Episode 3

Episode 3: Spiderclam and the Crabsharks

The dark canopy of a beautiful summer night stretced before Fisherman as he lay on his back on the sands of Fishingtown beach, his arms stretched up and hands clasped behind his head for support. This far from the bulk of the light put forth by the city the cloudless night revealed the stars to their full extent, each occasionally blinking out for a nanosecond as some unknown distant object far in space and time occluded the journey of their rays into Fishermans eyes. A rogue light broke from the group and streaked earthward, splitting into two seperate lights as it neared the surface of the planet.

"What the hell ARE you?" briefly flashed through Fishermans mind, but was soon displaced by the tranquility of the scene.

Soon after tranquility was re-established, it was broken again by the sound of a disturbance in the sound over to Fishermans left. He rotated his head to take a glance in that direction but all he could see was the usual detritus found on most any sandy beach. Cuttlefish bones, clam shells, shark eggs, driftwod, discarded needles and the like. Thinking perhaps his perception of sound had somehow been inverted without his noticing, Fisherman rotated his head 180 degrees. Obviously rotating it clockwise, if viewed toward the top of his head. 180 degrees counterclockwise that way would be impossible for any humaoid creature with a spine such as his. However the view to the right was pretty much identical to that of the view on his left, save for the Vader standing knee deep in the water collecting a jug of salty sea-water.

Concluding that his intial belief that the sand disturbance was on his left was correct, Fisherman once again rotated his head to look to his left. It all once again seemed clear. Certain that he had not imagined the sand rustle he turned his head to look back up at the stars but slyly turned his eyes to keep a good peripheral view on his left. The sand-shuffle sound came again as the suspiciously large clam shell he had overlooked began to move. It opened slowly around its circumference as eight thin legs cautiously poked their way out and gently steadied themselves on the sand. They pushed and lifted the bulk of the shell up until it was standing legthways upright, tottering unevenly on it's spindly legs.

Fisherman snapped his head a full 90 degrees to his left once more and cried out in victory, "Caught ya', ye wee little BAHSTERD!"

He had never fully recovered from his bout of Irish and suffered from occasional relapses.
The eight legged creature leapt in surprise, or shock. It's hard to tell when all you have to go by is legs and a clamshell. A sound like a man blowing over the top of a half empty beer bottle came issued out which in turn made Fisherman let out a similar shocked sound through his pipe, which in turn made a second sound issue forth from the clamshell but this time it was a bit closer in tenor to the sound that Fishermans pipe had emitted.

The clamshell creature stood stock still, as did Fisherman. He wasn't sure what he was dealing with, and in such situations he found it best not to make any sudden moves. He'd learned this the hard way, on his first encounter with Sergeant Starfish. After a few tense moments Fisherman let another 'toot' from his pipe, this one dipped down low in the middle and came to a pleasent crescedo. The clam creature mimiced the sound.

"A chill wind be blowing me nipples...", Fisherman ground out between his clenched teeth, "...and I be needing me a good feed."

He eyed off the clam creature, and his stomach gurgled.

THE PUB

A good hearty fisheye stew in his belly, Fisherman sat across the table from the inedible Spiderclam. Fishman was seated on his left and the seat on the right was empty because Jim Jub was interstate at a conference and Ronald Chocaber was in water somewhere. Between the two of them, Fisherman and Fishman had managed to train Spiderclam to whistle out something resembling English and it was now using these words it had just recently learned to string together suspiciously fluent full sentences. Spiderclam was relating to them the his tale of how he came to be on the run from the Crabsharks and washed up on Fishingtown shore.

"So I came to wear this clamshell as a disguise", Spiderclam whistled out in his pitch-perfect tenor, "in order to have a convenient means of disguise and protection. The Crabsharks are mean dudes and they're out to get me man!"

"Makes sense, chap." piped up Fishman although in his head he was thinking with his brain that something seemed off. The Crabsharks he knew from his time in the sea could be brutal, yes, but always acted for a just cause. That previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...

