The Fish of AgassiZ

It was a dark and stormy night. A sharp steel spike had penetrated the window, creeping its way into the apartment like a metal tentacle. The national Golden Crimson Festival, showcasing the award winners, was playing on an old TV set. Tears streamed down my face like blood from a martyr.

On the table lay an open pack of Kents, while the sounds of drills and music blared from the adjacent apartment. Time dripped down the walls like green, gooey paint. In the centre of the room, a large glass tank in the shape of an ostrich egg levitated, holding the preserved fish of AgassiZ in a translucent and viscous solution. Suddenly, the doorbell rang and in walked The Hotstepper.

I reached into the drawer and grabbed a sledgehammer, contemplating smashing the aquarium. As midnight approached, the bats emerged from their roosts. With a mighty and precise blow, I cracked the glass wall, causing the liquid to spill out and flood the neighbours downstairs. The sudden moisture caused the TV lights to flicker one by one.

Outside, the sound of metallic laughter filled the air. The fish continued to float in the centre of the room. The Hotstepper pulled out a pocket knife to slice open its belly, revealing a blue woman of extraordinary beauty with ankle-length hair and long, slender fingers like branches of a young tree.

We both sat down on the floor to get a better view of her breasts. The Hotstepper lit up a red Marlboro.

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