bronson-fish

I am in a pet store, near the fish. Each tank bubbles. Each fish looks like Charles Bronson. I feed the Bronson-fish. I hold my tire-iron. I swing my tire-iron. I smash the tanks with my tire-iron. The Bronson-fish slide across the tile floor, little Bronson lips opening and closing, little Bronson moustaches all soggy and long. It is warm. I steal a book from the bookstore. I run. Giant Bronson-fish chase me and tackle me and handcuff me. I am shoved into the back of a squad-car. There is a sound like laughing.