Survival in Hell or High Water

FlanGreeb sighed. Why couldn’t he have been born a wolf-human hybrid? Wolf-humans were so esteemed that they earned their own shorthand nickname, the “werewolf”. How neat is that? They were storied, mighty, and even in their reckless bouts of rage, were admired for their strength. And what about lion-humans? Majestic. Dog-humans? A fan favorite, known for their loyalty and freakish friendliness to even the worst hypocrites in the world. Hell, he would have even happily occupied an incarnation of the mantis-human. Even if a bit green around the ears, mantis-humans at least had ridiculously good reaction times and an elegant pair of wings.

He pounded his closed clawed fist against his tank-home’s side. As a crayfish-human hybrid, he was already unpopular with the other anima-human hybrids. It didn’t help that his name was FlanGreeb—so named by his Craw-dad after the famous crayfish general who fought valiantly in the 235th War of Crustaceans. At least It wasn’t hard to pronounce-- just unsexy.

“This sucks,” he whined at the dinner table. His mum was happily humming along, spitting musical bubbles out into the surrounding water. Market detritus was fresh and plentiful. Submarine JunkFood Co. happily received sewage and trash from other bigger, non-aquatic organisms and distributed it across all the different bodies of water. Sometimes there was literal crap mixed into the meal. As far as bottom-feeders go, sustenance was always available-- sometimes too available. Their home-tank’s corners were filled to the tank-brim with newspaper shreds, algae wafers, and more crap.

“Son! Eat your gosh darn detritus!” Craw-dad screeched through bubbles. He slammed his claw-fist down: “I’m sick of hearing you talk like we’re inferior. You’re lucky we don’t have to cavort around like the bigger animals, wasting energy chasing and eating random bloody innards and watching non-hybrid animals die in our jaws. It’s uncivilized.”

FlanGreeb rolled his eyes. “Dad. First of all, hunting is noble. Even if it’s now ‘just’ considered a sport,” FlanGreeb air quoted with his claws, “ you actually have to work for your food. And you get muscular doing it, too.”

Craw-dad rolled his eyes back, his antennae twitching. “Son. We don’t have striated muscles. It doesn’t work that way. We have exoskeletons. If you don’t stop this nonsense about muscles, your exoskeleton will shrink and you’ll waste away into a skinny cray.”

“Our exoskeletons can’t shrink, Dad. That’s the point. All the other anima-humans have it so easy. They actually have hair they can comb, and they walk, dad. It’s embarrassing for me to have to skitter and claw. It’s really loud. And also, it’s embarrassing for me to bring in old sloppy joe covered in Labrador-Human-vomit sauce. That came out of somebody. The breaking point for me was when Aurelius Dog offered to fart on my freakin’ meal to ‘season’ it. I hate this. I hate this life!”

His mother shook her claw sadly-- her only way of expressing sadness, as her exoskeleton made head gestures like nodding and shaking her head quite difficult. “Germbly,” she said, touching her claw lightly on Craw-dad’s majestic little claw, “I knew sending FlanGreeb to inter-anima school was a mistake. Look at how prejudiced the other cubs and kits are. It’s too stressful. I can smell his cortisol from here.”

FlanGreeb panicked. He was the only “cool” crayfish in his tank-borhood because his parents let him spend time with a mix of Terrestrials and Aquatics. He’d made some good friends out of the mean freshwater Giant Toe Biter bugs, but he lacked the toe-biting to really make a fierce name out of himself. On that note, at least he wasn’t considered a nuisance, even if being that kind of nuisance earned you cool notoriety.

“Ma, I’m fine. I just wish I had something about me that made me liked among the other anima-kind. I’m just tired of having to read stories about agile cat-humans and flighted heron-humans. It’s like we got stuck with with all crabby, no fun. No one ever writes about us.”

“Well, haven’t you heard of Uncle Yabby? He was an excellent performer at Cirque Du Aquafino. Maybe the best. You ever see a condor-human juggle forty balls and ride a jet stream at the same time? No? All they can do is be bald and eat stinking dead flesh. See, at least water dampens the smell.”

“Are you chitin me, dad? That’s like telling me to cheer up because we’re freakshows. And Uncle Yabby was a clown. I can’t tell my friends about that. And we’re not even clownfish.”

Germbly shook his claw at his son. “FlanGreeb, we have never had for want. Look at this beautiful bounty your mom brought in. We are having semi-fresh hotdog and 10-month-old caviar scraps. It’s fit for a King-Crab-human. I think the caviar even fermented a little. It doesn’t get better than that. It’s like wine, but with more protein.” He paused thoughtfully. “And let me tell you something. Our wars are much harder than the Terrestrials and Vertebrate-anima. Have you ever tried to kill someone by getting them only through the chinks in their armor? It takes skill. We are tough. We survive. I mean it. We’re thick-skinned. I mean in a real sense.”

FlanGreeb tapped his back legs impatiently. “Thanks, ma. This was a better than usual fare. And whatever, dad.” He skittered away into his rock overhang cave. He moped as only a crayfish could do, puffing out water in streams around the water, simulating tears. It wasn’t as dramatic as the sole tear a Terrestrial-human could produce, rolling down the cheek in a movie-like fashion. Unfortunately, he even had to limit his moping, since Cray-ma could smell cortisol from a mile away. Eventually, he sat still, letting the water currents wash in and out of his cave opening. He had fallen asleep.

