I. Fish (introduction)

The man wakes up. There is a large fish in his ear. It thrashes around, its tail beating against his paper-thin eardrum, splashing water down into his Eustachian tubes, down into his throat. He can feel it there, burning; it's like a sore thumb, an open wound, gushing, entering his chest, then moving down into his belly where it churns like butter, finally seeping down into his legs and feet. There is melted pâté in the cupboard, stained blotches on the walls. He doesn't want her to see him like this, can't let her see him in this condition. He turns around to face the window, sticks out his red tongue (which is coated with fuzzy, white stuff), holds his breath and counts to ten, then exhales, a few sticky fish eggs dribbling out from his mouth and rolling across the counter. His wife is in the living room, watching T.V. and sipping a red margarita while she fans herself with a section of newspaper. He feels like he's going to be sick.

And now for a word from our sponsors...

He runs into the bathroom. The toilet churns and spews. He licks the salty remains of the fish scales off of his crusty palm. The inside of his ear tickles now; he can feel the fish there slithering, shaking, peeking its diamond-shaped head out from his own head, a big, round, shiny eye peering at him, taunting him, gritting its nonexistent teeth, shaking its two-pronged tail like a belly dancer and slapping it against his fatty cheek (in perfect rhythm with the theme music from the television show his wife is watching). He opens his mouth to vomit up his breakfast, but nothing comes. His stomach gurgles. He flushes the toilet and opens the door, the fish escaping into the bowl.

A woman was reported missing earlier this morning...

His wife is gone now, the television dead. The man wipes his forehead and, exhausted, blows his nose, returns to the kitchen, takes out a large butcher knife from the cupboard, chops off the ring finger of his left hand, wraps it in newspaper, and heads off to work...

II. Lemon

...and so the story goes, but it wasn't just Leona's fantasy, it was Sandra's as well, so the two of them bought a lemon and squeezed it as hard as they could, but the man didn't scream as loudly as they had expected when the juice reached the wound, so they...

III. Coffee

...believe that we've met before. You have such lovely eyes. What's your name? Oh. Interesting. Here's my card. No. That isn't exactly true, you see. Well, ok, sure, I have technically, but it's different now. I mean, don't expect me to pull out a Luger and start putting holes into people in this café or anything, but, yeah, I've done lotsa' jobs before. Sure. No, I'm not involved in that line of work anymore. I retired a long time ago. You see this? Yeah, that's right. That's what you get for fucking around with the big boys. They damn near lopped the whole thing off. Luckily, there was a bucket of ice around, so I was able to save part of it. I had it sewn back on by a very skillful surgeon--cost me a pretty penny, I tell you. Why aren't you drinking your coffee? It'll get cold if you just let it sit there like that. At least put the lid back on. Can I have a sip? Thanks. Your eyes are really quite lovely. Can I kiss you? My tongue is anxious to taste a bit of...

IV. And then...

...don't lick it like that, I say, it ain't a lemon! I don't mean to be rude, of course, but the guy is slobbering all over the place. Then he says to me, "This here cumquat is rotten, I want a refund." Jerk! I tell him to take his business elsewhere, tell him we don't sell no rotten fruit here, and then he says he wants to order a friggin' tunafish sandwich. I tell him we don't have no tunafish sandwich on the menu, go somewhere else, and he flips me the bird. So what can I do? I grab his hair and smash his head into the edge of the counter without thinking--I mean, I don't take no shit from nobody no more--but he's got a friggin' metal plate in there which puts a chip into the side of the new marble counter. What'll happen when the boss finds out? I thinks to myself. The guy throws his glass of water at me, curses, says that this is the worst joint he's ever eaten in. I threaten to call the police if he doesn't leave. So what does he do instead? Asks me out for a cup of coffee. Can you believe that...

V. Conclusion (tentative)

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program...

The fish was raised in clean waters, and the packing company did not use any harmful chemicals to preserve it. It exhibited a pleasant (if slightly salty) smell. When eaten with the proper utensils, it was easy to pick up and easy to insert into one's mouth. (It was also very delicious when eaten with a slice of lemon on the side). Upon mastication the fish did not complain. After reaching the large intestine, it would make its way upstream to the small intestine, the stomach, traveling as far as the windpipe, where it would lay its glistening white eggs. Then it would follow a reverse course back down to the sigmoid colon and settle there in the dampness until the following morning, when the man would wake up and go to the toilet to read the newspaper and let his mind wander for a bit...