Tales from the Deep – In the Paradise of Pangasius

August 2067. Shaz and Lazor have finally opened their own fishmonger's store, The Paradise of Pangasius, creating a pocket of stability in their troubled lives.

A loud voice filled the air, singing pop-songs by an artificial performer in a deep, almost bass tune that clashed with the lyrics and yet wasn’t totally unpleasant. Said voice belonged to a massive mountain of a sharkman, with huge biceps, moving crates filled to the brim with ice and fresh fish, placing them where they belonged to, where the price tag with their species name was. Mackerel here, pollock there, seabass near them and whiting as the cherry on the top. No dogfish, though. That was a bit too much for a sharkman. Eating fish species didn’t feel like cannibalism or anything – after all, sharks were carnivorous predators, but dogfish were just close enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Well, even without them, there was a good variety for his prospective customers of the day. He gazed at the wall clock. Seven AM. He puffed out his chest, with a smile of dumb pride. Old, alcoholic, homeless bum Shaz would have never been able to wake up so early in the morning and – if he did – he would have fallen asleep immediately after. New, sober and hard-working Shaz, though… that was his daily bread. And he loved it, every second of it, loved seeing how far his rehab had gone. It had been six months without touching a drop of alcohol. Six long months, after he decided to turn his life upside down. He looked at himself in the mirror, at his custom apron with a smiling catfish printed on it. They didn’t have catfish and definitely didn’t sell pangasius – that came from way to far to be sold fresh in UK – but that didn’t stop him and Lazor to choose it as their mascot. It had been a fiery battle, with him pushing for a shark (unsurprisingly) and his business partner pushing for a piranha (of course), so compromises had to be reached, lest their punches settled the score. Pan the Pangasius was that compromise, their store’s mascot, proudly designed by a local artist from Kia Takara’s circle of friends – a weird French pal with dark skin and curly hair who always walked around with a sphinx cat on his shoulder. Said sphinx cat had an eyepatch too, to add to the weirdness of that situation, but of course Shaz couldn’t expect one of Vince’s acquaintances to be normal. Yet, normal or not, artists needed to be paid, and Vince had taken care of that as a good luck gift to his long time pal’s first commercial activity. Which was also the reason why Pan the Pangasius was wearing a yellow hat. That was something Shaz had asked the artist to add – he wanted to be reminded of Vince’s support every time he opened shop in the morning.

“Where should I put this octopus?”

Hearing that voice coming from behind him, Shaz turned around. It was a boastful voice, loud, clear, an orchestral brass ensemble in human form. That voice belonged to no other than a red-skinned piranhaman, with biceps and triceps bigger than his, exaggerate pecs and abs, hypertrophic thighs and calves. He was wearing Shaz’s very same outfit, with Pan the Pangasius smiling on his apron too. Shaz stared at him, at that flat-faced pal of his with yellow sclerae, thin pupils, just a hint of nose and a mouth filled with small, sharp teeth. That pal was Lazor Loyra, former muscle of the Fishface Syndicate, then bounty hunter for a short time and now proud fishmonger. Part time nuisance, part time asset, full time idiot. Yet, that idiot was the only one crazy enough to open shop with someone like him.

“The octopus, yes… huh, place it riiiiight near the mackerel! Make it look good – not like last time, aye, fella?”

“But ribbons are cute!”

“Not when made with knotted dead octopus tentacles, Laz!”

At that remark, Lazor massaged his chin, as if lost in thought, before yelling at full volume.

“Ah, that was the problem? Don’t worry, pal, because LAZOR LOYRA never makes the same mistake twice!”

The boastful way he said his own name made Shaz flinch. Despite having worked with him for a sizable amount of time, he was still not accustomed to him talking of himself in third person, almost like a dumb wrestler. And, yet, despite his assurance, Shaz couldn’t feel comfortable. He had half an idea of what his business partner might have been thinking – but half was enough. He was a simple organism, after all, one with very flawed logic connections.

