Writing Prompt

I was told to write a story between myself and a friend, where I was to be a puffer fish and she was an albatross. Here's the first installment I jotted down last night:


The door chime TINK-TINGED, waking up the Filipino store clerk of Beach Pets Emporium. The tabby cat, lying in a sliver of sunlight, lazily raised her head towards the door, unimpressed, she return to her sun-soaked slumber.
The visitor was hardly anything to behold; a middle-aged fisherman, tan sun-hat adorning his head, rod in his right hand, bucket in his left. The ocean had seen a billion of similar sportsmen, and before it was all said and done, that number would just be the proverbial drop in the ocean.
The Filipino store owner, still half-asleep, reverted to his instincts. “Can I help you, sir?” he buzzed, his brain on autopilot.
The fisherman looked at the hand-drawn sign above the cash register, which read “We Buy And Sell Fish”. “Why I believe you can,” the fisherman replied as he put the white five-gallon paint bucket on the counter. “I’m in the fish selling market and a little birdie told me you were in the fish buying market”.
“Fish buying market, fish buying market”. A parakeet was more than happy to play along.
“Why, I believe it was that very one who told me,” the fisherman stood tall, pleased with his wit.
“What have you got for me?” the clerk queried.
“Only the finest in tropical fish; exotic, interesting, colorful,” the fisherman leaned in. “Some would go as far as to say sexy.” He winked at the clerk and continued on, unconcerned by the lack of response. “Put up one hell of a fight. For a minute I thought I was going to have to cut my line, on account of I figured I snagged my rig on one of them Jap sea scooters you see zipping around out there”.
The clerk had heard enough sales-pitch. He reached for the bucket’s lid but was thwarted as the fisherman slapped his hands away. The fisherman reached into his back pocket and pulled out a screw-driver. “That lid’s on too tight for any man to just reach at and open, I made sure of it.” The fisherman wedged the screwdriver in between the bucket and the lid. “When you run across something this special, you don’t take risks”. He popped the lid off. The clerk looked in.
The Filipino’s face turned into a toothy grin. He exhaled a chuckle. “That’s it?” he prodded, “that’s your sexy fish?”
Inside the bucket was a tiny gray fish, long and slender, several orange markings on his back were the only things that would have made it stand out from the endless monochrome of the bland ocean floor.
“You haven’t seen what it can do yet,” the fisherman recovered, desperately trying to maintain the upper-hand.
He gripped the screwdriver tight and dipped it slowly into the water, moving it closer and closer to the tiny gray fish until the metal tip tapped the sea-creature on the head. Instantly, the tiny fish ballooned to 5 times its original size, revealing its true beauty. Oranges, reds, blues and greens, hidden in the folds of the mutable fish became a visual feast of colors. The fisherman was right; to most, this was no ordinary fish.
To the shopkeeper, born and raised on a tropical island, however, it was, “Just another puffer fish.”
The fisherman’s jaw dropped. The Clerk picked up the bucket and put it behind the counter, “I’ll pay you five dollars, take it or leave it”.
The fisherman, still reeling, slammed his hand against the counter. “Now wait just a minute,” he started up. The shopkeeper knew where this was going.
“I said take it or leave it”. The Filipino knew he had won.
“Fine”. Now was the time to save face. “But I want my bucket back”. The clerk shrugged, poured the bucket into a temporary bowl and handed the fisherman a crumpled five dollar bill.
The fisherman left with more than a simple door-chime. Even the unflappable cat covered her orange triangle ears with the pads of her paws.
The store owner decided to get a closer look at his new investment.. The water and the glass of the fish bowl distorted the puffer’s visage, wrapping the fish into a fun house mirror. “I know just where to put you,” the store owner said with a smile, as he picked up the fish bowl, sending a small splash of water to jettison out of the glass container.
The shop keeper maneuvered through the cluttered store, managing only to nip the tip of the tabby cat’s pipe-cleaner tail. A soft meow was the only protest.
