the serialized forthcoming novel in 67 parts by one mr. adam mcclary.
unedited, subject to improve before its release to the insatiable public.
It never surprised the man walking into the bar that his octopus would initially go unnoticed. It was a small Blue-ringed octopus, genus Hapalochlaena, and it liked to tuck itself under the mans arm like a satchel.
Usually what happened was that someone on a nearby barstool would mistake it for a purse. Sometimes there was a wisecrack about the mans sexuality. This didn’t offend either the man or the octopus. The man happened to be straight but couldn’t care less about the distinction for others; the octopus was also straight, but inexperienced and impulsive and not particularly discriminate gender-wise, about who’s mantle cavity he stuck his hectocotylus in.
Another reason no offense was taken had to do with the breakfast of inevitable shock worn by interlopers. As with their gender preferences, the man and the octopus were similarly a bit sadistic- the mans sadism rooted in the depressing but opportunistic percentage of suckers amongst the population, the octopus’s in that he never knew his parents.
“Nice purse lady”, or, “Does your husband play golf as well?”
or whatever uselessness would spring forth from one of these playable suckers, these bar-goons, would be backpedaled into childlike fascination when the purse blinked or crawled onto the bartop. Cooing and obvious questions regarding the make and model of the octopus followed, along with the compulsive desire to touch the taboo object as if he were made of snakes or marshmallow. This never failed to delight the man or the octopus, who ironically relished his role as bait.
They would play it cool at first.
“He doesn’t like to be handled by strangers,” the man would dryly say as he looked over a menu or scanned the backbar for the single malt selection, “-and he’s poisonous...” he’d add if the situation called for it.
And though the suckers would try to return to their droll discussion of the numerical hotness designation of t-backs, or whatever uselessness, the sea creature always proved too intriguing to ignore. There was however a real lack of a decent follow-up query once the sucker had been initially dismissed, and this caused them tangible distress. It was this awkward silence before the next melee the man loved most. He’d count in his head to substantiate the interval, every fresh second filled him to his Che Guevera hat with chemical satisfaction. The octopus broke with the man in this aspect and was sort of embarrassed during this pause, but he allowed it of the man, conscious that the allure of the con had nuances for each of them and that frankly he himself had unsavory vices.
The way the man played it was like this, he’d talk-over whatever uselessness the sucker would ante-up as the icebreaker. He found the abruptness of the interruption came off as a challenge, and the urgent atmosphere of a fresh challenge forced the sucker so irrationally onto defence that he overplayed his hand. Often the man was met with an immediate raise in stakes before the guidelines of a bet could be agreed upon.
The game established, the man would survey his surroundings. He would consider the skill sets of the octopus and with the mental quickness of veteran, he’d outline a wager. They had chosen that happy hour to walk into a local hotspot across from a concert hall. This had been a deliberate move and now the octopus began to feel that same satisfaction he excused in the man.
to be continued...
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