“‘Bout that, Laz… whatch’I mean is that ya shouldn’t make ribbons out of octopi. Not even alive ones.”

“Oh.”

“And, no, no ribbons out of morays or eels either, ‘kay?”

“Oh. ”

He stood in silence, with the octopus still in his hands.

“S… since when can you read minds? That’s hella scary.”

Shaz rolled his eyes. Truly a simple organism. One neuron, constantly bouncing between his hypertrophic biceps. Up to a great start, weren’t they? Yet, despite being so dense, Lazor was the best pal he could have asked for. Hard-working, larger-than-life, always eager to talk with customers and to punch out those that complained too much. Admittedly, that last point might have been a problem with law enforcement, but so far nobody had sued them. Shaz stepped out in the street, put out the usual stand with the daily offers and prices, watching the city wake up. The Paradise of Pangasius wasn’t located on a crowded main artery, but there was still a lot of passage, even so early in the morning. He inhaled the air of a new day, among the pastel-colored low buildings, stepping on the tiled pavement with a sense of fulfillment. Their neighboring greengrocer waved her hand at him, while still trying to suppress a yawn. Shaz nodded, answered in the same way.

“Mornin’ Ms. Brewster! Hafta say ya look a li’l bit sleepy!”

Ms. Brewster was a woman in her forties who loved her job and didn’t seem to mind opening store so early, but that time it seemed like she could use a couple hours of rest – or a family-sized pint of coffee.

“Those damn young buggers had a rave party near my house. I hope the police beat them up good! Say, would you like to be woken up by a robotic voice singin’ godforsaken stuff such as buttplugs for sheeple at full volume under your windo’? I bet you wouldn’t.”

Oh, of course it was them Inabutts – fans of that foul-mouthed artificial bunny singer that loved to dab on stage and make sexual innuendos out of anything. Shaz despised her almost as much as her songs. She reminded him of quite a nightmarish robotic fellow, somehow – one that tried to make him fall from a runaway train, no less. No, in the feud between artificial pop-stars, he knew where his allegiance lied. Combat Idle MIRAI Nanami had won his heart and was leagues better than that bawdy excuse of a rabbit-shaped answering machine. For starters, she looked human and not a mess of low quality metal plates. More importantly, her songs didn’t contain any obscenity whatsoever. They were wholesome, sometimes aggressive, but never ever scurrilous.

“Yeah! I’d have thrown a jug full o’piss at ‘em! Inabutts can suck it!”

“Right? Next time, I’ll do that! Still, a good day to you Mr. Aliart!”

As she went back into her freshly opened store, placing wooden stands loaded with peaches and other seasonal fruit, Shaz’s eyes wandered once more on the street. The baker was already open since some time, after a whole night of – well, baking. He didn’t envy the fella, but he was always pretty nice with him and Lazor. The local undertaker, though, Ms. Crawford or whatever she was called, was still a little bit suspicious of them. Mutants were a though sell, especially to more close-minded people.

You can’t win them all, Shaz.

That had become his own mantra.

You can’t win them all.

Herds of sleepy students were also strolling down the streets, walking at snail pace to reach the nearest Tube station. Shaz recognized some of them due to habit, even if he had never spoken a single word with them. Some simply avoided looking into his direction – he still was a fish mutant, after all – but most did, either in awe or due to simple curiosity. He had noticed some female students eyeing Lazor every time they went down the road, making rounds again in the afternoon or evening, to catch a glimpse of his absurdly well-toned body. Well, tough luck. Lazor wasn’t into human chicks and already had a sort of affair anyway, if so could be called. Which made things rather ugly, at times, as they were flatmates. New Langdon rents weren’t cheap, so, for the sake of their mutual benefit, they had elected to spare some cash by finding a place together. It was small, relatively dirty and without good sound insulation, but it was cheap and located right above their store. Water worked almost every day and heating was fine, aside from a couple monthly hiccups. Sound insulation, though, was truly the toughest problem to deal with: They could basically hear their neighbors arguing with each other every day. That was a circumstance where being a scary great white helped a huge deal: Just by showing up at their door at 3AM to complain, he could see blood draining from their face, making his nights suddenly very quiet. It worked quite well, he needed to do that just a couple times, before the bickering ended. Yet, his tranquillity was not safe from his own flatmate’s antics: Every single time Lazor’s paramour stepped over, Shaz had to endure several minutes of Lazor’s loud voice screaming stuff like SUPREME DIAMOND CRUSHER and RISING DIAMOND, as those two danced with each other in the biblical sense of the term. During those nights, Shaz supremely regretted not having bought better earplugs. He had been tempted to ask Vince for asylum, but he didn’t want to sleep on his couch only to find out that Kia and he were equally loud. That was something better left unknown.

