Stance and his new best friend, Crapton, were walking to the park. Or more precisely, Stance was pulling Crapton, a sardine with an above average IQ score, inside a wagon. Crapton was enjoying the scenery of urban decay from the comfort of a luxurious aquarium, which was equipped with a kitchen and an exercise room. While Stance was dodging various social undesirables, Crapton was lifting weights and running on the treadmill.
During their journey, a linguist named Syme became offended that Stance had the sardine imprisoned inside an aquarium, so he decided to voice his opinion in hopes of creating radical social change.
“It makes me madder than a pack of feral arsonists that you won’t allow your sardine the privilege of walking to wherever it is you’re going,” said Syme. He was dressed in a bicycle helmet and a pair of extremely tight black jeans, both of which were cutting off the flow of blood to various parts of his doughy body.
“His sardine?” Crapton responded. “Listen here, poo-poo pants—I’m my own person. And in addition, I don’t have lungs, so I’m currently incapable of walking in the open air. If I was snatched from this aquarium, all I would do is flop around for a couple minutes on the sidewalk and then I would die. Are you saying you want me killed?”
“In a roundabout way, I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Syme. “My moral outrage is merely a means for disguising my desire to wreak havoc upon the populace with zero regard as to why I would be hired to do such a thing in the first place. My activism on behalf of you fish isn’t really motivated by love for creatures of the sea; it’s merely a front for my hatred of humanity. That being said, I would experience extreme visceral pleasure from watching you gasp for the aquatic breath of life.”
“Listen here, pal,” said Stance. “We’re just trying to take a walk. I have no interest in the motivation behind your pathos. It’s narcissistic and it’s boring. What say you, Mr. Crapton?”
“I just want to enjoy the day while the opportunity still exists,” said Crapton. “I don’t understand why this busted can of biscuits feels the need to spread his misery to others. Why can’t you wallow in solitude?”
“I’m being paid to bring my show on the road,” said Syme. “Maybe the melding of private and public financing into one homogeneous glob of goo isn’t the worst thing in the world. Do you know what the fox says?”
“What does the fox say?” asked Stance, annoyed with the conversation.
“The fox says that everyone is a crisis actor, even if their actions are completely sincere and they don’t receive a paycheck.”
“That’s quite a cynical perspective,” said Stance, rolling his eyes.
“If you knew how low my price was, you’d be appalled,” said Syme, a look of contemptuous pride covering his asymmetrical face.
“I don’t think the fox said that at all,” said Crapton. “I think you’re trying to slander his good name.”
“It’s one of the responsibilities of my job,” said Syme. “There’s no reason to be offended—it’s just business.”
“I’m not offended,” said Crapton. “I’m annoyed. I find you annoying. I don’t understand why a grown man would leave his home with so many pulsating whiteheads dotting his moronic face.”
“If I pop them, all that plasma will go to waste,” said the Syme. “I rather enjoy smothering my french fries in whitehead slime. It’s a healthy alternative to ketchup, which is usually filled with GMOs and other forms of biological yuck.”
“You’re a form of biological yuck,” said Crapton, going for the jugular.
“Good one,” said Stance.
Crapton blew bubbles in the aquarium water to indicate he was pleased that Stance had enjoyed his insult. Steam began blowing out of Syme’s ears.
“You’re lucky that the agency ghouls forgot to deliver my pallet of bricks, because I feel like shattering your home into a trillion pieces.”
“If you touch his aquarium, I’m going to pop all your whiteheads and fill the craters with robot sweat,” Stance warned.
“My significant other is a robot, so your threat fails to fill me with fear,” said Syme. “In addition, I find the notion of you having robot sweat on hand to be highly dubious.”
Stance retrieved a vial from the front pocket of his flannel jacket, unscrewed its cap, and tossed a few drops of content into Syme’s eye. Upon making contact, the substance began insinuating itself into Syme’s biochemical equation, quickly seizing control of his animating process.
“I no longer have agency over where I go,” Syme whined. His new puppetmaster began extending his arms toward the sun.
“Raise the roof!” Crapton bubbled.
“The sun is hot,” said Syme, his arms now tearing from their sockets.
“This is getting a bit gruesome,” said Stance, his stomach becoming queazy.
The puppetmaster restored Syme’s arms into their sockets and doused the wounds in eucalyptus oil. Stance handed Syme a pill which would help dissipate the potency of the robot sweat, which he swallowed without inquiry.
“I think I’m going to ask my boss for a raise,” said Syme.
“What you need to do is stop consuming so many energy drinks,” said Crapton. “That’s the reason your face is so dishevelled with acne.”
“Stop making fun of my zits!” said Syme. He fell to the sidewalk and began to bawl.
“This guy needs his blankie and a binkie,” said Stance. “Should we stay here until he regains his composure?”
“I want to watch the eclipse at the park,” said Crapton. “This guy can take care of himself—technically, he’s a grown man.”
His gaze temporarily fixated upon this weeping willow, Stance became perplexed by the fact that this character’s actions had an existence within the parameters of objective reality—three moronic dimensions of crystallized sausage gravy, plus the ability of movement provided by the slightly more ethereal concept of linear time. Apparently, this was all happening. All he could do was look on in abject horror.
“Yeah, we need to get out of here,” said Stance, bracing himself for whatever stupid bullshit was about to happen next.