Groggily, and with throbbing headaches, the Murders greeted the day. All of the fish were excited when they recognized the man who entered the store. He had a hairline that had receded so far that the backs of his ankles were bald. He had thick glasses and a black eye that seemed to have grown since the night before, yellow bruising slowly spreading from a blue and purple epicenter under thin old skin. Mel sat at the edge of the pool and let the fish go to work.

  In every bite was a memory of his home, his shop and his wife. They had all become such a part of him that they permeated every cell of his body. Even more recent traumatic memories were tempered by the constant reassuring aftertaste of a home, and a deep lifelong love. Murder saw what his home was like before the shopping center sprung up around it. He saw the man as he was decades ago, standing up to developers and thugs that wanted to tear his home down.

  A more recent memory, a taste of violence. He was in his shop, but he wasn’t alone. The woman from the spa was there – the one with an eclectic taste in tattoos and a bad case of athlete’s foot. Standing beside her were two thugs that looked like bikers. The taller of the two looked like he had made a career out of standing behind people and being large. He was older than your typical thug, but still resembled a leather-clad steamroller that could crush anything slower than itself. The second man was much younger and wore clothes four sizes too large, which made him look like a coat hanger for the much larger man.

  The two male thugs walked around the counter and stood at either side of Mel, while the woman walked to the front of the shop, closed the door and flipped a small hanging sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’.

  “You’re not supposed to be back here,” said Mel, not knowing whether he should watch the young man who was eyeing the goods he kept behind the counter, or the steamroller of a man who was leaning over him and casually growling. “What do you want?”

  “Your friend, Mrs Allister, told me you tore up the contract,” said the woman, leaning over the counter and putting her face so close that Mel could smell the tobacco on her breath.

  “She’s no friend of mine,” said Mel.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the woman, leaning back and retrieving a lighter from her bra which appeared to have given up and was now hanging out with its burdens on either side of her navel. “Anyone offering me an alternative to getting my head kicked in sounds like a pretty good friend to me.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Mel. “I said you’re not allowed back here. Get out before I—”

  His protest was cut short when he felt one of his arms being twisted behind his back.

  “Just take the fucking deal old man,” whispered the coat hanger of a man as he put pressure on the old man’s wrist.

  The fish were doing more than just looking through the old man’s eyes. They felt the pain, the fear. They felt his soft voice tremble as it said the words “Make me”.

  Then they recalled the sensation of his arm twisting, the pressure on the back of his head and the sight of the green velvet countertop rapidly coming to meet him.

  When the adrenaline faded, Murder felt an indomitable defiance within the old man, and then an aching pain – not physical pain of being attacked, but the all-too-familiar struggle of the feeble in the face of the powerful. The same feeling Murder felt every day, and the same stubborn refusal to accept powerlessness. There was always a way.

  Murder’s attention was brought back to the present. He could taste a soup?on of duplicity in the old man. He was up to something. Murder could feel that the old man was waiting for Sally to turn around.

  A sense of urgency flowed through the jeweler and Death looked up to see that he was rifling through his pocket for something.

  “He’s definitely up to something,” said Death. “Quick, we’re going to have to kill him.”

  “What?” asked Spots.

  “No time,” shouted Death. “Quickly bite him in the—”

  The command was interrupted by a gentle ‘plonk’ as the old jeweler surreptitiously dropped something into the tank.

  It fell slowly, trailing a stream of bubbles, and landed with a muffled ‘clank’ as it hit the glass on the bottom of the tank.

  “What is it?” asked Spots.

  Murder, Death and Hunger all swam closer to take a look, while Hatred watched on from the other tank.

  It was a small ceramic ornamental treasure chest studded with diamantés, a relief of a Jolly Roger on the lid and a hole in the back so that an air pump could connect to it.

  Dr Flibbles swam over to the piece of aquatic tat. “It’s a treasure chest. A very tasteful one. I claim this treasure in the name of Kraknajin, under the rules of salvage and because I was here first. Also, because I’m the oldest.”