“Alright, Shaz. All’s set, octopus and all. LAZOR LOYRA was successful in his quest!”

“Good job, pal.”

Shaz patted his back, his hand almost bouncing on Lazor’s hardened shoulder muscles, as if he had hit a rocky wall. Despite knowing him for so long, he was still surprised by how sturdy that delusional piranha mutant was. He found himself smiling a little, as memories of the moment that changed their lives flew back through his mind. Memories of a night spent in a dilapidated pub, on the other side of the city, right in the middle of the red light district. The Lighthouse was its name, a small venue standing between a brothel and a night club. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t that kind of place. People there were legitimately coming for a drink – the worst, motor-oil tasting whiskey in the city, and yet a drink – after having tasted the sweetness, the sadness and the decay of a warm hug paid with crumpled bills. Some went there to mourn, some to forget, some to get over a partner who dumped them. Many professional sex workers stopped by to drink something after their shift and seemed to be regulars. Most of them were women, but there were also some men and at least one mutant, though Shaz hadn’t seen him regularly and they weren’t on speaking terms. That night, at The Lighthouse, Lazor was a miserable sight for Shaz’s eyes. Deep black eye bags, bruises and cuts everywhere on his red skin, his golden battle armor cracked and battered in several spots, his arms still aching. He was already in that state, when he had showed up in front of Shaz’s flat, broken and thrashed by who knows what. Shaz could have left him out there in the cold, but his compassion had the best of him and let him tag along. He didn’t seem to need medical help – if anything, his ego was what had been wrecked – so, he decided to invite him to The Lighthouse, which was conveniently just a couple hundred meters far from his living place.

“I’ve messed it up, Shaz. I’ve messed it up completely.”

His golden gauntlets were still emitting small sparks at irregular intervals – too weak to activate a repulsion field, but still not completely harmless. Shaz sat there in silence, donning his usual brown jacket, pink tank top and ripped jeans fit, sipping his soda while keeping an eye on his long-time pal. The barman, a wide, black man with short hair and mustache who responded to the name of Lee Carter, was staring at them too, still pondering about the first time the shark guy ordered a soda instead of his usual double beer with added whiskey (good ol’ Joe Jamboli quitting alcohol overnight? Nonsense!) but didn’t inquire further. Joe was a regular and, despite being, well, a sharkman, was very well behaved and moderately considerate – especially now that he had stopped drinking. Yet, that pal of his, that wreck of a sorry fishman gulping down glass after glass of the cheapest beer he could find on the menu, was not someone he had seen around before. The fact that he was calling Joe ‘ Shaz’ might have meant something, but he couldn’t really say what. After all, peering into his customers’ business was not his business. The Lighthouse was a gathering place for people of all walks of life, people who had one thing in common: Living on the lower rung of society, but keeping on going, following the beacon shining at the end of their personal tunnel. That was also Lee’s personal story, that of the waiters, of the kitchen personnel, of the sex workers amiably chatting at the counter after one rough night. Among those patrons, Shaz and Lazor were not outliers – they were the norm. Yet, Lazor seemed to have lost sight of his light, Shaz noticed. The sharkman felt like he had to do something for him, become his Vincent Jackson even only once, maybe helping him turn over a new leaf.

