The fishmen lay facedown on the beach in the shade of Jock McGinty’s now significantly fancier truck. This was their hour of respite. Their break from the relentless schedule.

  Greg looked abysmal—so abysmal, in fact, that Gideon felt obliged to check his pulse. He wasn’t dead. Yet.

  “Sure, the conditions are brutal,” said Gorbachev. “But at least the perks are non-existent.”

  Jock McGinty laughed.

  “You alright, McGinty?” said Gideon, who had a soft spot for the vape-happy driver.

  “Can’t complain,” puffed McGinty, disappearing into a watermelon-scented abyss.

  A long pause. Greg cracked open an eye. “Actually, you can complain,” he croaked. “And you probably should. How many hours has he got you doing?”

  “Standard ten. And I wouldn’t give a shit if it was all driving. But tracking every piss break, fuel stop and idle minute. That’s the real killer. I signed up to drive trucks, not write memoirs.”

  McGinty held up the logbook, his sworn enemy.

  “You know what I call it?”

  “Something hilarious and cutting no doubt,” laughed Gideon.

  “I call it The Great Book of Bullshit!”

  “You know, you shouldn’t have to justify your existence, Jock,” said Greg. “You’ve been with us from the beginning—from the very first shipment. You work for us, not for Gary!”

  “It’s the bloody Government, I reckon. Once you shack up with the government you get a whole lot more of this bureaucratic bullshit.”

  Unfortunately for Jock, revolting didn’t pay the bills. He was living paycheck to paycheck, and that meant sucking it up.

  “Better get going,” he said. “Hard to account for yapping in the log.”

  “You’re talking to us,” said Greg. “And what matters more—your rightful kings, or a bloody book?” He exhaled. “Burn it.”

  McGinty stared helplessly at The Great Book of Bullshit. Sighed.

  “Maybe when I win the lottery,” said Jock with a wry smile. “Catch ya later.”

  ***

  In a truck stop café, sat Hernando—a hired goon. In his pocket: an envelope. Inside, ten thousand in unmarked bills.

  They were marked initially, but Hernando painstakingly covered each serial number in a sea of Twink. He was a real problem solver—had been for years. Solving problems for one Crawford Thorne.

  The café door opened with an elaborate creak. A driver entered.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Jock McGinty?”

  “What’s it to you?” said Jock, caught off guard.

  “My business is many things. Today, it’s Jock McGinty.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Jock, pushing past Hernando and heading to his favourite table.

  Hernando slid effortlessly into the chair opposite Jock and dropped the envelope onto the table. Thwack.

  “What’s this?” said McGinty.

  “Little extra cash, for a little extra cargo.”

  Hernando placed a vial on the table.

  “All we ask is that you pour this into one of the shipments.”

  Jock looked at the vial, then back at the envelope. He wanted the cash, but not like this.

  “I’m not here to sway you one way or other,” said Hernando.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” said Jock McGinty, standing and making a beeline for the door.

  “I’ll be here tomorrow, Jock. If your mind should somehow change.”

  ***

  Sometimes, a seemingly minor discrepancy can have a massive impact. For Jock, it was the fine he received that evening for inaccuracies in his logbook. Instead of the mileage, he’d written an existential haiku.

  Wheels on endless roads,

  Logbook calls, but I resist,

  Am I man or cog?

  The fine came through that evening. He’d been docked fifty dollars. The reason: Inaccurate record keeping. And also, for crimes against poetry.

  They had even stapled a yellow note to the book. Jock! it said. If you insist on expressing yourself, please consider enrolling in a creative writing course.

  Jock stared at the note. Read it. Twice. His eye twitched.

  It was the last straw.

  ***

  The next morning, Jock greeted Hernando at the truck stop. Took his money. Took the poison, too. Did he have doubts? Yes. Lots of them. A relentless clusterfuck of doubts. All the live long day.

  When he returned to base that evening, Jock McGinty was already sweating. He tried to vape away the nerves, but the soothing watermelon flavour failed to allay his fears. Then, as he gazed down at his shoes, he found his inspiration. That famous tick. The generic and easily applicable slogan.

  “Just do it,” wheezed Jock McGinty, as he reached for the poison, and leapt down from the cab.

  ***

  Tiny Tim was of average height for a child his age (seven). His parents had chosen the nickname. It was cute, they said, and Tiny Tim was cuter, and cuter still, was his birthday hat that he wore with a jaunty tilt.

  “When’s the fish coming, Mummy?” cooed Tiny Tim, in a way that was very unirritating for a child his age.

  “Let me check the app,” said his obliging Mum.

  ***

  In total darkness, Jock fumbled with the lid of the poison. Struggled to grasp it in his shaking hands.

  “Shit,” said Jock as the errant lid clattered onto the forecourt. He reached around in the dark, and to his relief, it was there. To his left, under a single flickering streetlamp, stood a lone motorcycle sidecar. The driver had absconded to the bathroom. This was Jock McGinty’s chance.

  Jock tore open the compartment. Dumped the poison onto the fish. Slam. He shut it. And scuttled away under the cover of dark.

  ***

  Across the lot, Jim “The Money” Devereaux sat in his battered sedan, camera in hand. He’d been following Fish Direct? for weeks now, hoping for something juicy, a scandal, a real smoking gun.

  Was this it? Did he have it at last?

  He replayed the footage.

  What it showed was Jock McGinty, and what Jim noticed was the sweat. So much disgusting sweat. Pouring off him in sheets. A man drowning in his own guilt.

  “What are you up to McGinty?” Jim muttered, studying his erratic movements, his darting eyes.

  Jim’s heart hammered as he rewatched the footage—Jock, crouched over the shipment, hands moving quickly. Too quickly.

  Jim reached for his notebook, scribbled a single question:

  WHAT DID HE PUT IN THE FISH?

  ***

  Ten minutes later, Tiny Tim got his favourite—a fresh fillet of Tarakihi. He watched eagerly as it sizzled in the pan.

  They sang Happy Birthday as they delivered the fish, lit by a single candle.

  Tiny Tim blew it out. Took a single bite.

  “That’s funny,” said Tiny Tim. “It tastes like… watermelon.”

  ***

  Jock McGinty was free. He’d done the job. Taken the money. All he had to do was drive.

  And as he drove, Jock puffed on his trusty vape, which tasted a little off for some reason. He tried again, as if a second hit might fix the problem.

  Poison. With a poison chaser.

  A pause. A slow, dawning horror.

  Oh, shit.

  That was his last thought.