(CRAIG!... I THOUGHT IT WAS FISHMAN, NOT FISHERMAN THAT USED TO BE A FULLTIME FISH....?????) (I have no idea what you're talking about, crazy woman.)

"Yarrr not a worry ye shell-lubber. Ye be alright by my keelhaul.", but Fisherman had his doubts too. Fisherman knew for a fact that he did not even resemble a Crabshark, not even in the dark. He knew this because he often looked at himself in the mirror in the dark and he resembled a kumquat. So why then had Spiderclam been avoiding him?

Both of these thought processes were interrupted by the sound of a boot kicking in the door to the pub. It was Reece. Reece had a shaved head and a goatee and becase of this he liked to fight. He backed up this statement by shouting at the top of his lungs.

"OI!" Reece tilted his head back and rolled his eyes forward, and swept his gaze across the pub. Once he had surveyed the whole pub he brought his gaze back the opposite way, this time meeting each and every persons gaze, "Any of youse BELLENDS want to FIGHT?"

Fully expecting no response from anyone, Reece had come prepared to start a fight the traditional way. He had brought his fighting fists, and his Scottish handshake.

Embarassingly he had only brought one of his fighting feet, or else he would have double kicked the door down. Placing a firm grasp on the nearest bellends shirt collar Reece introduced him to his Scottsh handshake. Everyone present knew the correct response to this.

Simultaneously, one person at each table stood bolt upright and flipped their table while anyone seated with them slid off their stool (or chair, the pub was very accomodating to all lifestyles) and brandished it above their heads menacingly as they charged at the table to their left. Everyone did a fight and it was heaps good. Once the good fight had subsided and all the splinters had been cleared from the floor so no one injured themselves on them because they'd really sting and they might need to see a doctor to get them removed from their bodies with tweezers (the local doctor was known for being very gentle, but that's for another story), Fisherman and Fishman took a look around and realised Spiderclam wasn't anywhere to be found.

Naturally they assumed someone had punched him so hard that he had disintergrated or been sent back in time, like Jesus.

So it came as a surprise to them whern they left the establishment to see a ring of menacing Crabsharks circling Spiderclam on the street, pinching their claws and darting in and out to attack. Spiderclam seemed a little worried. Or excited? Hard to tell, he is a Spiderclam. Fishman decided to go in to negotiate, since Fisherman would probably end up trying to fight or eat everyone present.

"I do say chaps. I do say. I say I say. Eye say! Chaps! Who on earth thinks wearing chaps is fashionable? Cowbys, I'm told, although I've never met one to prove or disprove the fact. I once met a Viking Farmer. He found it very hard to live with himself, always pillaging his own land. Last I saw he had signed up for the space navy an-" Fishmans tirade of entirely relevent prose was rudely interrupted when a Crabshark whirled round and snapped his claws a fins distance in front of Fishmans face.

"Back off son, lessin' I go full pinecone on your tail. We be dolin' out some seven seas JUSTICE to this franger head."

"But may I enquire as to why, good sirs? This clam seems most unusual to be sure but he hardly seems to be threatening. Timid, perhaps cowardly yes. But not thre-" and once again Fishman was cut short.

"MAAAAAN. DUDE. This clambake 'aint no to be doing with friends, and iffin' you see what he be chaffing in behind his grill opened WIDE you'd not even know to wanting to make to want the KISS." and with that, the Crabshark threw up the a gang sign as best he could with a claw.

"He isn't a Spideclam? Pray tell, what is he then my friend! In something a bit closer to English if you can manage, please."

With the most ominous expression that can be mustered when you have the face of a shark, the Crabshark spokesmen spoke only one word. In fact, not one word. One name. He spoke one name, "Plume Beard."

