29/06/22 The Moral Of The Story Is That Gambling Is Dangerous

Two fishermen were playing cards at a casino. Their names were Fist-One and Fist-Oo. The casino’s name was The Hard Carp.

Fist-One was grey and the smaller of the two. His lower jaw bone was sprinkled with fake teeth here and there. His eyes were confident, yet tired. He could speak with every known “fish tail accent”, which was the habit, notoriously amongst fishermen, of forming with their tongue the literal shape of a fish tail as they attempted to perform human speech. An exception was made for swordfishes and narwhales; to speak as a narwhale was to speak while eating.

To speak as a swordfish was to speak with some tool held within one’s mouth.

Fist-Oo was an absolute expert at swordfishing, and an adequate ventriloquist. Yet his heart, too, belonged to the sea and its meaty treasures. As such, there never was any question as to his career path.

Younger than his peer, he had actually started his sailor’s life as Fist-One’s tenth hand; ten his ninth; ten his eighth; then his seventh; then he purchased his own boat, decorated with as many hands, if not more. While he had not been a very successful hand model - or let’s call it as it truly is, a fish bait - he did possess some intellectual flexibility, and had had an easier time in his financial decisions. His privileged fishing strategy was by rod, thus a definite dolpheneer kind of captain.

There existed, naturally, such a thing as fishermancraft, the craft of the fisherman; and while some techniques were favored in some scenarios, all possessed flaws, lackings, be it by lake or by flake!

But such was not the subject of this story. Indeed! This is not an academic document.

...

Fist-Oo was sweating profusely. He had lost his ship and crew in a terrorizing accident which was much too startling to even mention or describe. He tried to hide his tears amongst the various emanations of an impromptu session of cardiovascular workout, spinning around his left foot as aggressively as he dared without twisting his ankle. As he engaged in such action, he became more centered unto himself - quite literally so, as the centrifugal force he generated made his innards gravitate closer towards his foot, squished like a tube of toothpaste.

All he could do now.

All he could do now that he had lost everything

...

Fist-One had never been happier in his entire life! One of his former associates, Fist-Oo, reached out to him! They were spending the night at the Casino! What could go wrong?

What could go wrong?

...

The Hard Carp was not overcrowded; when the clientele dexterously mimicked the chameleon-shark guards with their own feats in biological camouflage, they were allowed into a reception area with a blue, stalagtitic ceiling giving a warm, luminous interpretation of the sea floor if it had been a cavern; the reception desk had two entries symmetrically flanking its sides, past the enclosed waiting line area; the poles of the demarcation ropes that divided the lines amongst each other were made of bronze; the room being deserted, empty, they hung in the right corner, smoking cigarettes and burning small artifacts.

“What game will you be playing?” asked the average female.

“I lied to you! I cannot hide my intentions any more!” exploded Fist-Oo, ashamed.

The world waited for further context.

“I don’t even have the money for a ticket! Lies! Complete lies! I invited you here, but I never had any intention of contributing my fair share!” he continued, looking down; looking away.

“It’s no matter! I am happy to pay! Just don’t make it a habit, ok?” responded Fist-One, “How much is it for two tickets for the... the... what is there again?”

“Turbo-carp, Flash-group, Lying Fish, Hook and Rod, Sharkadventure, Actinopterygii, Sarcopterygii, Cash Trout, Axe the Whale, Long lungs,” the female spoke, “all activities are listed here with their corresponding pricing, on this very large panel above my head.”

“Huh-huh.” answered Fist-One, “well, I always like myself some Long lungs.”

“Very well sir, that will be 20 starfishes.”

“I only carry shallow sea piranhas!”

“The conversion is 400 piranhas.”

“Here you go.”

Fist-One dropped 400 live piranhas unto the countertop of the reception desk.

They were allowed in.

The Long lungs table was reasonably located within the casino, and so the two fishermen got their gambling chips and their seats all within five minutes or so. The background noise was everless piranha-like, transitioning into some ambiance music played by techno-octopuses, and the chatter of customer and worker alike.

“Have you ever noticed that there are ships on these chips?” asked First-One.

“Do you have good cards? Show me your anchovies.” asked Fist-Oo over him.

First-One showed him his living anchovies, some painted red, others purple, blue and yellow. He only had a limited time to keep them alive, so that they would count as better cards than the dead ones. He tolerated the lack of social grace of his companion because it served an expositional function. He waited for the answer to his own question.

“I lost my ship you know?” ultimately responded Fist-Oo.

“I am sorry to hear that. Ten on the four! Red! Red! Red!”

Apparently, the game had captured his attention at that moment. He continued speaking:

“What happened?”

“Oh! I don’t even want to mention or describe!”

“Well, you are always welcome back to one of my ships. Now that you have captainship experience, I could even make you First-Fist!”

“First-Fist! Really!” inquired Fist-Oo, “that is incredibly magnanimous of you. Wait a second. I have a full genealogy!”

It was incredibly rare. Fist-Oo’s deck was made entirely of a single uninterrupted line of anchovy parents and children; even a pair of siblings was worth one’s weight in deep purple chips. Fist-Oo had a great-great-great-grand-father, his great-great-great-grand-daughter, and by extension, all in between! Right there and then, an actual legend was born.

Sirens blasted across the casino to signal the occurrence. A crowd gathered around the table.

Yet, in the great joy, one voice broke unity.

It was that of Fist-One.

“Wait wait wait. You gambled with my money! This is my money!”

“No way! When you gave me the chips, you transferred ownership!”

“You wouldn’t be here if not for me! Some of this money is rightfully mine!”

“You wouldn’t be here if not for me, and you permanently transferred ownership!”

“My Money!”

“Transferred Ownership!”

“My Money!”

“Transferred Ownership!”

“My Money!”

“Transferred Ownership!”

“My Money!”

“Transferred Ownership!”

It appeared there was no end to their conflict; the crowd eventually left, having lost its interest;

in time, it was not the anchovies, but the fishermen, that ended up dying from asphyxiation, having swallowed all the air out of the room before having enough time to solve their quarrel.