Greg Samson woke one morning to find himself transformed into a giant tuna. He was flat on his side. With one eye he could see the silver table upon which he rested, his reflection confirming his metamorphosis. With the other eye he watched a man standing over him, dressed in a white chef’s outfit and running a large knife methodically across a well-used flint.

 Greg’s gills involuntarily quivered and released. The air pressed down uncomfortably upon him . He could smell ginger, and wondered if fish could smell at all.

 “Hi Greg,” said the man, expressionless. He continued to sharpen the blade, speaking in a determined, manner-of-fact tone. “I remember when we were freshman, and you picked that rock off the playground and threw it at me. That was a really nice throw. What do you think, fifty feet? I still have a tiny indentation behind my ear.”

 Greg couldn’t speak. He suddenly felt heavier and wiggled his slimy body against the pressure.

 “Ah, yes. But you certainly found success, did you not? Wealth, happiness, a beautiful wife.” Shving, shving, shving. The blade. “And I ended up with a brain injury. Barely made it through high school. Got addicted to crack. Lived in my grandmother’s basement for twenty years. But uncle Tony saw something in me last year, I don’t know why. And it turns out he was right. I learned a trade. Can you guess what I do for a living now?”

 Shving, shving, shving.

 Greg widened his mouth but could not speak.

 The man showed a restrained smile. “My name is Bob Kafka, and I’m a damn fine sushi chef.”

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