Start Shouting

This morning began with the routine. It’s always been the same routine. Wake up. Shower. Shave. Get dressed. Eat some fruit and drink coffee while watching the news. Walk to the coffee shop for a second cup. Walk to work.

I’ve had the same morning routine my entire adult life. When I was a kid, it was slightly different. There was no coffee, cereal instead of fruit, and cartoons instead of news. Actually, I kept that routine in college too. I’m not sure if the routine changed because I grew up or because I moved to New York.

When I walked into the coffee shop this morning, a man on the sidewalk asked me for spare change. This isn’t unusual in New York. In fact, it happens all the time. I can’t even imagine the last time I went a day without being asked for spare change. I walked past him without making eye contact. Many others around me did the same thing. New Yorkers realize that they can’t afford to get involved in everyone’s problems. It’s unhealthy. Don’t get involved.

As I was waiting in line for my second cup of coffee, I thought about all of the changes in my life since I’ve lived in New York (I moved here after completing law school). I don’t party anymore. I live alone. The weekend seems shorter than it was five years ago.

I ordered my coffee and stood there waiting for it to arrive. The woman who was behind me in line placed her order, but realized that she didn’t have enough money with her. She was short fifteen cents. I knew that I had at least twenty-seven cents in my pocket, but I couldn’t give it to her. I would become involved. If I lost sight of my own personal goals, I might become like her. I might not have enough money to buy my morning coffee. It’s like the airline hostesses tell you in their long, pre-flight monologue. “Put the breathing mask on yourself before helping others put on their own.” You have to look out for yourself until you get into a stable, successful position. You absolutely cannot get involved.

No one offered to give her fifteen cents. She left the coffee shop without a word – or coffee for that matter. My coffee arrived shortly after that and I headed to work.

I enjoy walking to work. It’s cleaner than the city buses, cheaper than a cab, and I get a little bit of free exercise. I sipped my warm drink while I walked through the crowded sidewalk. I was about a block and a half away from the office building where I work when a woman grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me.

“You’ve got to help me!” she said, “That man just stole my purse! Please!”

Normally, I don’t care about helping people on the streets because I help enough of them through my work everyday. Those people even pay me. I would have ignored this woman, too, but she got me involved. I couldn’t help it; she pulled me into it. If I turned her away now, it would make me look like a terrible person. Future clients may have been watching.

“Where did he go?” I asked. She pointed down the sidewalk, the direction I had come from.

“He’s wearing a bright blue hoodie!” I could see him through the crowd. He wasn’t running. Running attracts attention. Unfortunately, I had to run to catch up with him. I handed the woman my cup of coffee and took off. Not only was I involved, I was also bringing attention to myself and working up a sweat. I caught up with him pretty quickly. I grabbed him by the shoulder.

“You stole that purse,” I said, “Give it back.” He started to run. I ran after him. Two people running attracted even more attention than just one person running. There was a cop ahead of us writing traffic tickets for expired parking meters.

“Officer!” I shouted. The cop turned his head and noticed the two idiots running down the sidewalk. He also noticed that one of those idiots was carrying a rather expensive-looking purse.

“Police!” he shouted. The purse-thief was running right towards him. The officer drew his gun but I don’t think he intended to use it. The thief dropped the purse and threw his hands in the air. The police officer promptly cuffed and arrested the criminal. As he read him his rights, I realized that they didn’t need my testimony or anything like that. The officer already had it together. Out of breath, I turned around and started my walk back to my office. After about half a block, I saw the woman whose purse was stolen. I smiled at her, still breathing heavily.

“We got him,” I said. She didn’t hear or see me. Still holding my cup of coffee, she kept walking towards the policeman that had her purse.

“Oh, thank you, officer!” she said, “Thank you so much.”

I stood and watched her walk away to retrieve her stolen purse. I looked at my watch and saw that I was already late for work. I explained what happened to my boss and he seemed to understand. I spent the rest of the day working on personal injury cases.

I shouldn’t have gotten involved. I couldn’t help it; she pulled me into it. I got nothing out of that. Nothing. She got her purse back and my coffee. The thief will probably get sent to prison or at least pay a fine. The officer got praise from the woman and will probably receive similar praise from his boss and co-workers. Hell, he might even get a raise. What did I get? I was late for work. I didn’t get even get any good feeling. Instead, I was out of breath and I felt like I was dying. My shirt had stains on it for most of the day. I really am out of shape.

Don’t get involved. Don’t ever get involved. “Put on your own breathing mask and don’t help anyone else with their own.” There will only be room for so many on the lifeboats.

            During my lunch break, my partner Garth received a phone call at the station. It was an anonymous tip about a Leftie-Elitist leader living in an apartment building on the upper west side. With nothing but paper work on my desk, we got into the squad car and drove out to take a look. It was a sunny day, too warm for February. The black leather seats of the car were warm but not searing hot like they are in July.

            “What’s his name again?” I asked.

            “Kenneth Murtin, age 27. Supposedly one of the Leftie-Elitist leaders. His apartment should be right here,” he said, pulling in front of an old-looking building with a dog sitting on the step, “and he lives in number 22B.”

            The dog on the step barked furiously as we approached. I suppose it can’t tell the difference between good guys and bad guys. It didn’t shut up so Garth gently kicked it out of the way. The inside looked like most small, old buildings in New York. Lots of wood, especially the railing. Cheap carpet pulling up in the corners. Brass post-boxes in the wall.

            We went up to the second floor and found 22B. The brass numbers on the door were faded but the letter “B” looked like it was brand-new.

            “I’ve never understood why people don’t just replace all of the letters at once,” I said, “Doesn’t that make sense?”

            “I suppose so. I don’t really think about it too much.” Garth pounded on the door three times. No response. Another three knocks. “Police, open up.” Nothing. “Final warning! Open up!”

            “It’s my turn. You got to do it last time,” I told him.

            “Fine.”

            I took a step back and pulled my gun out of its holster. I brought my right foot up and kicked the door as hard as I could. I hit it right where I wanted to, just above the lock. The hinges were still intact but my foot put a pretty good sized hole in the door. I reached in and opened the door. I held it open for Garth like I was his butler leading him into the dining room for a dinner party.

            There was a small television, a fern in the corner, a couch, a coffee table covered in magazines, books, and food trash. There was a small kitchen and a bathroom. Garth quickly checked the bathroom, kitchen, and looked out all of the windows but saw no sign of Kenneth Murtin, professional left-hander.

            While Garth searched for fingerprints and unlicensed weapons, I searched for plans and details about the Leftie-Elitists. The books stacked throughout his apartment confirmed the Leftie tip. Left-Handers: 100 Things You Didn’t Know, The Left-Handed History of the World, and Lefties: The Superior Default. I believe that you can tell a lot about a person by the books they read. This guy was definitely messed up. Obsessed with the fact that he’s left-handed, he seemed to have taken it to an extreme level of importance in his life. The majority of the books in his home were about left-hands or revolutions.

            “Are you ready to go, Garth? This place is kinda starting to freak me out. Everything in here is about lefties,” I said. I walked into the kitchen where Garth was placing half of a turkey sandwich into a plastic bag. “Seriously?”

            “I’m going to give it to the lab. DNA sample.”

            “Whatever. Hey, at least his calendar’s not left-themed.” It was a calendar from the bird sanctuary. This month’s aviary was a red-tailed hawk sitting on a wooden fence post. My eyes made their way to the lower half of the page. The date was the 4^th. There was only one thing written in the square. In scratchy handwriting, “get the president.”

            “Oh, shit,” I said, “We gotta go, now. Call headquarters,” I said. Garth read the three words I pointed to on the page and started running down the stairs, cursing almost as much as I was. The car was moving half a second before I got in. I called back to base and told them the story while Garth drove like a complete maniac down the busy roads. Even if you’ve taken a ride in the cab of New York’s most neurotic taxi driver, it wouldn’t compare to the way Garth was driving. I knew that for Garth, it was more than just a job at that point. He had voted for President Durant. He even wore one of the campaign buttons when he was off-duty and put a stupid bumper sticker on his car. He truly believed that Durant was going to be the one to save our country. He would stop the bad guys, fix our system, make the crazies shutup, and make everyone feel safe in their homes again. But not unless we could save him from the leftie, Kenneth Murtin.

            We learned that the president was going to be speaking in front of the Historic Court House before he signed his new health care bill. The whole thing was to take place outside. The speech was supposed to have started a few minutes before we left Murtin’s apartment. Approaching the court house, the streets were crowded and some were blocked off by the secret service. Garth pulled the car onto the lawn, put it in park, and walked over to the nearest suit with a headset.

            “Garth Amakrur, Detective,” he said, showing his badge, “My partner and I have reason to believe there will be an attempt on the president’s life during the speech today.”

