“You can run, but you can’t hide,” sayeth Jameson while he drags his net through the brackish waters of the Floridian estuary, hoping to catch a whole manatee. You see, if he had a whole manatee, he wouldn’t have to crawl through the back aisles of Publix, sticking eggs into his denim, studded fanny pack. It is like a blue and gold goiter bulging from his mons pubis, packed tightly (but gingerly) with the XL ovum of super-chickens. No one’s ever caught him on these pathetic burglary sprees, but it’s mostly because the fanny pack is so suspicious that it crosses the spectrum entirely and winds up back on the other side, like a humiliating Pac Man game. un-suspicious.
He has never been a good liar, and acts almost too conspicuous while opening up cartons and surveying the long and wide back-aisle of the market. His nerves start in his stomach and vomit their way into his esophagus, where they find light in the form of sad little words like, “Boy, another broken egg in here?! I can’t catch a break!” He makes sure that there is an employee around him when he says it. Usually, the stock boy doesn’t even acknowledge his existence — they probably assume that he’s about to shoot the place up and decide that now, more than ever, is the time to find a different job.
But those are the eggs. Now, there is a manatee. He sees the creek-bound log floating aimlessly, no doubt being consumed by microscopic carnivores. The net brushes lightly across the sea cow’s face, tickling it’s lard-ridden cheek. It turns over and looks up at Jameson and wrenches its fat face into a peaceful smile. Jameson would think the thing was mocking him if he didn’t know, for sure, that this was the smile an aquatic Buddha.
The manatee meanders away, performing some incredible feats for a creature of its size. It does a few barrel rolls, starting a vortex in the water around it. Then it turns back around and shoots at least 18 feet out of the water, performing a flawless 720 degree turn before landing back on the surface of the water, it’s algal flippers floating just above the surface. It stands like people, staring in the boat, and begins to perform the most sensual display that Jameson has ever seen. It moves left and right, rubbing it’s enlarged nipples with rotor-bitten flippers. It blows several kisses at Jameson, who catches them, one by one, and sticks them deep into his throat — as far down as he can get his hand.
Jameson is so smitten that he jumps into the brackish piss of backwoods Florida with his new lover, hoping to impress it with his show of bravery in these crocodile infested waters.
The manatee is entirely unimpressed, crossing its flippers across its chest and dipping away behind the forest of kelp. Jameson crumples, crying his own salt into the water, when he sees the creature emerge from the mud beneath him. In its flippers is a sledgehammer, which it uses to punch three massive holes into Jameson’s pontoon with the speed of a slightly overweight velociraptor. Jameson knows what is happening. He has read about something like this in TV Guide. This manatee will attempt to seal him in a pot at the bottom of the ocean and use him as a sex slave and biological calculator until he finally runs out of strength and is sacrificed to the god of pond skippers, Ikthalior.
In order to spare himself that horrible fate, Jameson shoves his hand deep, deep, deep into the canal of his rectum. The manatee makes its way toward Jameson lazily, as if it knows there is no chance for him to escape. Jameson reaches his liver and grips it with white knuckles, hoping to squeeze out some toxins into his blood stream where they’ll cause a relatively quick death. It does not work, so Jameson tries to go higher up, heading for the pancreas and, if he could just get there, his heart. He doesn’t even realize, nor cares about, the fact that he’s breathing under water. He has no time, dammit.
He can’t go any further, and moves erratically with his hand in his ass in order to snap his elbow and dislocate his shoulder, giving him some more leeway and slack for this improvised suicide. But it is too late. The manatee approaches him, somehow having already acquired its special oxygen pot, and locks Jameson inside in an instant. He takes in a big suck of air while he sinks to the bottom of the lake, surely headed to some kind of chubby Atlantis where he’ll no doubt be fucked raw and told to do basic times tables until he cries himself to death.