  “It’s very nice,” said Murder, “but we have a situation on our fins. The old man, bringer of pizza and other treasures, seems to have gotten himself into something of an imbroglio with an organized crime gang.”

  “That bastard!” said Spots, enthusiastically misinterpreting Murder’s tone.

  “That sounds very unlikely,” said Dr Flibbles, who was playing with the lid of his new chest.

  “We have seen it,” said Murder. “It’s just like the plot from Up. There is a gang of estate agents and criminals that have been trying to get the old man to move, and we need to stop them or the whole shopping complex will be torn down.”

  “I’ll rip their faces off!” yelled Spots enthusiastically.

  “Ah, I see what’s going on here,” said Dr Flibbles. “Murder, I think you’ve been watching a bit too much of that tablet. I hate to be the one to tell you, but what happens on screens isn’t real. A Bug’s Life, Days of our Lives, Fox News – it's all an elaborate fabrication. Ridge wasn’t really in a coma. The actor who played him probably just had a few months off to recover from a botched plastic surgery, or needed some time in rehab. This organized gang is probably just make-believe, like everyone else’s religion, dinosaurs or the girls in the pictures on the salon’s walls.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “You dare contradict me?” bubbled Murder. “I will bring such destruction to this gang. I know not how, but it will be the terror of the Earth.”

  “You’re mad. Do you really think you can have any impact on what humans do?” asked Dr Flibbles. “Murder, there is ambitious, and then there is delusional. You couldn’t stop a gang of turkeys, let alone stop an entire organized crime gang.”

  “You mean another organized crime gang?” corrected Death.

  “Yeah!” said Spots. “Show some backbone.”

  Dr Flibbles glowered at the orange-spotted little fish, who withered slightly and moved to hide behind the Murders. “And what do you expect me to do with that? Hope that they choke on it?”

  “If there are two things I have learned since becoming a fish,” said Murder, “it’s how to ride a BMX, and that with planning, guile and an excessive amount of accelerants, you can accomplish anything.”

  “Go on, what’s your plan then?” asked Dr Flibbles angrily capitulating and blowing a little bubble.

  “I’m not sure yet. Got any ideas?” replied Murder.

  “Do you know where they’re headquartered?” asked Dr Flibbles.

  “No,” admitted Murder.

  “Oh! We should hire someone that solves mysteries and fights crime,” suggested Spots. “Like that old lady on the tele. You she wrote.”

  “You she wrote?” asked Dr Flibbles. “Never heard of it.”

  “Not you, Dr Flibbles – Murder,” replied Spots.

  “Yes?” asked Murder, somewhat confused by the interaction.

  “Yeah. She would solve the case in no time,” said Spots.

  “Ah, the great Ms Fletcher,” replied Dr Flibbles. “Even with a sleuth like her on our side, it won’t be easy. These gangs operate with the utmost secrecy. We’re dealing with a highly intelligent, sophisticated and well-trained group of expert criminals, we’ll likely need all the luck we can get just to—”

  “Here they are,” interrupted Hunger. “They have a Facebook page with pictures of their clubhouse and everything. Typical Boomers – everything is set to public. Ohhh fun! Tonight’s poker night.”

  “What are those things in the picture that they’re all sitting on?” asked Spots.

  “They’re motorbikes. The Hell’s Spawn are a motorbike gang,” replied Murder.

  “No they’re not,” said Spots. “The woman that came here was dropped off in a car. I saw it. It was one of the loud old smokers and it looked like it was missing its top. I think it was blue.”

  “Bikers that ride around together in a car…” Murder pondered this, rubbing his chin. “Are they still called bikers?”

  “They’re called economic refugees. In this economy even the bikers are struggling. Otherwise they might not be forced to beat up eighty-year-olds for bike money,” said Dr Flibbles.

  “I thought bikers sold drugs,” said Spots.

  “I expect they’re diversifying after their suppliers came down with a severe case of being burned to death,” replied Murder. “Burned to death… That gives me an idea. We have to fight fire with fire. We have a gun, and I know how to ride a bike.”