            “If there is, he won’t get far. We’ve got this place as secure as it can possibly be,” said the agent, not even making eye contact.”

            “You’re absolutely right,” said Garth walking back towards the car. I got back into the passenger seat.

            “Well, I guess that’s that,” I said.

            “Not quite.” He backed the car so that it was facing a gap in the trees in the direction of the court house. “Buckle up, kid. ‘Click it or ticket.’” His foot pressed the accelerator to the floor and we took off through the park, weaving down the road on both sides since it was closed off. In a matter of seconds, we could see the area were the president was speaking. The car went into park and Garth seemed to already be out, racing towards the president.

Having finished his speech, he was seated at a desk with the bill in front of him. On one side was a box of pens he would be using to sign the bill. I watched from the roof of the police car. A few members of the secret service were arguing quietly with Garth. They looked ready to arrest him.

“You’re right-handed?” asked a member of the audience near the front as President Durant started to sign on the first of seven lines. The audience chuckled. A secret service agent grabbed Garth by the arm. The audience paid no attention.

“Yes, I am. But I do cartwheels with my left hand!” The audience laughed again. “But other than that, yes, I’m completely right-handed.” He went back to signing the bill. Garth started to break free and run into the audience.

“Not anymore,” said the man from the front of the audience. He jumped onto the stage, took a pen from the box and brought it down into the president’s right hand as hard as he could. The bodyguards tackled him just as he was bringing down the pen, maybe even helping to push it deeper into their leader’s precious right hand. The president screamed as loud as I’ve ever heard anyone scream. He stood up from his chair, his blood mixing with black ink and spurting onto the audience. They screamed even louder than he did. The audience started to run and back away while reporters and cameramen rushed to get closer. Guards grabbed the president and took him into a limo, out of the public’s sight. More secret service members began to swarm in from all around the park.

I just sat there watching it all from on top of the squad car. We had failed. The lefties had just made the president left-handed. They let everyone in the country know that they were a serious threat. Everything was going to change. 

“Teachers and students, I’d now like to have a moment of silence for those that died in the bus crash over the weekend. For the next sixty seconds, please refrain from talking or working,” said the principal over the intercom.

Ethan Kennedy looked up at the clock. He wanted to see if the principal was actually going to give them a full minute or if he was just estimating.

Everyone placed their pencils on their desk and looked at the ground except for Ethan, eyes on the clock. Thirty students from Wright High, a nearby high school, had died in a bus crash. It was on the national news. Not many of the students at Irving High School knew those that were injured but they were upset just the same. It wasn’t exactly a happy day to be at school. While staring at his feet, Mr. Baxter clutched his chest. His ribs felt they were on fire and being stabbed with tiny needles.

Thirty seconds, halfway there, thought Ethan.

Mr. Baxter leaned forward and silently fell onto his desk. His face was turning red and it was all scrunched up from the pain. He had been shot during his time as an officer but it was just a finger prick compared to this.

Twenty seconds left.

Why did I get that cheeseburger for lunch, oh why he thought. His wife told him to be careful, just like the doctor had told him. I know my limits, he had said.

Almost a minute, thought Ethan, the principal’s voice is going to come over the intercom any second now.

Mr. Baxter tried to speak but found that he couldn’t. He started to see black rosettes in front of his eyes. He wanted to bang on his desk but his hands felt like they were glued to his chest. The pain was so great. If he took his hands away, his heart might just burst out of him and go through his nice shirt. It would leave a stain if it did that, he thought.

The principal’s voice broke over the intercom just a few seconds after the one minute mark. Not quite exact, thought Ethan, but close enough.

“Thank you very much,” was all he said before the click of the intercom ended the short transmission. The classroom was silent. Cathy Michaels was crying and had to leave the room.

Ethan looked towards Mr. Baxter. His head was resting on his desk but his face was towards the wall. “Mr. Baxter, can I use the restroom?” he asked. No reply. The room, still silent, all stared at their teacher.

“Mr. Baxter?”

Dear Mr. Dakota Hommes,

            You probably don’t know me. Actually, I hope that you don’t know me. If you know me then I’m not doing my job properly. Anyway, we have something in common: we have both occupied the house on Oxford at some point. You‘re currently staying there but I lived there much longer ago.

            I hope you appreciate the house as much as I did. It really is a lovely home and it made me feel incredibly welcome. It means a lot to me so please don’t screw it up. Don’t burn it, don’t mistreat it, and don’t move out of it. Actually, you can move if you want but make sure it ends up in good hands. I think the renovations you have made are marvelous.

