Jack Kurtilick Holds Rare Maltese Anfibidorian Hostage

“…and some things in life hint to the fact everyone was meant to unequivocally suffer in due time. We all feel liberated by the sight of the ocean, though we can not live in it. We die, then return to whence we came. I may drink like a bastard now, but I’d like to call it training! How old are you? 18, 19? Breathing underwater seemed a bit more advantageous in opposition of knowing how to swim,” then Jack looked at me, sharpening his once roundish eyes,”are you sure you don’t want a drink, Daniel?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“There’s no shame in it, provided your laxed provisionally minimal, adherent regards towards Christian propaganda.” said Jack, pouring himself another scotch, straight. I paused for a moment because I had absolutely no idea what this drunk fucker was talking about. After gathering what was left of my mind, I understood his power; he spoke in jargon, like a doctor. No person has any fucking idea what the doctor is talking about, but the way they spoke allowed you to nod your head, accept, and receive a terminal death sentence. That’s how Jack spoke, though it could also be the half empty bottle of scotch on his end-table.
“I’m really just here for, Eleanor. The Maltese Anfibidoria or whatever the thing is called… the, ‘FISH,'” I gestured quotations with my fingers, “means a great deal to her.” I couldn’t look Jack in his eyes. I mean, I’d want to kill me too, if my ex-girlfriend sent a younger, adept replacement to retrieve a prized, rare fish at our old apartment. I, then, glanced up as a fluke due to the absence of a response and locked onto his eyes, and to my surprise, only saw the eyes of an man misplaced from another world. Donning the eyes of, what seemed like, a passionate player who’d lost a chess match. Defeated by a kid with beginner’s luck. Hand on his glass, he peered closer. Then withdrew. Then spoke.
“The ‘FISH,’ is in the back, Danny boy.” Jack said a he pointed towards another end of the apartment.
After a moment, I spoke. “Thanks, Jack.” I started what must have seemed like the most awkward exit. As I was about to round the corner, Jack spoke.
“Daniel,” I turned and faced him, “little Danny Smolensk knows where to go, if he were to change his mind about that drink right?”
“Yeah… Danny S. knows.” I nodded and gave a half-assed non-military salute, about faced. I hadn’t known at the time that I would never see Jack again. He was to vanish on a fishing excursion. Jack really wasn’t a bad guy. I liked him.

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