Living With a Murderer
"I didn't do it. Nobody saw me do it. You can't prove anything."
~ Bart Simpson
Sir Glubs-a-lot lives by these words despite the fact that he has never seen an episode of The Simpsons. As I mentioned the other day, Sir Glubs-a-lot is my 18-inch Sailfin Gibbiceps Pleco from South America. I'd introduce you to him but I wouldn't want you to cut yourself trying to shake his pectoral fin.
Sir Glubs-a-lot has a secret.
Sir Glubs-a-lot is a murderer.
But I have a good relationship with Sir Glubs-a-lot. I can actually reach into the water and "pet" him because we have an understanding: I don't turn him over to the police, and he doesn't kill me.
The last time he killed was the summer of 2005. It was hot. Everybody was agitated. Tempers grew short. Looks were exchanged and territories were violated. I don't know who cast the first evil glance, but it ended in death. With a swift slosh of his deadly caudal fin, Sir Glubs-a-lot forced a tiny Rasbora up into the air, then down onto the floor.
A small fish wouldn't last long on a hardwood floor. The heat of the day didn't help. Within 25 minutes the little Rasbora stopped wriggling. If only I had stayed. I was only gone from the room 25 minutes. But it was enough.
I tried not to cry. But what is a boy to do? Trapped in a home, living with a murderer, afraid to expose the truth, afraid to anger the giant who also protects us in the night.
So I keep his secret. And I sleep soundly.