            I’d like to address something that I know has been bothering you: the bizarre sinkhole just next to the western fence in the backyard. As I’m sure you know, the soil quality on your block is quite miserable. That is partly, but not entirely, to blame for your sinkhole. I know you’ve been thinking of contacting someone who works for the city but I assure that it would not be a good idea.

            I must confess that the real reason for the sinkhole is bodies. I suppose it’s ‘lack of bodies’ really. As they decompose, the soil fills in the holes causing it to sink in. It’s been quite awhile so I would presume it is just bones now. If my memory serves me, there is only one body but that may have changed since you have taken up residency.

            I promise you that if you attempt to contact the city government about the sinkhole, it will be your head to blame. It is on your property after all and I have changed my name several times since I lived there.

            Anyway, I hope you had a lovely holiday.

Happy New Year,

                        John Smith (not my real name)

P.S. If you decide to dig up the body, please make sure you dispose of it properly. A nearby furnace or river will do fine. Also, if you dig it up, the jewelry box and it’s contents are yours.

            You can do this, Melanie.

            That’s what I’ve been telling myself and it seems like everybody else has been saying it too.

            You’re going to go places and when you go places, you have to make speeches. Student Council is just the start of it.

            They wanted me to talk about how great the year had been and all of the things we accomplished and challenges we overcame. I wrote the speech myself. My English teacher, Ms. Fiorentino, proofread it. She handed it back to me and she had a tear in her eye. She said it was beautiful. I thought it was just okay but she can get pretty emotional sometimes.

            But just because you can write well doesn’t necessarily mean you can speak well.

            I can see the microphone and the podium just ahead of me. In a few minutes the principal will say my name and people will start clapping even though I haven’t said anything yet. And then I’ll go up to the podium, pull out my speech, and choke.

            That’s how it is in my mind’s eye.

            I’ve got the solutions to all of the world’s problems in my head. Give me some power and I can fix this city. I can fix the country if you give me a chance to. Just don’t make me speak in front of people. Please.

            That wouldn’t work. Nobody would trust somebody who’s not even brave enough to talk in front of people. Never. Well, maybe I don’t even want to be a politician. Maybe I just want to write speeches.

            Watch somebody else take all of the credit? I could never take that for a career.

            And now I’m talking to myself in my head when I should be focused. I’ve practiced the speech. I should be fine.

            He just said my name. This is it. This. Is. It. IT. The big IT. I’ve got a feeling of suddenness. Nothing even feels real. This feels like an event that you always talk about but never expect to actually happen like the rapture or Christmas.

            I walk to the podium, get my speech, and start reading out loud. The next thing I know, everyone is standing, clapping, and I’m walking towards my seat. Half of my teachers are crying and everyone is smiling.

            It was just talking. I’ve been talking since I was like two. That means I’ve already had sixteen years of experience. I’m already a professional.

I can create anything here. I’m the god of this paper.

            The party was scheduled to begin no later than eight o’clock on Friday evening. The ice swan’s neck fell off at seven forty-one.

            “AHH!” screamed Sharon, the party planner. She was all dressed up in an orange evening gown and a pearl necklace around her neck. “What have you done?!?” she shouted at the ice sculptor. He was still holding the knife in his hand, little pieces of ice on the blade.

            “Kunst is het lijden,” said Filip the ice sculptor, who was Dutch. They had spent much of the budget on him and his skills.

            “He says ‘art is suffering,’” translated his interpreter, Alexander, “I think he’s upset that you forced him to make a swan in the first place.”

            “Swans are elegant and I’m TRYING to throw an elegant party!” said Sharon, obviously upset, “That’s what the Hendersons have paid me to do! Now I have a headless swan as the centerpiece! Nobody wants to see a headless swan!”

            Filip just stood there with his arms crossed, a smug expression on his face. He couldn’t understand English but he knew that his message had been heard.

            “Kate, go get a bouquet of flowers,” Sharon said to her assistant. Filled with excitement, Kate hurried out of the ballroom. The only work she had ever been asked to do as Sharon’s assistant was to make coffee runs to Starbucks. This was a big deal for her.

            “Can somebody please clean up this swan?” Sharon shouted, hoping someone with a mop would hear her. “And you,” she said, pointing at Filip, “You’re done. You breached our agreement. That means no money and you can pay for your own flight home.” Alexander translated while he pondered the futility and pointlessness of his job. You’ve got nothing to show for yourself, he said to himself, all you do is talk.

