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A world of cannibals

with stock options in

coconut cooking oil,

sell, sell, sell,



to get at that fabulous

fable-soaked recipe

of mermaid soup

I chucked in

the meat-grinder

along with

Grandma and her

evil, yapping Chihuahua.



Hearing a low growl

from the meat-grinder’s direction,

I have a split-second fear

that Fefe was all but

tenderized except for his little

biting snout,



but all I see

are the machine’s

gears ready to crumble

into a million pieces.



I feel smug

in my cunning

savagery of

Gramps-ala-Fefe soup



when I notice

there’s something

not grinding,



and it looks strangely

reminiscent

of fish tail.



The stock-optioned masses

are howling outside,



the door is about to give way.



And that’s when I notice,

to my movie-clichéd horror,

another fish tail permanently

attached to my waistline,



shit.