Updated version of a chapter from my last screed, Headcase.
You’re a crab. You’re in a big yellow plastic bucket. You’re a crab in a big plastic yellow bucket with a bunch of other crabs. — The fuck happened? You say to the big dazed feeling blocking everything else out. — Oh we were fart-assing around in the bay when we got caught in a net and hauled into a sea trawler, the crab next to you says. — They put us in this bucket and moved us around a lot. I think we’re in a restaurant.
— The fuck are we doing in a restaurant? you ask, suddenly not so concerned about feeling dazed.
— Oh, I think they’re probably going to eat us, the crab next to you says.
— They’re going to eat us?? you exclaim.
— Yeah, he says. — Jesus fuck, you say. — Seriously?
— Yeah, I guess so, he says, — What else would we be doing in a restaurant?
You double-take. You freak out.
— Fuck me, you say, how can you be so calm?? You yell at the other crab. — We might only have minutes to live! !
The other crab kind of just stares vacantly into space. — I don’t know what you mean, he says. — We redeem our fallen nature through death. Death is freedom, freedom is death. All hail the Great Head Chef in the Sky.
The other crabs are obviously cooked before they even make it to the motherfucking pot.
You panic. You crawl upside the head of the other crab and one or two others so you can see over the side of the bucket. Crabs are still figuring themselves out, they only notice when you stick a leg in some crab’s face. They tell you to watch it.
You get to the top of the yellow plastic bucket and peer over the top: Talking apes in white with white hats are walking around what look like polished steel boxes, carrying silver circles with handles on them over to flat white circles and putting shit on them, and talking apes running around the silver boxes with the silver circles with the handles on them, yelling at other talking apes who are helping them, and what sounds like cracking jokes that aren’t funny. You marvel at the talking apes attempting humour while seeming oblivious to their own true selves; it seems to figure they have their sense of humour lost up their *whistles*
The talking apes bore you quickly. They’re so fucking stupid. Your eyes wander. To one side of you is a polished steel box, with a silver oval thing sitting on top of it, with a bunch of green shit on that, with a dead fucking lobster on top of the green shit.
Your crab blood runs cold. You freeze on the spot.
Next to the dead fucking lobster is a big round silver cylander with a blue light underneath it. Apparently it has water or something inside because the whole thing is like a sound chamber; you can hear lobsters fucking talking while they’re swimming around inside.
JESUS LIVING FUCK THAT BLUE LIGHT IS FIRE. THEY’RE FUCKING BOILING ALIVE !!
— This water is really lovely, isn’t it, you hear from inside the cylander.
— Yeah look crabs say bad things about the talking apes, you hear again, — But you know I think a lot of that just boils down to jealousy that the apes are the top of the food chain, and it’s more about crabs needing to step up and do things that are positive for the community instead of taking these alarming extremist positions that are more about the subjective conflicts of underachieving crustaceans that any fault in our evolutionary betters, and you know I think it’s things like this that show us who’s looking after us and who is trying to drag us down.
— Do you think this is one of those spa baths? I’ve been hearing so much about them.
The dead fucking lobster on the green shit next to the cylander under the blue flame is STILL FUCKING DEAD.
But from the cylander, with what is probably a metal wall in the way to make everything sound like it’s coming from inside an empty Coke can: — Guys, have you come across green technocracy though? We don’t need to worry about addressing social and historical root causes, we can just use technology to put endless bandaids on the problem. Eventually it will just be the band-aids and repair jobs that are holding the shit together, but we can can carry on looking after number one and do nothing to change right up to the day the social order shits the bed completely, how amazing is that?
The other lobsters in the pot are all astir; you can hear the water sloshing about.
— Dude that is fucking genius, one of the other lobsters says.
— That makes so much fucking sense, another one says. How has no one thought of trying to use the thing that creates the problem as the solution to itself? All this endless noise about needing to address historical root causes to the point that technological fixes can’t even get a look-in, and all the while the most meaningful solution was right before our eyes?
You can barely believe your own senses, which is nothing new. The talking apes run a-tizzy to and fro carrying the white circles around and yelling at each other, and some talking ape who seems particularly unhinged is making another talking ape cry.
Crab claws, that aren’t yours, block your view. They grab you.
You’re unceremoniously yanked back into the bucket.
Your universe spins as you tilt and tumble all the way to the bottom of the yellow bucket, over the heads of a bunch of other crabs who have crawled up the bucket to get you. They fall back down after you. Pandemonium reigns; the plastic bucket contains only chaos in the form of sea life. You land upside down.
A crab face looms over you and yells into your face, — The fuck was that stunt all about, dicknose? You not getting enough attention down here in the bucket, need to spread your wings and find your pleasures elsewhere? Too good for all the regular nobodies of the crab world are we? Gazing from the floor to the ceiling because you don’t have the brass to be your own person instead of slavishly capitulating to the crowd, is it? You’re too good for the rest of us peasants, is that it?
This fucking crab is right in your fucking face.
— What the living fucking fuck . . . ?!! You start. You’re still upside down.
— You want to go and hang out with the humans and try to pass as a mammal? Is that it? the hostile crab says. — Are you that floor-to-ceiling slavish that you reject yourself as a crustacean? That’s just sad, dude. I feel sorry for your parents. Maybe you need to go away and take a good, hard look at yourself and get in touch with yourself instead of forcing everyone to carry you along instead.
— Jesus fucking christ, you yell, still upside down. — We have to get the fuck out of this bucket and the fuck out of this restaurant! It’s a death trap! There’s a dead lobster out there! Do you even have the faintest clue what’s going on outside of your precious fucking bucket?! The other lobsters are talking technological fixes to historical and systemic problems, and shit-talking people who say bad things about putting band-aids on cancers! The only way to deal with the ecological crisis is by trying to socially re-embed an endless-growth economy on a finite planet, and anyone who has anything bad to say about that is just jealous of the upwardly-mobile!
You’re still upside down.
— I don’t think you get it, the standover crab says. — Death is freedom and freedom is death. Digestion is transcendence and perfect inner balance and tranquility. Our sacrifice serves a greater good and our rewards are eternal.
— What the living fuck are you talking about?!?! you yell at them. — We’re about to be eaten!!!! Are you even thinking about what you’re saying? A moment ago you were accusing me of disloyalty to crabs, and now you’re saying let’s all do the fucking can-can onto the plates ourselves and save the chefs the fucking trouble! Are you smoking fucking crack?
Before the crab can answer, a human head looms over the yellow bucket. The bucket shakes like it has been hit by an earthquake. It upends, and you and all the other crabs. You all splash-land in salty hot water.
— Oh my god, some crab yells, this is a spa bath! I’ve heard about these!
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