Past rows of fish, the store owner paraded his new ware. There was no time for formal introductions, nor should there be; in a place like this, a fish never knew how long he’d last before he was sold to the glass-tapping brat, who was a little too trigger happy on the toilet bowl flusher. The groupers scowled at the puffer as the seahorses giggled, maintaining an heir of supremacy with their inside jokes, while the industrious goldfish population w busy plotting their bourgeoisie revolt, unbeknownst to the regal lobsters and well-to-do, oyster-bearing clams.
Finally, the shop keeper dusted off the end of the aisle and placed the fish bowl between the bait tank and start of the bird cages. The store owner grabbed a water filter and plopped it in the bowl. “That should do for now,” he convinced himself, admiring his less-than-handy work.
The puffer watched as the shop owner disappeared out of view. The lights flicked off and the door chime was heard once more. The puffer was the last transaction of the day, but hardly the end of the excitement.
“Get a load of the new guy” a voice broke the hum of the aquarium aerators.
“I say he lasts a day before we find him upside down,” a female voice accompanies the first heckler.
“A day?! Try an hour. I’ve seen his type, their used to the ocean, with their fancy corral, and their fancy sea-shells,” a third voice chided.
“How’s it feel to be behind glass? Could be worse, tomorrow we could find you under porcelain.” Laughter erupts.
The puffer realizes he’s the butt of the jokes, but it’s too dark.
“Who’s there?” the puffer timidly probes.
“Aww, ocean boy is afraid of the dark,” is the only response he got. Then, appears a spark in the distance. And then another one, followed by a blinding light.
“Not again! Turn that thing down,” another voice pleads.
Three electric eels, wrapped around each other are using their power to light up an aquarium bulb lodged in the mouth of one of the eels. The row of fish tanks is illuminated. One of the eels breaks from the electric chain. The light goes from blinding to reasonable. “Sorry about that,” the eel politely apologized.
The puffer saw his audience for the first time. Rows of tanks contained fish poking their head out of the water, eying their new target. “I don’t want any trouble,” the puffer tried. Laughter erupted again.
“Did you hear that? The new guy doesn’t want trouble. He wouldn’t know trouble if it was a three ton shark swimming next to him,” a fat goldfish jeers, followed by a fit of hacking laughter, which then transformed into a crescendo of cat-calls and heckles.
The puffer cowered against the back of his tank, the eels’ make-shift spotlight still directly in his eyes. He put up a fin to try to lessen the glare, but it’s still uncomfortably bright.
“I say we fry him!” a voice cried out. “Fried shrimp is on the menu tonight!” another fish chimed in. This was all the crowd needed. Chants of “FRY HIM! FRY HIM! FRY HIM!” quickly became thunderous. The puffer’s bowl shook, as the other fish worked together, banging the sides of their tanks, the vibrations rattling the puffer’s smaller fish bowl sending it towards the edge.
The puffer saw his own death, four feet below in the form of black and white linoleum, and the eager eyes of a hungry, orange, tabby cat. The fish bowl teetered on the edge, a feather’s weight away from falling. And then, a loud crash interrupted the chants as the light quickly disappeared.
“That’s enough!” a strong female voice boomed. A soft light clicked on, revealing an albatross, clutching a broken bulb in its talons, the eel still holding on with his mouth. Another eel illuminates the scene with a smaller bulb. “I won’t drop him on the ground if you promise to stop the fighting and let the rest of us get some sleep. The albatross stood perched over the eels’ tank. “And stop pointing that light…” she lets the light bulb-clutching eel fall into is tank, bonking his comrade on the head, “… in everyone's faces.
The albatross returned to her perch, in the shadows, next to the puffer’s tank.
“Thanks, for your help, I thought I was cat food for a minute,” the puffer addressed his hero.
“Mhmm,” the albatross is not interested in glory, just sleep.
“My name’s Jim, what’s yours?” the puffer inquired.
“It’s not important,” the albatross quickly replied.
“Sure it is, I’d like to know the person who saved my life.”
“Trust me, kid, I haven’t saved anyone, you still got a long way to go before you’re safe.”
Jim, the puffer, realized he’s still all alone, even his guardian had nothing nice to say to him. He laid flat on the bowl’s floor and started to sob.
“My name’s Sarah, now would you please stop crying,” the albatross said, with great agitation in her voice.
Jim perked up. “Thank you, Sarah.”

TO BE CONTINUED.