Changing Ocean Tides

Dear Octopus,


Last week I returned to my indigenous corner of the deep and terrifying ocean. I won't say why. But not doing so makes the story difficult; so let's say that all the reasons and necessities for which I returned come under the umbrella-euphemism of the name 'Largo,' the villain from Thunderball. So anything that involves him relates to that.

My inauspicious return to southern coastal climes was heralded with an ultra-violent thunderstorm; rain lashing the roof of the train carriage like a troupe of schizophrenically-enraged ASBO schoolchildren trying to batter their way inside. Party Squid met me on the platform and showed me to his latest and most extravagant purchase; a sassy white BMW sadly missing its external radio aerial. When I pointed out that white was a colour for hairdressers and drug dealers he replied, with a disconcertingly sinister intonation I might add, that 'it's the only thing sleazier than me.' We then set off in search of his missing aerial, which - after a series of convoluted and morally dubious adventures too juvenile to describe here - we ultimately exchanged for a pair of The Rat's glasses purloined in a previous encounter, the details of which also remain shrouded in both secrecy and ignominy. The fiery, tempestuous thunderstorm got us thinking though.....about the nature of life, death, and Largo. After the aerial was reinstated atop our ride we debated the changing seasons of age, maturity, spirituality and wisdom whilst eating Happy Meals, before listening to the Fleetwood Mac song after which this letter is named. Highly relevant when considering one's place in the world, which unfortunately was always going to be an unrequested by-product of my trip.


Having at least started to deal with the ubiquitous Largo if not actually confront him, the next day I meditated further on the nature of happiness whilst lying on my stomach holding a massive rifle. I'd never used a firearm of this calibre before (my previous experience being more of the Nerf sponge-dart variety), so the whole process was both alien and exhilarating. Now I'm not one to rampage through my home or workplace indiscriminately slaughtering anyone, but I did come to understand why some people come to like guns. There's a huge amount of concentration required, a Jedi-like focus even, which gives you a feeling of calmness as you control your breathing. I might buy myself a SuperSoaker and shoot water at Honks from the top of the stairs. Inky Squid has a natural mastery of this sport far in advance of any to which I could aspire, which I congratulated him on extensively when we were out drinking.


The first time you get truly drunk is a horrible experience. This was quite literally the case for 'Bobbles': Inky Squid's junior colleague who for some reason decided to shatter, squash then vomit his alcohol-cherry in our lurid company. He was only a few weeks past 18.


The results


were


DEVASTATING


Admittedly, I am morally remiss for force-feeding him the tequila slammers. Inky Squid is equally remiss for making him down a pitcher of cider for spilling the smallest drops of his Jager Bomb. I don't know why I told the bouncers he was my father.


We lost him sometime between two and three in the morning. To this day I literally don't know what happened to him. Even now I sometimes lie awake at night wondering if he ever made it through to morning.


He's probably still lying in a gutter somewhere, dying but not dead, along with Largo.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid