Read it and get pumped!
“Suzie, this car is armored with hardened steel plate and two different layers of kevlar. On all sides. The shutters are down on all the windows except for the windshield, which is bulletproof glass. I’ve seen this car take an RPG. Admittedly, it was from behind, but I don’t think this fuckwad with the nine is going to somehow magically teleport himself to a position where he can shoot at us from in front. Especially now that we’ve hit our cruising speed of ninety miles per hour."( Read more...Collapse )
Eel was sick. It didn’t understand what sickness it was, specifically, or whether it was treatable. He knew that, if it was, treatment would not be wasted on an old eel like him. He didn’t even know if anyone else knew he was sick. He knew because he could feel it in his fin, in his long body of shaped muscle. It wasn’t a sickness he could ever name, like a cold or a stomach flu, but an all pervading sickness of his entire being. Eel did know one thing about his sickness, besides the violence it caused him in the mornings, and the sadness it caused him in the sleepless nights. It was going to kill him.
Eel was living out what he knew were his final days in a nursing home that he was put into by his spawn. They were only a few years out of the Sargasso Sea in his mind, but in reality they had matured years ago. In reality, they were waiting for him to die. They had spawn of their own, who were shocked every time they visited and found that he was still alive. Most of the time, they forgot about him. They only remembered when they visited and the stale water of the nursing home passed over their gills, bringing up the memory of their last visit. They would smile at him and ask him how he was doing, and he would rasp that he was fine. When they left to go eat some smaller fish, he would ask his spawn to be taken out of the nursing home, to go back home. He knew he could take care of himself. Besides, it would only be a few more days before the end. He didn’t say this last part out loud, but they heard it anyway. He would cry sometimes.
When his spawn’s spawn returned, he would return to his old image, carefully crafted to avoid shame. After all, there was no shame in being an old eel. In fact, he deserved to be honored for having reached such an incredible age. He still understood, though, in his old brain, that his spawn’s spawn had no reason to love him, or even to like him. To them, he was the thing that made them go to the unpleasant place with the bad fish. They knew that when he died, they would not have to return to this place, so they looked at it with some excitement, or at least satisfaction. In the meantime, Eel worked hard to maintain his composure in front of them, to allow them to retain this illusion of him as a happy old eel, doddering but kind.
In reality, he was anything but kind.
He remembered the old days. The days when his body was still strong and sleek and he would flash through the water and catch a smaller fish in his strong jaws and devour it. He remembered the awkward transition stage from tadpole to glasseel, to yellow eel, then finally to white. He remembered the long journey from his native waters to the warm Sargasso Sea, and the sweet romance that overtook him. He remember bringing home fish for his spawn to eat when they were just tadpoles in the cold waters of his home. But more than any of that, he remembered the few perfect moments he had had. His first kill. His mating. The strength and confidence and perfect, perfect happiness.
He lay on his back on that last morning, wracked with pain, his world reduced to a hazy blur in front of him. His body was a prison. He couldn’t even swim anymore. In a panic, his mind reached out for a final memory, and he found to his mild astonishment that there was nothing left. There was only one thing he could find. It was the look in his spawn’s eyes. Just a look, a look at him. Not sad or angry as he had become accustomed to, not even bored. It was something he hadn’t known in a long time, but it was familiar like a tune he used to know. He died with its’ name on the tip of his tongue, not quite said.