“Relax, Lazor. Deeeeep breaths. What happened? Tell good ol’uncle Shaz.”

Lazor had a good look at him, at that muscular body that used to be so slim and delicate.

“I can’t believe you are the same Underwater I used to know.”

“I do be that fella. Just stopped usin’ that name, felt cheeky. Now it’s Shaz. Or Chazz. Or Gaetano. Or Joe. Choose one and stick to it, pal, Imma not picky. Just not… Chad Harder, awright? That one is off-limits!”

Shaz gulped down some soda, under the low lights of the pub. Soft music was weaving through the fabric of the venue, some sort of pop song from some unknown artist. Shaz didn’t really care about it, but it really felt like elevator music with a disturbingly monotone text-to-speech voice on top of it. He stopped listening as the voice reached the first refrain, something about murder of innocent children. He shook his head at how tasteless that sounded, but noticed several patrons singing along. Of course, Lazor wasn’t among them. He looked like he was on the verge of breaking down in tears, instead.

“It happened that I tried to hunt the wrong mark. That’s what happened.”

“Oh, right. Weren’tcha bounty huntin’ or somethin’?”

“Since the moment I left the Syndicate, yes. An odd job here, an odd job there, you know how it goes. And now, this big fat mafia bozo hires me to rough up this weird guy, here in New Langdon.

Something something a hound of Yard, or at least I think so.”

Shaz’s hand froze around the bottle. Somehow, some of his neurons had the feeling he already knew how the story was going to end. He instinctively prepared for the follow-up.

“So, I track down this human fella with a German name, I blast my blazes up, make my triumphant entrance…”

He deflated on the table, letting his forehead crash on the wooden surface.

“… and before I can even lift my arm, I’m already on the ground. With both of my arms twisted behind my back. I swear, I’ve literally been squashed around like a ping pong ball. I dunno what happened, just that one second before, I was tellin’ my name, one second later I was eating dirt and kissing his boots.”

It was at that point that Shaz’s palm met his own forehead, as he started shaking his head.

“The fella had a German name.”

“Huh-huh.”

“Did he by chance wear a leather jacket with golden studs shaped line ones? I mean, the number one.”

“… now that you mention it… yes?”

“And did ya see him surrounded by, like, blue sparks that vaguely looked like a lion?”

Lazor blinked, raised his gaze to meet Shaz’s, in an evident state of confusion.

“How do you…”

Shaz rolled his eyes, sank into his chair.

“Oh, for Go’s sake… Lazor.”

“Yes?”

“Didcha really never hear of EiN or detective Kristhhoffer? Like, really? That fella smashed half of the pubs of New Langdon, five years ago, aaaall to look for some weirdo Jack the Ripper-wannabe!”

“… and?”

And smashed my sorry ass too, when I tried to rob the post office he was sending mail from, Shaz was going to add. That had been a pivotal moment in his life, something that made him consider quitting crime altogether – a decision that would have been cemented by his will to escape the Syndicate some time later. Now, Lazor had the same near death experience as him – caused by the same person, even. Except, Lazor HAD to see it coming. There was nobody, literally nobody in the underworld of New Langdon that didn’t know of “Mad Lion” EiN – even children had heard of him. Only the Scarred Hound, Veckert Rainer herself, was more popular (if anything because of spicy anecdotes about her tumultuous sentimental life, at least according to the tabloids Shaz liked to read from time to time). Lazor, though, didn’t seem to care. If anything, he looked even more dejected.

“What am I gonna do, Shaz? My reputation’s gone down the drain. And I was scared. LAZOR LOYRA was scared, you get it? I feared for my life! I can’t… I don’t want to go on like this.”

It was in that moment that something triggered in Shaz’s mind. A wild idea, something that he jokingly told Vince several times during his rehab. Something something a new commercial activity, something he still wasn’t ready to do alone – a huge step for someone in his conditions. But, maybe…

“Lazor!”

He stood up, pressed his palms on the table, almost tipping it.

“I say, we open a fishmonger together!”

“A… what?”

