Sleep With the Fishes

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

Sleep With the Fishes

By Plot Roach

I never could keep fish alive, but this was getting ridiculous. I’ve tried everything from fancy tropical creatures to the common goldfish. But my friend, Larry, recommended a new type of ‘miniature tuna’ fish that had been bioengineered to be as hearty as a weed in the water. And if you got tired of it, you could simply gut it and put it on the grill. It had been based off of a much larger creature caught off the shores of Japan. Something that the scientific community had thought was extinct, but was now plentiful enough for the sushi houses and as a pet for lazy Americans.

So I had a small tank, put one mini tuna and several, smaller, bottom feeders in it and waited to see what would happen. It wasn’t even a full day before all the creatures inside sank like rocks to the bottom. “Larry! Why did you talk me into these damned fish!?” I yelled, showing him the corpses.

“It looks like they drowned.” he said, turning one of the fish over in his hands. He was a former biology major turned drop out entrepreneur and made big bucks off of a combination coffee stirrer and temperature gauge.

“How can fish drown?” I asked.

“They need to pull oxygen from the water through their gills in order to survive -that’s why the tank had that air bubble thing in it.”

“’Air bubble thing’?” I teased. He might be smart enough to come up with a gizmo that made him a semi rich man, but he’s still a dork in my book. He only made a face at me and tossed the dead fish back into the tank.

“Sorry. I thought it was something you really wouldn’t be able to kill this time.”

“Let me just flush the smaller ones and I’ll bury the big guy.” I said, taking the tank into the bathroom. When I came back Larry was on the floor, sprawled out and on his back.

“Funny, Larry.” I said. “Imitating my dead fish.” But after waiting a few minutes, he didn’t move.

“Larry?” I called. “This isn’t funny anymore.” I checked his pulse, his heart was still beating -but just barely. I called for an ambulance and rode with him to the hospital. When we got there, I realized that he wasn’t the only comatose patient. There was an epidemic of them, and no one knew why.

The nurse on duty handed me a pile of paperwork and then grilled me about the events that lead up to Larry’s current state. He hadn’t eaten anything weird that I knew about. Wasn’t a drug user. The only thing different was the fish. He had handled the dead fish. I hadn’t. I had only flushed the little ones after scooping them out with a net. I don’t touch living -er, dead- fish, it just feels weird. And maybe my phobia about it saved me.

With Larry admitted, I went back to the apartment with a medical escort. They took the dead fish, the ones not already flushed, and put them into a plastic bag for the lab. In our absence from the apartment, my neighbors were having problems of their own. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had gotten in on the mini tuna craze. More people were comatose, and some of their pets as well. And believe me when I tell you that there is something weird about seeing a twenty pound calico cat passed out on its back, eyes glazed and mouth open in a snarl -and not from catnip.

A few days later the staff found the culprit, it was a small parasite in the intestinal tract of the parent (thought extinct) species used to help create the mini tuna. Not only had the world not seen the fish in a very long time, they had not seen the almost invisible invader it carried. The cold waters that had been the fish’s home had kept the parasite at a manageable level. But once it had been brought ashore and bred in private tanks, it spread like wildfire. Anyone who even touched the fish, whether to process it as a pet or for food, succumbed to the nasty side effects.

Days later, an antidote was perfected and released to the unfortunate sleepers. The rest of the fish were confiscated and destroyed -now making them REALLY extinct. A few animal activists cried foul, until they were found comatose in their own homes with ’rescued’ fish dead in their aquariums. Larry woke soon after being administered the medicine.

“Looks like I owe you some new fish.” he said groggily.

“Naw.” I told him. “At this point I never want to see another fish again. It doesn’t matter if its in a koi pond or minced, breaded and deep fried.”

“Maybe we should try another animal -maybe a turtle?” he suggested.

“What? And have radiation mutate it into Godzilla like proportions?”

“A dog?”

“Have you heard of ‘Cujo’?”

“Maybe a snake?”

“Maybe I should stick to silk plants and online electric pets.”

“Aren’t you afraid the computer will go all ‘A. I.’ on you and try and take over?”

“Well now I am.” I said, and gently socked him in the shoulder. “Besides, what can go wrong with silk plants?”

“Knowing you.” Larry said. “Give it a week.”