Congratulations Fishmonger!

“FISH FOR SALE!” you’ll cry to the passers-by as they go about their business, cupping your hand to make a make-shift megaphone for your voice. They’ll ignore you by and large, bustling about their business in Victorian garb, smoking pipes and adjusting their top hats as needed. Occasionally they’ll look at you, shake their head, then walk away, off to Long John Silver’s or some shit, as if to say “we want fish, but we don’t want real fish, so fuck you buddy.” It’ll be enough to make you break down and cry the way you do alone in your apartment with a bottle of gin, but you’ll stand strong and continue your ceaseless efforts to sell the freshest of fish to the assiest of holes.

It’ll all come together for you when an adorable orphan girl comes up to you.

“I’d love some fish guv’na, but I haven’t any money,” she’ll say, wiping some soot from her cheek with a sooty hand, making her entire facial-situation that much sootier.

You’ll look at her face, then your stall full of unsold fish, then at her face again and shrug.

“Have a bowl of fish and chips!” you’ll loudly declare, handing her some grease soaked newspaper filled with food. Then your business partner will see you and shout “Robbers!”

A pair of men in masks will leap from a side street and beset the little girl, knocking her fish to the ground and grabbing her and holding her in the air so that her little girl legs can do naught but kick and kick and kick.

“What ho!” you’ll shout just as loudly as you declared that the little girl should have some fish and chips. You’ll leap up with your shout and clock one of the robbers right in the face with your British-style punch, then threaten the other one.

“Mercy, m’lord!” he’ll cry, then run off, leaving the young girl to weep over her fish and chips. A crowd will be gathering around her by this point, their interested piqued by a child’s weeping. That’s when you’ll come to her rescue a third time, heading back to your cart a third time to hand the girl one last newspaper full of fish and chips.

“My apologies for your hardship, young lady,” you’ll say to her in a stage whisper before handing her another batch of fish and chips and stepping back to the stall, where a line will already be forming. At the head of it will be your best friend, who you’ll have paid to show up today and do this. He’ll be holding money in his hand before you’re even back at the stall and, as you hand him a newspaper full of fish and chips he’ll declare:

“This man puts all the care he gave to that young woman into crafting these fine fish and chips!” he’ll shout, grease dripping down his chin. Then a loud hurrah will go up from the crowd and, by day’s end, you’ll sell out every single fish in your stores.

From this day on business will boom for you. You’ll always sell out your stock and you’ll always have enough money to pay your mortgage and to keep making payments to all those actors you hired to help get your business up and running again to keep them from telling the press. You’ll even make enough to save some and plan for a rainy day, or retirement. It’ll be good for you. That is, until you snap in a fit of paranoia and then murder everyone who helped you get your business back up and running, inevitably being captured after you kill that sweet little girl who pretended to be an orphan in exchange for nothing more than free fish. Aside from that little hiccough it’ll be nothing but smooth sailing for you.

Congratulations Fishmonger!

Congratulations on Your Delicious Encounter with Fish and Chips!

You’ll have been in the desert for five days when he comes to you. He’ll float a few feet above the ground on beating wings, a smile splitting his triangle face from side to side, naked teeth dull against the bleaching sun. He won’t say anything at first, just flit about you as you stumble forward. You’ll feel his eyes upon you, measuring you, deciding if you’re worth his time. After a few moments he’ll speak.

“Wha ye gotten to be harr, lad?” he’ll droll out in a thick Scottish accent. He’ll hang in front of your face as he says it, trying to make you stop but dragging himself forward at the same pace you’re limping.

“What?” you’ll say. You’ll not have heard a person in days by this point, and his thick accent will have made him incomprehensible.

“Is there something you’d like?” he’ll say, taking care to enunciate each syllable. You’ll take in his words like the water that left you early that morning. It’ll make you pause for the first time in days. This, after all, is why you’ll be there, walking for days on end.

“A moment to think,” you’ll say.

He’ll smile wide. “Done.”

You’ll wince, lips cracking with the gesture. You should’ve known better, you’ll think to yourself, than to let a slip of the tongue cost you something so valuable. You’ll lick your mouth and taste your own blood before smiling at him. This time the pain will be worth it.

“A way home when we are finished here,” you’ll say, blinking and swaying with the effort of speech.

He’ll nod, still smiling. “Done,” he’ll say, opening and glancing at his pocket watch as he does so. “And your last?”

You’ll rack your brain for the most important of your two previous wishes, but you won’t be able to remember either of them. The combination of “reefer addiction” and the five days without sleep will have ruined your capacity for memory. All you’ll be able to think about is food and student loans. You’ll be like a new college graduate. After nearly a full minute standing still, feeling the blood pool in your muscles, you’ll stumble upon a phrase that sound right.

“The object of my greatest desire,” you’ll say, falling to your knees as you do so.

“Done.” he’ll say, eyes flaring for a moment in his skull and then fading into the background of your one bedroom apartment. It will be just as you left it months ago, tattered couch and expensive TV offsetting the beige carpet and white plaster walls. The only new thing will be a few orders of fish and chips. They’ll be packaged in white paper bags and tinfoil, clearly from a Scottish market in some small town somewhere where they still cook and sell the local catch on a daily basis.

You’ll feel a little annoyed until your stomach grumbles and hunger sets in. Then you’ll fill a glass of water, pound it down, fill another and sit down at the table. What follows will be the single most profound fish and chips based experience of your life. When you finish you’ll feel a little sick, but it will be a good sort of nausea, the kind that reminds you of the wonder you just held in your mouth. Two orders of fish and chips will remain.

You’ll stumble up from the table, wondering if they’ll taste as good once they’ve been reheated as you walk to the phone to call the record store and tell them that your vacation is going to take a day longer than you expected. You hope your manager will understand.

Congratulations on Your Delicious Encounter With Fish and Chips!