We waddled to the lakeside like two overstuffed penguins, laughing and joking, discussing the past. There we watched the sunset, a tangerine moment that made us cry. We looked at each other like once lovers, then jumped, or, rather, plunged. Our concrete filled boots did their job. It was bliss.
I admired them in my own way, content with their lot in life, swimming in circles, never getting lost, intimating feeding time with those circular mouths. They seemed happy. Until I didn't feed them, that was. That's why they shot me. My fault, really. I forgot they had a tank.
It was the most peculiar name I'd heard, yet belonged to the most remarkable man. He made minced meat of enemies, fools of foes, and no one ever outsmarted him.
"So why, Z," I asked one evening.
"It's spelt with a silent 'E'," he said as if it explained everything.