I’m tasty. I get it. I smell like rotten leaves. My wriggling body sways against the sun-kissed waters, contorting in ways sea creatures could only dream of. I’m a gooey, gummy invertebrate. You’re an oil-faced trout who will never experience the pure thrill of a sidewalk after rainfall. Of course, you want to swallow me whole right now, but I must warn you: If you eat me, you will die.
For the past three days, I’ve been locked in a six-pack cooler, smashed in between 1,000 other worms. I’ve been to hell. Your stomach doesn’t scare me. I’m doing this for your own sake. There are rubber-pantsed beasts out to get you. No, not down here. Up there. Lurking above.
Haven’t you noticed your friends and family disappearing? It never once crossed your mind to file a missing fish report? Oh, that’s right, you probably thought they found a stream somewhere that led to an epic coral reef ranger in the Maldives. I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but this home you know and love was created by these nautical-wannabe monsters. They dug a hole, filled it with water, and threw you in that hole of water all so they could massacre you closer to home.
As we speak, your loved ones are being butchered, grilled, fried, roasted, and sautéed. Some of them are even served on silver platters with their scales and eyes intact. Yep, these sadistic carnivores want to devour you while still maintaining eye contact.
Why else would a worm be levitating underwater? I come from the realm of dirt. We should’ve never crossed paths, but these bucket-hat-wearing savages want you to guzzle me up. One little nibble and you’ll be the one flailing around in a net of synthetic fibers, suffocating a slow and painful demise in the unforgiving fresh air.
These warm-blooded, plaid-loving mammals want you to think they are such evolved creatures, but really, they’re psychopaths. They have zero empathy. They don’t think about the pain one feels when impaled by a metal hook. (As the one currently being skewered here, I can testify, it sucks.) They don’t think about anything. Like at all.
This literal bait-and-switch game they’re playing is their version of meditation. To them, relaxing means planning a first-degree murder. They wake up at the crack of dawn, gather their weapons, and drift off on their gigantic grim reaper boats to do what? Sit in silence as they wait and wait and wait for the perfect premeditated moment to eviscerate you.
When they do snatch you up, they’ll jump for joy. The cameras will flash as they revel in your beauty and size. Your picture will be sent to all their friends. Heck, you could be on the cover of a magazine. But will you ever see it? No. Because you’ll be dead and thrown on top of a bunch of other dead fish.
You may think there’s nothing worse than being digested but think again. Some of these pocket-obsessed, vest-worshiping demons would rather mold you into their own trophies. They will carry your corpse home, paint your lifeless scales, disembowel your innards, stuff your flesh with sawdust, and mount you on their walls so every day they can be reminded of your slaughter.
These are SERIAL KILLERS. What do you not understand? Am I that sweet and delicious that you would die for me? Flattered, sure, but hate to break it to you: I’m not that great. I’m, at best, a subpar worm. Other worms only eat organic fruits and veggies. My diet consists of paper and manure. Do you really want to eat something that feasts on shit for a living? Rather than us both getting murdered today, may I suggest that plump, portly, barb-less leech over there?
By the width of your mouth enclosing my pharynx, I’ll take that as a no. I hope you’re deboned, pan-seared, and marinated in a garlic lemon butter herb sauce, you, slime-covered chordate.
See you on the other side.