            “Belachelijk!” shouted Filip. He then spit on the floor in front of Sharon and marched out of the ballroom, being quickly followed by Alexander.

            “I can only assume he was cursing at me,” said Sharon as two men came in to clean up the remains of the once beautiful ice swan.

            Sharon walked over to a small bouquet by the stairs. She adjusted the flowers a little and then pulled out her BlackBerry. One new message from David. ‘Hey Sharon, I can’t make it tonight. Sorry. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to see one of your parties another time. Sorry.’

            With a sigh, she took a seat on one of the steps. Well, he can’t make it. What’re you gonna do?, she asked herself, There’s nobody left to impress at this point.

            “The flower store wasn’t open,” said Kate, rushing into the ballroom in her red dress, “But I managed to steal some flowers from their garden. I hope you don’t mind.” She held in her hand about thirty yellow dandelions.

            “I think that’ll be fine, Kate,” said Sharon, “Can we get a vase for this lovely bouquet?” A waiter walked in with a glass vase filled a third of the way up with water. He took the dandelions without question and put them on display. “And one more thing,” Sharon said to the waiter, “Can you get me a glass of wine? They keep the good stuff in the back, I believe.”

      I think it’s been a month since the crash. I can’t really be sure. I lost count pretty quickly. I found the lifeboat after only a few days but I haven’t left yet. I can’t do anything unless the oracle says I can. I tried to get out of here on the lifeboat a few days ago despite the oracle. That night, there was a tremendous storm that seemed to shake the Earth. I was thrown from my raft and into the rocks. The gash in my leg still hasn’t healed. The raft was stuck in the trees and, thank heavens, they didn’t puncture it. I’ve listened to the oracle very closely since then. I suppose it’s waiting to let me go until the weather conditions are absolutely perfect. The island will provide me with enough food and water until then. I miss the companionship of humanity but the oracle will get me home safely. I do have one concern that’s been worrying me. What will happen when the batteries run out? The oracle is a black box with a keyboard on one side. There’s a small screen above the keyboard that gives me answers to my questions. It’s electronic and I guess it can only last so long.

~

      When I woke up this morning, I saw a man in a black suit walking towards me. His tie was as skinny as he was. The sun was behind him and I had to squint to see.

“Hello,” he said to me, “I have an offer to make you.”

I was still drowsy and I thought I might be dreaming. I held out my hand to shake his. I wanted to touch him to see if he was real. “Sorry,” he said, “Germophobic.”

       “That’s alright,” I said, struggling for words. It seemed like so long since I had heard another human voice besides my own. “What was that about an offer?”

       “Right,” he said, “I can get you off this place if you give me that.” He pointed to the oracle.

       He might be lying. He might not be able to get me off the island. I can trust the oracle but I can’t necessarily trust him.

       “No,” I said.

       He pulled a pistol out of his jacket.

       “Step away, Paul,” he said. I did as I was told. He picked up the black box with the small keyboard built into it and started to walk away.

       “Thanks,” he said.

       “How do you know my name?” I asked. He didn’t answer, didn’t even look back. He just carried his gun and the box and walked into the ocean. The waves crashed against him. When the water reached his chest, he put the gun back in his jacket pocket and turned to wave at me. I waved back. Then he dove under the water and I haven’t seen him since.

~

       I still haven’t seen the man from yesterday. I’m starting to think that he was a hallucination and that an animal stole the oracle from me. It would make sense that I would begin to see things after being alone for so long. But if I were truly mad, I wouldn’t consider the possibility that I was mad. It’s all terribly confusing. I’ll never survive without the oracle. That black box was going to save my life. I think I can see a helicopter coming from in from the east.

Javier Mercury Ocho was born in a small Mexican village on the second day of April, 1971. His father, whose name he never knew, was killed in a drug war before Javier was even born. He would never be sure whether or not his father was on the side of the law or the drug lords. He lived with his mother, Natalia, who rented rooms out to travelers. The visitors were mostly spring-breakers on their way to a larger city on the east coast beaches.

One day when he was three years old, his mother was giving him a bath in the second floor bathroom. It wasn’t their personal bathroom, it was one of the guest bathrooms. Normally they would use their own but this room was empty and it happened to have the best bathroom in their small building. Natalia heard shouting and gunfire coming from outside their house. Unfortunately, it was a combination of noises she had heard all too often but it was still frightening each time. The drug wars often made their way to her neighborhood. She made every attempt to keep Javier calm, including staying calm herself. She leaned over the tub to shut the window and block out a little bit of the violent noises.