“A fishmonger! You! I! We sell fish! Heck, we know fish, we are part fish! Who better than us?”

Lazor stared at him in a sort of stupor, incapable of understanding if he was being pranked or not.

To which Shaz replied with a wide smile, showcasing his immaculate rows of teeth. Lazor’s reaction was one of pure panic.

“Wait, you serious?”

“‘Course I am! See, Laz, whatcha we doin’? We’re societal rejects, former criminals, our hands are dirt-dirty, but ya know what, we never kill’d anyone! We roughed up a couple pals, yes, and maybe stole some money, but we be cool guys! Ya see, even if someone hired us – mah boy Vince hired me for his cafe – we’re proud fishmen! That’s charity, we ain’t wanna charity! We wanna go our own way!”

He waved his fist above his head, in an exaggerated motion, almost hitting another patron in the process.

“So I say, fuck that! We gonna make our fortune! I say… WE SELL FISH!”

Then, he shouted at the barman, his voice overshadowing the music.

“Lee! Would ya trust a shark to tell ya what the freshest fish is?”

Said barman looked at him puzzled, massaged his chin.

“I’d… say so? I mean yes, Joe. But why?”

Shaz grinned, turned around, only to meet the annoyed gaze of what looked like a shoiga waitress – of a mix of the snake and lizard variants. One that had long orange-ish hair too, which were more common on the serpent-like aliens.

“And you, missy? Would ya?”

“You call your sister missy. Name’s Bura.”

“Whatever, Bura! Would ya?”

The shoiga thought for a little, before licking their own lips with their tongue, making it click a couple times.

“I… suppose I would, yes? Fish know fish the best.”

Galvanized by that random sample, Shaz asked again.

“And you fine gals at the counter? Imma be real, would ya buy fish from a fish? From this fish, specifically?”

Shaz puffed out his chest, pointed both of his thumbs at himself. Two young girls, both wearing colorful wigs and weird, intricate combinations of belts, bracelets and chokers, chuckled. One of them blinked at him.

“I mean, yes? It sounds funny. Would we get a discount, though?”

“Of course, fellas! Lighthouse patrons get a 10% off, once we open! Lee, mark it down! Mark it down! Joe Jamboli is a fish of his word!”

Lazor’s brain slowly activated, trying to follow Shaz’s line of reasoning. They were both predators. A shark and a piranha – okay, a piranha that liked to act as if he was coming from another dimension, but those roleplay antics were outside the scope of his current predicament. Two fishmen. Selling fish in New Langdon. A honest job, far from the mafia, far from the risk of being kneecapped with a sawed-off shotgun. That… that didn’t sound like a bad life perspective. So far from what he knew, though. So far. So hard. So different from what they were doing. They had no experience with retail, let alone with selling food. That sounded so much bigger, so much more difficult than that dumb shark said. He had to object, to at least help him see how crazy that sounded. Yet, what came out of his lips was just a weak retort.

“But what… what if we fail at that too?”

“We don’t fail, Laz! We just stumble, smash our faces, break our teeth, stand up, keep smilin’ and give it a go again! That ain’t failure, that’s the fishman way of livin’!”

Then, without waiting even one more minute, Shaz grabbed that sorry mess of a piranha man and dragged him out of the pub, after greeting Lee one last time.

The rest was history.

History that led them to that street, to those signs with the smiling face of Pan the Pangasius, directing people to the place where the best fish in New Langdon could be bought (or at least, that was their marketing stunt). Whether it was really the best, it made no difference – the important part was believing it. And believing their own hype made all the difference, when it came to marketing. In one month, they’d become first an oddity, then a curiosity, then a tourist attraction – the only fish-managed fishmonger in the whole world. Which caused Shaz to feel some dumb pride, as he wrapped mackerel into newspapers, chatted with people about his activity, showed pictures he had taken with Vince on the Werza – the formerly fishface-owned smuggling ship, refurbished as a small fishing vessel. While Lazor, of course, would talk about PROTEIN. Always. Constantly. Fish is PROTEIN. PROTEIN is MUSCLE MASS. MUSCLE MASS is LAZOR LOYRA. He truly believed it and that gave him some confidence back, which made it easier for him to abandon his cringey otherdimensional demonic being persona . Shaz looked at him go back to the shop, in order to sort some crates inside the cramped store. Yep, Lazor was a new fish, someone who didn’t need a cool mask or a supervillain background story. Lazor was now just Lazor… and was totally enjoying it. All of a sudden, a green shape entered his field of vision – a familiar one too, as it started popping up fairly often, as of late.

