Madfish?

Big. Big, squashy, and floppy. It’s like a dead fish in my hand—not that I would really know what that feels like but it is what I imagine it as. And yes, that does mean it is damp. I think I’m going to gag if I think about dead fish anymore, but he won’t let go. It’s not what I was expecting either—which makes it worse. See, if I was expecting the “Dead Fish” at least I have time to prepare before it’s thrown at me, unwanted, disturbing. But this, I was expecting more of a firm-yet-gentle-movie-worthy handshake. Will this torture ever end? My hand probably has some fish disease now, like, madfish (like madcow but invented by the fish . . . get it?). Not like madfish is actually real; it sounds more like a wrestling name. Or maybe it’s not fishy at all; maybe it’s more like . . . oh, I know! Raw meat. Okay, now I’m really going to gag. How is he still shaking my hand? It has been three millennium-long minutes, plus forty-seven seconds. Maybe not, but I swear the clock hates me. What is this guy saying; I see his eyes twitching back and forth between mine. His desert-cracking lips are twitching too, but all I hear is “Dead fish. Raw meat. Dead fish. Raw meat.” It is echoing. Louder. Louder. My heart pounding faster, acid itching up my throat, I’m about to blow chunks. He let go. He let go! I’m lightheaded. The blood is rushing to my abused hand, trying to heal it.