…

…

Claws lashed against his face roughly. All eight of Cray-ma’s claws were on him, shaking him and slapping him awake. All eight of Craw-dad’s claws were on his back, pinching and punching simultaneously. If FlanGreeb had a spine, he would have experienced whiplash. FlanGreeb was bewildered. The entire home-tank smelled like worry, stress, fear hormones. It was like they were farting pure negativity into his face.

“FlanGreeb Hirdygorps! There is horrible news.” Panicked claw waving ensued. No further explanation was needed when Cray-ma used his entire name.

Craw-dad and Cray-ma scuttled out of the room quickly to the waterproof TV. “Look!” Cray-ma pointed a claw excitedly to the TV. On the air—or rather, on land, it appeared that Mount Vesuvius had erupted. Not even the oracular raven-humans or the clever Capuchin-humans could have predicted the seismology and heat of such a catastrophe. Before the news cut out, FlanGreeb espied a horrid black sky and heard the wails of fox-humans. The sound was hauntingly similar to the screech of their once whole-human nonhybrid ancestors. FlanGreeb thought about his classmates—the ones that made fun of his short antennae, his inflexibility, his bendy armored tail. He remembered the ones who called him “shellfish” or “cray-zy” or “Louisiana Gumbo Boy” or “Australian Barbeque Delicacy”—derogatory, hurtful, and straight up insensitive. And he remembered the hamster-human named Marsha that he had briefly crushed on—her glossy short hair and beady hopeful eyes. He felt despair for all of them. What would become of the Terrestrial society? With the noxious fumes blanketing the land, there would be no salads for the Deer-humans. With fewer Deer-humans and other vegetarians to preside over, there would be a smaller ruling class of Carnivora-humans. That was just one of the many structures bound to fall away in the absence of sunlight, clean breathable air, and fresh water.

FlanGreeb finally noticed new sounds: the distant screeching and wailing of the despairing Terrestrials muddled through the deep water of his tank-borhood. He paid attention to Evolutions and History class. This had happened once before, in the year 2767AH (After Humans). The Terrestrial-hybrids would not die out as they almost did in that terrible year… Though it did mean endless dark days, food rations, poor air quality, and rampant mistrust and thievery and in-fighting… and a new era of upsetting domination by the Aquatic-hybrids. The Council of Anima-humans would have to be moved to the depths of the East Pacific. All Aquatic political undertakings would have to be broadcasted to the land dwellers. The Aquatic Invertebrates would shell-ebrate gleefully over their new poli-seas.

Though celebration was eminent, it was much too soon to even contemplate. There was real tragedy, and the land animals were millimeters away from anarchy. Though the Big Cat-humans and others in the Canidae-hybrids would line up armed to prevent total chaos, FlanGreeb knew in the pictures of the years surrounding 2467AH, there was tremendous gauntness and hopelessness in the eyes of even the bravest and biggest of the animals. He remembered a lesson on the emergence of mankind from prehistoric times: With the end of dinosaurs, little mammals found safety in the burrows. They were the sole torch bearers of semi-sentient life. The meek had indeed inherited earth. With enough time, they evolved bipedalism and highly developed brains. He thought fondly of Marsha and hoped she and her tiny, quivering family were hunkered down, doing what they did best since the beginning of mammalian existence.

Who knew what was to come? Certainly no one would have guessed that FlanGreeb, of all hybrid-humans, would find himself in the upper echelons of society as a bottom dweller. Would the name calling stop? Even Craw-dad’s longtime political aspirations could be realized in this hasty new era. He had always dreamed of enforcing a new name for the cappuccino—“Crabpuccino!” his father would exclaim over dinner, as he dreamed of a position in the Ovaltine office. This was one among many of the Craw-dad jokes that FlanGreeb could “foresea” the amiable and underappreciated Aquatics popularizing into this new age's vernacular. “Those land-dwellers would have to clam up when I get into office! They wouldn’t want to say anything shell-ey that would make me crabby!” Craw-dad’s punny dreams could now be a reality.

Though the TV cut out, Cray-ma gestured for them to gather around the waterproof radio. This jarring time was the first time FlanGreeb was glad to have at least three extra claws—all the better to clutch at one’s parents with for comfort. The sound of tropical steel drums heralded a familiar song. One of their favorite caricatures of sea-life boomed out in a jovial Jamaican accent:

🎵 ♪ ♪ The seaweed is always greener

In somebody else's lake!

You dream about going up there

But that is a big mistake!

Just look at the world around you

Right here on the ocean floor…

Such wonderful things surround you

What more is you lookin' for? 🎵 ♪ ♪

“Come on FlanGreeb. We have a lot to be grateful for. Let’s sit down and have a snack.” FlanGreeb surveyed the piles surrounding his home. He saw the shreds of lettuce, pieces of old leather shoe, and scraps of moldy peaches. He saw old cat food, rotten driftwood, year-old gravy, and mushy old linens. Hell, he saw that same actual crap in the doorway and between all the refuse. And now, he understood what he saw. One man’s trash is a Crayfish-human’s treasure. All this time, he thought the way of the Crayfish was weak, uninspired. With newfound optimism, he realized: Evolution favored diversity, and indeed, even the smallest, shyest aquatic burrowers had a niche in life, and they filled that niche perfectly. They didn’t just survive—they thrived. FlanGreeb picked up a tough pineapple leaf off of the top of the nearest pile. With great relish, he grubbed at the food. It’s good to be home.

🎵 ♪ ♪ Under the sea

Under the sea

Darling it's better

Down where it's wetter

Take it from me 🎵 ♪ ♪

“Thank you, dad. Thanks, Ma.”