  “Murder, there is a big difference between knowing how to do something and being able to do it,” said Dr Flibbles. “I, for example, know how to flay the skin off a forty-foot Xanthratic gratch without rupturing the blompus. That does not mean I, as a two-inch nibble fish stuck on Earth, can simply go and do it tomorrow.”

  Murder gave him a defiant look and nodded at Hunger, who started typing something on the tablet, one mild concussion at a time.

  “You’ve not even got legs!” yelled Dr Flibbles. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Oh yeah,” replied the four Murders in unison. “Watch me.”

  Dr Flibbles watched as Murder floated with neutral buoyancy, not moving an inch for several minutes. The two eyed each other off, the advantage going to Murder because he had more eyes.

  “Done,” said Murder, breaking the silence.

  “Done what?” asked Dr Flibbles.

  “I used Hunger to order a bike and post an ad for actors wanting to participate in a hidden-camera prank show,” replied Murder. “We’re going to do this the North Korean way.”

  “That’s terrible. You can’t just go around doing things like that,” said Dr Flibbles.

  “You’re right,” said Hunger. “I canceled the bike.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” replied Dr Flibbles. “Everybody hates reality TV prank shows. There is a spot back home reserved especially for people who produce that kind of garbage, right next to where we keep the pedophiles and sulfuric acid.”

  “I changed the ad to read that actors have to bring their own bike,” said Hunger. “No point us using our credit card on bikes when there are so many out-of-work actors just spinning their wheels.”

  “You’re definitely going to hell for this,” replied Dr Flibbles.

  The next morning, a young man arrived on a mountain bike, carrying an empty wide-mouthed bottle with branding that promised to not only kill thirst but also come after its family and friends. He wore slim-fitting jeans, a black polo shirt and an expression of nervous apprehension. He entered the store and stood there for a moment, examining his surroundings.

  “Can I help you?” asked Sally. The young man took a phone out of his pocket, unfolded it and began walking around the store as if he had lost his keys. “Can I help you?” repeated Sally more firmly, but the man continued to ignore her. “Are you lost? Hello?”

  Sally had heard of people following their GPS off bridges or driving into the ocean and was used to seeing people ignore one another by staring at their phones, but that was usually on public transport, or the dinner table, not like this.

  “Hey! You can’t go back there!” called Sally, but the man pushed past her without saying a word and walked into the storeroom in the rear of the shop. “Get the hell out! Did those damn Allisters send you?” yelled Sally at the impassive intruder, but moderate affrontement quickly turned to shock when the man retrieved a handgun from the top rack of a shelf she thought was empty.

  “Ahah! Found it in under three minutes. What do I win?” asked the armed mystery man.

  Sally wasn’t used to people acting so strangely or finding guns in her shop, so she didn’t know how to react. “Umm, a haircut?” offered Sally.

  “No thanks,” said the strange man with the pistol. The man’s pocket let out a loud double beep. Not wanting to put anything down, he used his chin to hold the gun by its barrel under his neck so he could use both hands on his phone. “Right. Phase two. Ohh, that’s what the bottle is for.” The gun slipped slightly and he quickly grabbed it, putting his finger on the trigger while the gun swung by its barrel. “Whoops, nearly dropped it,” the man said playfully.

  “How…?” asked a bewildered Sally. “Why was there a gun in my shop?”

  “I dunno, I don’t work here,” the man said with a shrug before proceeding to take the cap off his wide-mouthed bottle and carefully examining both fish tanks. He was pointing from fish to fish like he was counting them. “Aha, there you are.” The intruder placed his empty bottle on its side, halfway into the tank; water and one of the nibble fish flowed into the bottle.

  Sally watched, dumbfounded, not knowing if she should be more or less scared that the gun was only unintentionally pointing in her direction.

  “Got ya!” he exclaimed before putting the pistol under his arm, tightening the lid on the bottle and walking out the front door. Then, just like that, with no explanation whatsoever, he pedaled away on his bike, awkwardly holding the handlebars with a half-filled bottle in one hand and a pistol in the other.