With a huge puff and splutter Fisherman sprang to life, "Plume Beard! You wee BAHSTERD, that be why ye' be sneakin' away when ye' recognise me! Didn't recognise ya though, hidden as ye' be in a clamshell and speaking only in Beerbottle Blues!"

Spiderclams shell began to open wider to reveal Plume Beard hidden within. He was a man wizened beyond his years by sun and surf, a full beard of feathery plumes sprouting from his chin hiding his disproportionately small body. A beer bottle poked out of his beard and sat near his mouth. Presumably he had some mechanism to operate the spider legs hidden in there, or he had them surgically attached.

"Fisherman...", ground out Plume Beard in a voice that sounded like boulders tumbling down a waterwheel. In the dark. "...long time, soft lamb."

As rage overtook Fisherman Reece exited the pub, "OI!" he screamed across the street. He'd sensed another bald, bearded man nearby. Spotting Plume Beard he launched himsef across the street with a roar of "Would you like some POUND CAKE?"

The street erupted in to chaos. Half of the Crabsharks pivoted to engage prevent Reece from reaching Plume Beard while the other half tried to close ranks around him to stop him from fleeing again. Fisherman lost his cool and began a charge at Plume Beard as well, and so the Crabsharks split in half once again in order to contain the threats. Seeing his only chance to escape from this unmolested by claws, Plume Beard burst his clamshell open to reveal each half was attached to one of his stubby arms. Bracing his right arm and holding it in front of him like a shield he charged directly toward one of the Crabsharks surrounding him. It braced to take his assault, rightfully confident that he could stop the puny man. He would have too, if Plume Beard had not darted around the bulk of the Crabshark, deflecting it's huge claw with his clamshield.

Restrained by a handful of Crabsharks, Fisherman watched on and howled in fury as his long time nemesis broke free from the ring of Crabsharks. Sensing the rage building in their captives body the Crabsharks turned to see what had upset him so much. Realising their quarry had escaped, they released Fisherman and the lot of them set off down the street after Plume Beard.

Eight spindly legs furiously peddling away beneath him, Plume Beard cackled with glee as he began to break frmo the pack and pump his arms.wildly. Pipe puffing wildly Fisherman steamed ahead through the lagging Crabsharks and began to close the distance to Plume Beard. He was running on pure rage alone, now. Glancing back to find Fisherman inching closer to him Plume Beard bunched his leg muscles and leapt skyward, arms now pumping so hard that the clamshells were just a blur. Knowing his sturdy sea legs wouldn't be able to launch him high enough to catch Plume Beard, Fisherman slowed himself down and came to a stop. Falling to his knees in exhaustion he sucked in a massive breath of air and screamed at the top of hos lungs "PLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUME!"


----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------


Jim Jub pushed open the door to the Pub and took a look around. Piles of rubble had been swept to the corners of the room and what remained of the furniture had been set out as best as the management could handle. The usual assortment of Fishingtown citizenry had gathered here for the evening, although more than usual were left standing. Among those seated, however, were a large group of Crabsharks accompanied by Fisherman and Fishman. They all bore somber looks apon their brows.

Adjusting his heavy duffle bag to sit more comfortably on his shoulder, Jim Jub approached his friends. Seeing him come nearer, the Crabsharks tensed but were quickly reassured by Fisherman and Fishman.

Using his extensive deductive and conclusionary skills, Jim Jub had come to the conclusive deduction that something was wrong, so he went ahead and asked them, "What's got these Crasharks so spooked?"

"Plume Beard was in town. He escaped.", explained Fisherman.

"Who is Plume Beard?" enquired Jim Jub.

"He is..." Fisherman furrowed his bushy brows and breathed deeply, "...definately not a thing that he isn't not being, or having ever been, but possibly would have one day been given the chance under the correct circumstances that have not yet and may never yet occur to his being."

Jim Jub did a somersault and turned in to an Aztec jaguar warrior, and everyone happily clapped their hands, or claws.



   THE END