Just as the shooting began, a stray bullet hit Natalia in the temple, killing her instantly. The drug battle was over just as it had started. The remaining drug cartel, a group of five men, was not without some heart. They knew that somebody had accidentally shot this woman and they felt incredibly guilty. They had never meant for an innocent woman to get hurt. They decided that it would be best to bury her before they finished their marijuana delivery. Upon finding the bathroom she was in, they noticed the crying child in the tub.

“We can’t just leave him,” somebody said, “The kid’s all alone.”

“But we’re not in any position to raise a kid. We’re in the freaking drug business,” said another.

“We must compromise,” said their leader, Miguel Bandito, “We’ll raise him but we’ll do our best to keep him out of the business until we can find a new home for him.”

They all agreed that this was the best plan for little Javier. They buried Natalia and had a brief service. After that, Javier accompanied them on their delivery. They were taking a very large shipment of marijuana to the great city of Amsterdam. Along the way, the rough men became very fond of Javier. They all agreed to not smoke in front of him and they tried their best to avoid cursing. This was very difficult for them but they were all willing to make sacrifices for the child.

After they reached the Netherlands and successfully sold their weed, they knew it was time to find a good home for Javier and say goodbye. They dropped him off at St. Peter’s Orphanage. It was a tearful goodbye for everyone but they knew that it was for the best.

Javier was open to his new home but soon realized that it was not a good place. The ceiling leaked, there weren’t enough beds, and the food sucked. After two weeks of this hell, he knew that he had to leave. He snuck out through the window and into the night. The city was very scary for him and he felt like he just needed to be somewhere else. Taking a risk, he hopped into the trunk of a taxicab. The cab picked up a passenger and drove for hours, and hours. It stopped once or twice but he could tell from the scent that it was just for gas. Finally, he heard the passenger pay the driver and get out of the cab for good. Quickly, Javier snapped the trunk open from inside and hopped out. He didn’t know it at the time, but he was in Scotland.

After wandering the city for hours, he was picked up and taken to a much nicer orphanage. After a few years, he was enrolled in public school. He never did get adopted but that was all right with him. He cherished the memory of his mother and he enjoyed the company of so many other children at the orphanage.

This pattern continued all through high school until it came time for him to select a college. He knew that he had no money and he wasn’t very confident in his ability to get scholarships. It seemed that the army was his only option. Actually, he picked the navy because he had always wanted to learn how to swim.

In the navy, he learned how to swim and much, much more. He learned about the different types of boats and how they work. He also learned a lot about weapons. With his dedication and perseverance, he rose through the ranks like a helium balloon on a windy day. As an admiral, he was the leader of a submarine. The entire crew depended on his leadership skills and strategy. He and his crew fought in the Fourth Secret War against Japan. In fact, Scotland’s success in the war was largely attributed to Admiral Ocho. He enjoyed conquering the challenges that submarine warfare presented him.

On their way home after the end of the Fourth Secret War, he and his crew encountered a small cave that was not on their map. It seemed to have come from nowhere. They sent in three explorers, including the admiral himself. In full scuba gear and armed with harpoons, they entered the dark cave. Eventually, they came across a small, glowing sub shaped like a peanut. They heard static on their communication devices and then they heard a voice that was unfamiliar to them.

“Who dares enter the lair of the almighty Karang?” it said with bold confidence. The two soldiers looked at their captain.

“Admiral Ocho of the Scottish Navy and two members of his crew,” said the admiral, “we come in peace and exploration.”

“If you are from the navy than you are never in peace,” said the mysterious voice of Karang, “For your crimes against the peaceful creatures of planet Earth, you shall become like one of the many sea-dwellers disrupted by your aquatic war machine.”

A yellow-green beam of light shot out of the small submarine in the distance and hit Admiral Ocho before he could react. The admiral fell unconscious.

When he awoke, Javier discovered that he was a pink octopus. He was no longer anywhere near the mysterious cave. His comrades were nowhere to be seen. He could never be sure if they escaped or if they too were turned into octopi. As for the rest of his submarine, he was equally clueless about their fate.

Admiral Ocho now prowls the sea searching for the mysterious cave or Karang and his small glowing submarine. His taste for revenge is strong but the grip of his tentacles is even stronger.