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.”

They emerged through a rusty grate into the basement of The Gilded Grouper. It was a fluorescent-lit horror show of canned goods and dust. And there, in the corner, was the tank. Tanked

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.” “I know,” he said, and for the first

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. And there, in the corner, was the tank

Chet lunged. It was not a strategic lunge. He tripped over a box of single-use ramekins and went sprawling. The aquarium net flew from his hand. In that split second, Barn saw his chance. He didn’t go for Chet. He went for Reginald.

Karma was six-foot-five, shaved-headed, and had a sleeve tattoo of a koi fish fighting an octopus. She looked like she could snap a pool cue in half with her eyebrows.

“And you’re here, in Tanked, at 9:47 in the morning, because…?”