selling of gator tail was okay with Swamp Daddy—what you kill is yours, without question—but he wished they'd told him about the sale. He was a team player. He aimed for collaboration, compromise. And what he got was hurt.

The double doors creaked open. The footsteps sent vibrations through Swamp Daddy's entire body. His muscles tightened. His skin hummed. Metal clanged as the unseen person maneuvered around the toppled shelves, the upturned trolleys. He loaded bullets into the chamber and cocked the gun. No words. Slow breaths. Soft, flopping steps—Tom's rabbit-skinned moccasins no doubt. The gator had faced adversaries a thousand times before, always by lying in wait, camouflaging his size, becoming a shadow of teeth and muscle. But Swamp Daddy was changed. He'd discovered something new in him, an untold chapter of his ever-growing legend. Today, he'd hunt differently.

Swamp Daddy ceased hiding, stepping directly into the line of fire.

Tom fired—one, two, three shots. The bullets pierced additional holes through Swamp Daddy's cape-pron, but failed to penetrate the gator's armored hide, his callused conviction.

"If you're so thick-skinned, then what's the harm in a couple pictures?"

"It's not about harm, it's about fairness."

"I've paid what's owed."

"So you say..." Swamp Daddy's words dripped with disappointment.

Tom reloaded. Meanwhile, a few armed customers lined up beside him. The Harvest Mart firing squad raised their weaponry, a mere moment away from unleashing a bullet storm.

Tom chuckled. "I can't wait to put you on the samples tray."

"Do you know my legend? Do you know who I am?"

"I don't care. Once you're gone you'll be just another dead gator."

The bullet-storm commenced, a racket of death engulfed the inventory room. The gunshots flashed in the darkness. And the bouncing shots tore through the bags of brown rice and soy. They shot Swamp Daddy. They blasted him dozens of times. And then they reloaded and hit him a dozen more. They didn't know if the gator died, only that it'd take a lot of bullets for that to happen. Ammo and ambition, the Harvest Mart way.

A pause. Smoke jaggedly traveled through the room. The gunpowder aroma blessed every nose.

"Now let's skin that sucker," Tom said.

"Legend has it..." Swamp Daddy jowls opened wide—

Gasps, paused breath, stolen souls.

Dropped guns.

A defeated, helpless clattering.

Tom whimpered. Yes, yes, that's what Daddy likes.

Swamp Daddy's mouth continued to open, wider and wider, way past the point of its hinging. The darkness of it spread throughout the storage area, becoming the room. The mythic gator observed the humans freeze within the primordial dark, their eyes cracked with terror. And though they desired to back away each person was rendered motionless. Until suddenly, gently, they were vacuumed into the solid pitch.

Swamp Daddy no longer spoke. He told the story in towering blackness, in a promised oblivion. Before the gator's power, the human notion of a future reduced to a puddle of gastric acid. Gone were the visions of health, of GMO-free diets, of bulky profits from an ill-advised gator tail sale.

The room collapsed, the people collapsed, everything folded like crumpled paper before the black-hole gravitation of the monster's mouth.

As Harvest Mart and its people approached their natural ends, disintegrating into food, only one sensation remained as vigorous and insistent as ever. Within the endless mouth of the legend, an overbearing, robust sound, progression of rhythmic thumps—an impossibly powerful heartbeat, the pulse of a swamp that never dies.