I read about her again in the obituary. You

I read about her again in the obituary. You know, I wondered what she had been doing all these years.

Her husband looked old in the picture. Much older than the forty-four. She was eight years younger and now a widow. He'd stolen her away from me, all charm and maturity, ten years

in the state prison had made him the Road Dog of a mean mexican maffia member known as, "Crying Clown." How she wasted her life. The knock at the door stopped her pity party, it

was the man delivering her daily supply of sardine paste. She'd use it to lubricate her

patrons in his signature drink, the fishitini. One sardine in the bottom of the gales, three parts vodka, and two drops of the oil from the can. The trick is to wiggle the galas so

that the gummy fish at the bottom appears to be swimming. A great way to break the ice with the ladies. How could they not notice a rainbow fish swimming around in a martini

then I realized the glass slopes in, and all the fishies just laid in a colorful mess at the bottom. That's when a girl came up to me, looking at what I was holding and said

"You know that thing you're holding is poisonous." I quickly threw it into the pile of fish and yelled.

"Are you questioning my ability to prepare fugu?!". I brandished my sushi knife.