Busy day, so my seventh offering is another short one.
A young gentleman from Berlin came round to view my collection today. Most of my specimens were in a lively mood, vying for his attention by banging on the glass and blowing bubbles that drifted to the top of the tank. I had hand-picked each of my treasures over the last decade, but after spotting some new delights in the wild I had decided to sell some of the more intractable ones.
The German strolled around my enormous aquarium to examine them from every angle. Two of the shyer ones tried to conceal themselves in the dark recesses of the cave I had built for them, and refused to present themselves.
“I gave you the cave as a kindness,” I said loudly, tapping on the glass. “Don’t make me take it away!”
They swam out to greet my visitor, but still clung to one another as if to shield themselves as much as possible.
“How much for that one?” The gentleman said, jabbing his finger at the oldest member of the shoal.
“That one is not for sale.”
He had pointed to my first catch, one I had hunted for years and have kept to remind me of how far I’ve come. She has numerous pale scars on her neck from my early attempts at surgery, and marks all over her body from before I had refined my taming techniques. I also suspect her presence calms the younger ones, and her removal could result in unpredictable behaviour.
“Look here, friend.” The man rested his hand on my shoulder. “That is the one I want. If you cannot give me what I want, then all I need to do is whisper in the right ear and your whole collection will be taken from you. So, what do you say?”
I forced a smile.
“Of course, friend. I shall prepare the transportation tank.”
The man struck me as the type of wealthy show-off who lacked a deep appreciation for the hunt. He didn’t have the patience or charm for it, and I suspected his own collection was just a mish-mash of whatever was considered fashionable.
I wheeled out the spare tank and made a show of sprinkling the food flakes and checking the temperature and pH of the water.
“The thermometer says thirty-five degrees, but this feels a little cool to me. What do you think?”
I gestured to the open tank. He dipped his hand in.
“No, it feels -”
I grabbed the scruff of his neck and thrust his head down into the water. The gentleman squirmed under my grasp and flapped his arms about to push me away, but I maintained a strong grip. I have honed my hunting skills over the years and know when my prey is too weak to resist me. The so-called connoisseur flailed and kicked and gurgled and then, after several minutes, went limp.
My shoal had been banging on the side of the tank as I drowned the young thing, but when I let the body slump to the floor they fell silent. I knelt beside it. It wasn’t too late - some CPR might revive it, and a trip to my personal surgical suite would allow me to modify it enough to make it suitable for my collection. I turned its face to and fro. It did have excellent cheekbones.