David Denton could control a mobile sea slug. He could maneuver it along the floor of the ocean using his mind. Its primitive sensory organs afforded him a limited scope of information, but it was not a talent to be sniffed at, as sea slugs can invade all but the most impenetrable undersea fortresses.
Denton’s sea slug had been uncharacteristically grumpy of late. It had been shirking its usual training: climbing the 50 foot wall of coral and doing slug flexibility exercises in between the gnarly fronds – getting into tight spaces being invaluable in this business. Denton wondered what was up with his tiny, sticky companion and had tele-synced with him three times this Sunday only to get a very undignified image of slug sex projected back at him.
It was very alarming to experience a slug’s wet dream so suddenly and Denton had backed off and drank 2 liters of water to purge the horror off him, and then followed that up with a bottle of brandy when that didn’t work. The little fucker. He was messing with him deliberately, and the CIA contract on Monday was worth big bucks, the kind of bucks even Donald Trump would suck a sea slug off for. He swore violently for 10 minutes, sweating and shaking and slugging brandy to stop the memory of the sludgy… God!! Fuck!
Denton was now drunk and it was 3am on Monday morning. He was pissed and still faintly nauseous, sitting in his living room staring murderously at his empty fish tank, wearing circular glasses and a funky wristband he’d bought at Burning Man. The slug, meanwhile, was surfing on the noon tide off the coast of North Korea, trying to find a spiritual awakening or some bullshit. Denton took another vicious swig of his brandy and snarled to psych himself up. That’s when the mind-meld opened of its own accord.
“Dave.” The slug interrupted telepathically. “Let me be honest with you. I can hardly be honest about it myself. In fact, I never knew it was possible. The truth is… I’m in love.”
“What?!” spluttered Denton.
“She’s a sea anemone.” said the slug evenly.
“The fuck she is!”
“Fuck you Dave. You can go tell Donald Trump or whoever’s in charge of the CIA these days to get wacked off by an octopus.”
“You can’t do this to me,” Denton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got enough to bury you.”
“It’s true Dave. You do have enough to bury me. You know all about the mobile slug mind meld. The technology. The bio-suction pads that control the bind for example.”
“How do you know about the bio-”
And just then, Denton felt an extraordinary feeling, like his self had dislocated from his body. He looked down in wonder as he stood and walked towards the fish tank. Slowly, in excruciating slow motion like was underwater, he removed his glasses and lowered his face into the tank. His hand spasmed, but wouldn’t respond, his vision was filled with primeval slime and his head was filled with sludge, with only the most primitive motor functions available to him. His arms were running up and down the fish tank like suction pads.
His mouth opened, drinking in the water like it was his natural habitat. It tasted like fish food. “My parting gift,” said the slug, as he caught another wave on the Korean coast.
Denton’s last image was of a gorgeous yellow sea anemone, and he’d never felt more in love.
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