“Heyo, Joe. Is Lazzy inside?”

Shaz smiled at the newcomer, a short-ish snake/lizard hybrid shoiga with long orange hair. They were looking at him, with their yellow snake eyes, their tongue clicking at regular intervals, as their tail kept on moving left and right between their legs. They were wearing a black t-shirt with the unmistakable logo of the damn robot bunny on it, on top a pair of jeans. It was them, them waitperson at The Lighthouse, annoying Inabutt and Lazor’s significant other – Bura “Malebolge” of the Darnek brood. Shaz couldn’t help but brighten up at that sight (except for their t-shirt. They knew he hated I.N.A.B.A., as he ranted over her and her new songs every other day – Bura had to have worn it on purpose to piss him off more). He waved at them, pointed his thumb to the store.

“Sure, he’s cuttin’ some pollock in the back! One second.”

Then, he turned around, screamed out of his lungs.

“Laaazor! Yer li’l scaly friend’s here!”

Bura groaned, rolled their eyes, tapped their foot on the pavement several times.

“Can’t you, like, call me by name, idiot?”

“Sorry, pal, can’t do. Inabutts be me natural enemy.”

That caused Bura to chuckle, as they couldn’t help but smile a little.

“You Nanami stans are the worst!”

“We’ve got goood teachers.”

Suddenly, Lazor bursted out of the store, with an exaggerated swing of his leg, pumping his muscles in a bodybuilder pose.

“Alright, LAZOR LOYRA is here! Who’s looking for him?”

As soon as his eyes landed on Bura, he puffed his pecs out even more.

“Bura! My lovely! What brings you to LAZOR LOYRA, so early in the morning?”

Bura stood on their toes, used their tail as a pedestal, trying their best to reach for his head, while grabbing his colossal shoulders.

“Just wanted to say hi to my favorite piranha musclehead, before going home to sleep.”

They stamped a kiss on his cheek, before jumping down again.

“The night was fine, just a couple idiots to deal with, but I’m tired as hell. Lee will step by later, he wants a bunch of pilchards for his special shots and some haddocks for his homemade fish and chips. Asked me to tell you to keep some aside for him.”

Shaz gloated, patting their orange-haired had with his huge hand.

“Ha, ha, ha! Of course! Tell good ol’Lee that there’s already a crate of haddock with his name on it! Best quality, juuust for my best customer!”

Bura yawned, covered their mouth at the last moment.

“Okidoki, then. Sorry, but I gotta hit bed. Boy, I feel like a truck ran over me.”

They winked at Lazor, with a mischievous smile.

“See ya later, Lazzy! Have a good day!”

As the shoiga walked away, Shaz hugged Lazor, patted his head too.

“Ha, ha, ha! Good! Good! You two make such a good couple!”

“Stop, Shaz! Stop! That’s embarrassing!”

But Shaz didn’t stop. He loved teasing Lazor, as a payback for the sleepless nights he had passed thanks to his and Bura’s antics. Yet, he couldn’t help but laugh like the idiot he was, like the idiots they were. He felt like he had found his place in that chaotic world, finally. Far from crime, far from politics, far from power struggles, mafia shenanigans and bounty hunting. That was only the beginning, though. Shaz crossed his arms, stared at the small crowd of customers that was already gathering in front of their stores, under the hopeful eyes of their cartoon mascot.

Yes, that was only the beginning – the beginning of something beautiful. And, for once, he was part of it.