Therefore, I stomped him. The high heel cut through the scales and made a squishy sound. But the hippocampus could still live. Because the pale goldfish was not as smart, or perhaps did not have as much importance for himself or an heir, he slowly struggled agitatedly around the tiny, shattered glass. As he suffered, the pregnant seahorses stared at me. Those salty bastards, the worthless imprisoned twisted starfishes. They knew. They knew I hated Sophie.