Fishy Work to Do

Floating in the middle of the kitchen, just below eye level, Martin puckered and blinked his bulging eyes. Swirls of water lolled about him, aqueous satellites to a tiny, fishy planet. Every utensil, plate, cup, and bowl were strewn about, some cracked and others shattered outright.

“Theodore,” intoned Martin’s voice, more a whisper at the back of Theodore’s head than anything, “I…am…a…god.

The chill running up his spine seemed to kick forward an ill-chosen response, “But I bought you at Wal-Mart. For a buck fiftyseven.”

“Well,” came Martin’s voice, perhaps a little sheepishly, “I didn’t say the god.”

Eyes surveying the mess, Theodore couldn’t help but ask, “Um, and my kitchen…”

“We have work to do, my friend.”

“Yes, I know—cleaning up my frakking kitchen.”

“Sorry. I was, you know, working some things out.”

“Like frustrations?”

“No.” Martin paused. “Thinking. Figuring. Theodore, I’ll level with you. I fear I may not be a god but merely a telepathic and telekinetic fish.”

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