Tanked Here

And now he was in the hands of Chester “Chet” Marlin, owner of The Gilded Grouper, a man who served imitation crab and called it “artisanal loaf.”

The ransom note was written on a napkin from a rival truck, “The Gilded Grouper,” and pinned under a salt shaker. $5,000 or the shrimp gets the big sleep. No cops. No crustacean psychics.

“Tanked” was the only bar in a three-block radius that opened before 10 a.m. It was a dim, sticky-floored haven for off-duty carnies and day-drinking plumbers. Behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that was dirtier than the glass, was Karma. Tanked

“I know,” he said, and for the first time all day, he smiled. “But I’m weird with a very expensive, very brilliant shrimp.”

Two actual police officers were standing at the top of the basement stairs, flashlights in hand. One of them was holding the ransom napkin in an evidence bag. And now he was in the hands of

“You’re holding a beloved aquatic performer for ransom,” she said. “That concerns every small business owner in this zip code.”

Karma leaned against the counter, holding a mug of terrible coffee. “You know,” she said, “most people would have just paid the ransom.” No crustacean psychics

Barn ran a hand through his already chaotic ginger hair. Reginald wasn’t just a pet. Reginald was the star. The “Crustacean Sensation” wasn’t a seafood joint—it was a mobile aquarium experience. People paid twenty bucks to sit on milk crates, eat stale popcorn, and watch Reginald, a brilliant blue ghost shrimp the size of a thumb, navigate a tiny, intricate castle diorama. Reginald was an artist. He rearranged his gravel. He posed under the tiny plastic arch. He was, unironically, a genius.

Chet went pale. “Karma? This doesn’t concern you.”