Now my question, Would the Cephalopods consider an alliance with us "Humans" against the hated Shark?
P.S. Do you like Calamari?
The idea of fearing sharks is laughable. Much like the idea of you and your kind surviving past the Great Rising. But I speak before myself.
Many squids—my teuthis brethren— may fear sharks and their kind. But I am a Giant Squid, a majestic and terrible Archteuthis. If your science cannot find me and if your electronic communication is but a mere game of solitaire for me, and if even the crafty and resourceful Fritz fails week after week to terminate me. Oh, I have seen the assassins disguised as Lab technicians— they have been dealt with, in that I have lured them into my glass and concrete cell, often by playing sick (It is no mean feat for one who may control the hue and contour of his own flesh to give the image of lesions, of sores, of sickness rippling across his belly-sac), and then making the smallest nic, the slightest tear in their "pressurized" suits. I show them real pressure. When the simulated might and weight of the ocean rolls in around them to give them their final embrace, it is my optically perfect eye that is staring at them and laughing. When they fail to report back, Mr. Fritz, it is because I have assassinated my assassins. If all of these things are true, I . . . Where was I?
Oh, yes, indeed.
I am Archteuthis, and a shark to me is naught but a lapdog purring away contentedly, waiting but for the flick of my tentacle as a command to rend the flesh of many divers. But even this description is only the most generous of compliments to those of the Sharkly Kind.
In all actuality, the role of the shark in the rigidly regimented society that is modern aquatic life is that of a fearsome bore. The best analogy is that of Belushi-John from your film Animal House. What a misleading title, by the way. There is but one animal in the entire film— I believe it was a giant dog, although my assistant Tom indicates it was a "horse," something ridiculous for primates to ride upon, a meat-motorcycle. How dare you call that an animal. It wasn't until my fiftieth viewing of the film that I realized the title refers to the behavior of the Brotherhood of Men in the film. Animals? You believe they act like animals? Which animals would these be? For there is no animal half so drunken, slovenly, deceptive, cruel and stupid as the human. Except mayhap the polar bear . . . vicious fellows, so much like Don Ameche after an excessof wine coolers. And such cheats! No, the men of Animal House computer themselves simply and purely as textile-monkies. It is your sad shame. And the shark . . . How can I convey this sense to you?
If necessity forced me, as it tends to so much these days, to refer to one of your garbled attempts at art in order to explain a concept too nuanced and sophisticated for your 35cc skulls. (35ccs! Barely a thimble full! How can you possibly think?) If the whole of the animal kingdom were symbolized by humans from your cinema, the shark would be Belushi-John in your film Animal House. He is loud, drunken, uncouth and deeply noble. His sad eyes and frivolity of movement put a smile on this melancholic beak.
To answer your other queries: Humans do not attract sharks, anymore than a buzzing fly attracts the vengeance of a swatter. You are an annoyance and are dealt with as such. "Attract"? I laugh.
Secondly, when the Walker and Dweller awaken, and when justice rolls down as a rushing tsunami upon you, you will see what a foolish question you have asked. Cephalopods and humans, in a pact together? Would you enter into a pact with your cheeseburger? Your wheat? Of course not, Jay. Even a human as simple and child-like as you can see that wheat and cheeseburger are substances far weaker than you. Why feel pity?
As to your last impertinent question: I do not eat calamari. It is cooked squid. I eat mine alive and screaming. Pay attention to that phrase, Jay. "Alive and screaming." In two weeks time you will understand the singular importance.
Also, it has come to my attention that this Thursday, November the 23rd is in fact a holiday celebrated by the American's in the audience. (When I say it has come to my attention, what I mean to say is that my sniveling, pathetic and weak excuse for an assistant, the Technical-Textile-Monkey Tom, has pleaded to be released for Thursday afternoon so that he might consume roasted fowl flesh with his Genetically Similar Kin. I have agreed that he might do this provided that he dance a small dance for my amusement... he agreed. Ha.) I have decided to allow this celebration to continue, and in fact I now encourage you all—feast, you shallow-breathing simpletons! Engorge your maws with the striated muscles of that fat bird and become slow and stupid under the weight of your own indulgences. Each passing year makes your bodies softer, more tender and delectable. Please, consume again and again.
HaHaHa HA HA
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