All The Fish Are Dead

"Guess you need to be atomic-bomb capable to get a hello around here," it spat testily.

Brent looked chagrined, a stark contrast from the crazed look of homicidal mania it had been programmed to have before. Nonetheless the face was still terrifying.

"Hi!" it replied sheepishly. "Sorry about trying to kill you all earlier. My old programming was a wee bit janky. I promise you—no more exploding for this guy! Sorry again! I'll get out of your guy's hair." The missile shot off upwards at full speed, breaking the sound barrier with an ear-rattling pop. Other than the ringing in their ears and rocks settling like snowflakes around them, there was no sign the Ehrrow had ever been there.

"Well!" said the man, walking back over to the cowering fishermen. "Now that we're all settled on those accounts—I heard the name Teeny? As in Mar-teeny? Martin? Martin McDunn?" He smiled warmly. "Come now, speak up, be a good man, eh?"

The mood among the fishermen changed instantly. Where confusion and doubt had reigned, they now met the strange man with the resolute valour of the Raquette.

"What business is that of yours, stranger?" barked Shampoo. The rest joined in.

"Maybe I'm fucking Teeny, what's it to you?" said Hue.

"Nah, he's a big-time lawyer down in Peach Trees," argued Amy.

"Nah, he plays anchor for the Superior Locks. Led the super-league in tackles last year."

"No no no he was a contestant on Celebrity Chef Deathmatch."

"Teeny McDunn? Motherfucker owes me a bottle of screech."

"Who? Never fucking heard of him."

"Teeny? Dude died last year on the 'Quette."

"Is Teeny's real name Martin?" asked Jaybear quietly.

The man's smile widened with each answer, his gaze finally settling on the one man not speaking. He arched an eyebrow, moving his fingers in rat-sign. Martin MacDunn?

"Yah, it's me," admitted Teeny, as the others groaned.

The man's fingers flashed back. Loyal bunch, your lot. Fishermen ain't never changed in these parts. You're all cut from the same cloth. It's good to see some things never change.

He clapped, speaking aloud. "Excellent! A pleasure to make your acquaintance." He strode forward with his hand extended. "My name is Douglas, and I'm here to give you a ride!"

He gestured toward the war machine behind him. Keeley, all curved metal and terrible grace, lowered her massive head in a respectful bow to the shocked fishermen.

Douglas's hand slowly pulled back. His nose turned up in disgust.

"Who peed their pants?"

The fishermen exchanged searching looks—at each other, at the gryphon with terror, at Douglas with unease, and finally at Teeny. He hadn't taken his eyes off Douglas.

"I don't understand," Martin replied.

"About peeing your pants? I find that highly unlikely."

Martin didn't laugh. He looked up at the bondo. "Don't need no ride. Don't want no ride. 'Specially from no man and his demon bird."

Douglas frowned.

"Demon bird?" The gryphon leaned forward threateningly. "Listen here, shit-farmer, watch your mouth or I'll take you for a ride alright. A ride straight out over the fucking Wet Belt, where I'll drop you without a parachute." She flapped her wings to accentuate the point, the fishermen cowering in the billowing dust.

"Would you knock it off?" Douglas fixed his hair, turning back to the fishermen. "Don't pay her any mind. She's governed by the first law. She couldn't hurt anyone if she wanted to." He paused. "Anyways—Martin. Someone with a fuck ton of money believes you're related to the recently deceased. Someone who wants to meet you in Toronto."

From All The Fish Are Dead — a 22nd Century Mystery, coming Fall 2026.

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