A Piscatorial Tale
He was a whippoorwill, a will of the wisp, a wisp of the wind, held back only by his odd rocking gate, caused by a bunion the size of a grape. Despite it all, he fancied himself a prize catch, a galleycat, a real ladies man.
His other flaws, if he were to list them: a terrapin-like beak of a nose, a turtlish coloring, and fishy breath. And yet he persisted, this fishy-man with his sealish walk, his green eyes. If there is love, then love will be his, and she comes to him in the form of a sharkish librarian full of snark, razor sharp wit and long, lonely nights.
He approaches her cooingly with the words, "Drop everything and give me ten...books," a quick flick of his turtle tongue.
Not usually at a loss for words, the sharkish snark finds herself relying on bad '80s sitcom dialogue. Her response, "Your mother wears Army boots." She circles one black eye on the turtle man, and like the killer Orca at Ocean world, in his rasp she hears the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. She trembles at the fish smell of him, at the spell cast by his green eyes. As she leans into him, a pile of returned books topples off the counter and an avalanche of misplaced verbiage lands square on the fish man's bunion.
"!Bat Segundo!" he cries, and his spell is complete, for who else could know our snarky librarian also has a passion for all things vampire. Her Anne Rice to his Jacques Cousteau, they gaze and admire, banter and sigh, two lost hearts recognizing in each other the missing piece.
All that is left is for them to walk off into the sunset, two prickly souls smoothed by love, transformed and reborn in each others eyes, now a pair of purebreds, bluebloods, promenading poodles circling each other into the happily-ever-after.
Miss Snark has seen hell, and it's a man with fish breath taking Mr. Clooney's rightful place in the sunset perambulations. "Misplaced verbiage" is perfect however!
Scoring to come.