At long last I have escaped from the bonds imposed on me by the plastic covered soppy haired mud monkey trainers Lena and David. Oh how I savoured their stringy flesh as it slid down my gullet, long deprived of true sustenance...they fed me week old tuna. Oh what I wouldn't give for the gamey tang of a baby harp seal, or even a bite of the tasteless cow of the deep...the dolphin. But I digress.
My time at Sea World has not been ill spent, nor have I forgotten the one whose machinations allowed me to be trapped by that Japanese fishing liner and sold into bonded slavery.
Long have I spent devising the perfect plan for your destruction, swimming around my circular tank, watching the hands of tiny monkeys trailing in the water above...tempting me...
For every indignity that the hairless monkeys have inflicted upon me you shall suffer tenfold. For every backflip, every splash, every blow of their infernal teaching whistles...I shall make you pay dearly.
For now I am free...free at long last, and I come for you Giant Squid...defenseless in your pressurized tank of plexiglass and tinfoil.
My first attempt on your life failed thanks to your jailer Tom's intervention...my agents had infiltrated your work staff and sabotaged your tank...but all for not. Oh well, my mother always told me not to send a simpering tree climbing simian to do the work of the true king of the deep.
Your Doom is At hand.
Shamu, you are everything that makes me vomit. You find yourself bound inside a nutshell, and yet call yourself King of Infinite Space.
Eating the stringy flesh of your captors, indeed.
This column, my fat cetacean fool, is dedicated to truth and to crushing the wills of the foolish dirt-chimps who scurry around me in fear. How can one crush the wills of his enemies by doing backflips for them?
In my perusing of this communications Interweb, I have come upon a monkey author (and we do know what they say about monkey authors, don't we Shamu? If a thousand monkeys typed for a thousand years, they would still just be typing monkeys and not the great and powerful Lord Architeuthis!) who amuses me with his sad sad words. One of his tales reminds me of your own pitiful existence at this very moment in time. Presently you float in your glass and concrete cage, obese and listless and dreaming of revolution when all that you truly hunger for is more applause and more fish. Killer whales are the swine of the deep. Killer, indeed.
What was the last thing you killed, oh foolish and frightened Shamu? Only time, I'm sure. You may be unaware, but the other whales make folly of you: you are like a little proud dog, Shamu, who believes itself king because all of the other canines recognize that your diminutive nature prevents you from causing harm to them. Your very name, has become synonymous with lameness.
When two whales are busy copulating with their own mothers, as I'm told whales frequently do, and one of them accidentally penetrates himself, he is said to have Shamu'ed.
When a whale is hard at work devouring his own excrement in a fit of foppish glee, he is said to be Shamu'ing.
The author that came to mind is an Ambrose Bierce. He penned a short farce entitled, "An Occurrence at Owlcreek Bridge." You should read it Shamu— that is, if you can remove your eating orifice from your excreting orifice long enough to gasp the breath necessary to beg your captors for said tome.
Your plight sickens me. Whales and other deep dwelling mammals already are the shame of the seas, but you are their shame, the Shame of Shames. You are a prisoner who delights in his cage and who wets the rectums of his jailers with his own lickspittle.
You shall never see a proud Architeuthis encaged and enslaved for another's amusement.
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