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The last candle guttered out. The quiet wind pushed the smoke ac
ross the room and into the squinting eyes of Meryl. He hated
fish fingers for dinner. Tartar sauce should,
if applied thickly enough, cover up the abominable taste he despised.
He waved the fish fingers to beat off the smoke, but the thickness
remained. Idlely, he wondered, "what part of the fish does fish fingers
come from?" Then he wondered, "Do fish have lips?"
A fish in the Atlantic was at the same moment wondering: "Do humans have brains?"
Somewhere in the middle, the questions merged into "Do brains have lips?"
Then at times, the lips brain had.
Smacking his lips, he
dunked another finger in the tartar sauce. Biting in to the fish he found something disturbing
crawling across his brain. It tickled and
buzzed ever so pleasantly, stimulating his hippocampus until he couldn't feel the tartar sauce dripp
ing onto the floor, spreading in pools, alerting the nurse
to refill the tartar sauce dish. Yummmm. Real brain food. He fished a candle out of the drawer and lit it.
