It happened on a pitch black, bitterly cold night where the rain was so hard, it looked like lace in the sky making random vulgar patterns in front of the moon which, despite efforts to the contrary, could not reflect any light from the hidden sun onto the doomed planet. “Why was the sun hidden?” you may ask. Some may say that the sun was cowering in fright from the predetermined horrors, half-salivating in tortured anticipation of the forthcoming events. Others say that it was night-time and the sun was shining on the other side of the world, stupid. I don’t pretend to know who was right, wrong or a natural blonde, but I do know this – you shouldn’t make gravy from random shovels of silt and mud, no matter how dry your vegetables are.
Just as the clock struck Fourteen O’clock (the strangely named Irishman understandably struck the clock back several times whilst their screaming friends called the police) the surface water of the Atlantic Ocean began to bubble and boil and, onto the shores of Ilfracombe, Devon, England, all of the fish, one-by-one, started to drag themselves out of the sea, clutching weaponry… anything they could salvage and adapt from the sea. The fish, of all colours, shapes and size were a frightening sight – tattooed and merciless. It was evident this was an act of aggression, a statement of pure evil intent, as they swarmed all over the North Devon coast, like acne on a teenager.
The post office was the first building to fall to the fish. Mr. Groggins, the sub-postmaster awoke to find a halibut with a harpoon tying him to the bed whilst a rather attractive tuna was taking the keys to the safe from his jacket pocket. He screamed in horror as he saw his wife flailing, pounding the bed, suffocating whilst a shivering jellyfish smothered her face. It was clear that the fish meant business – as they used the money from the post office to buy stocks and shares online in the internet cafe. Nowhere was safe from the piscine plunderers – people were rounded up by shoals of cod and forced into the aquarium so that the fish could watch them swim round and round for their own amusement. The fish and chip shop was turned into a human and chip shop where a team of enterprising herring battered & deep-fried the more tender of the town, served them with freshly made chips and sold them to the carnivorous sharks for a tidy profit.
What did the police and army do about this? Bugger all, if you must ask. It wasn’t London, so they didn’t care. The fish still have Ilfracombe to this day and, apart from the smell, most of the holidaymakers don’t seem to notice. The fish, so entranced by capitalism, now welcome humans into their town in the summer months and they take their money, rather than their lives. Most of the time. How do I know this, you may ask. Well, it’s simple. I’m an interplanetary being with unlimited powers, but misuse them by cheating at Blackjack.