Day of the Some-What Dead Blobfish

By Page Tennessee G.

​My uncle took a trip to Jamaica and bought a dead blobfish at a flea market. His name is Hank, and I don’t like him. Hank is quite heavy, weighing almost 20 pounds, which we can pick up, but his stench is so pungent that we can’t get him out of my room. He lives in the bathtub. My room is off limits due to it probably being a biohazard area, and it is a rule that we wear gas masks when going in there. One time, my parents and I went upstairs, and we found Hank laid out across the floor, oozing his disgusting ooze. Dad was the first one to take initiative. He tried to pick up Hank, but the floor was so slippery that he fell down and received a crack in his pelvis. His gas mask fell off, and he looked terrible, just breathing the fumes in. Mom was wearing high heels because she had a work meeting that day, and she managed to pick Hank up before the heel cracked and she fell into the filled bathtub. I was on the phone calling 9-1-1 when Dad started to have a heart attack, and Hank was flopping everywhere. Mom got up and started to get out of the tub when she slipped on her broken heel and did a flip and landed on Dad.  Then he threw up his waffles he ate that morning, which our Hank took care of cleaning off the floor. Not what I thought when I asked my uncle for a fish for Christmas.

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