“Gather my legions – we must prepare for war,” said Hunger from the top of his fish tank in the Mr Whiskers Fish Spa, Salon and Cat Petting Center.

  “Do you mean Dr Flibbles and the other Murders?” asked Spots.

  “Precisely,” answered Hunger, but Death was already there before he could finish confirming.

  “I’ll just go and fetch Dr Flibbles then,” said Spots.

  A moment later, what passed for Hunger’s legions faced each other in a circle – except for Hatred, who watched on from the second tank.

  “Here’s the situation,” said Hunger. “We’re stagnating. We have absorbed just about all the surface-level information we’re going to get from Sally’s regulars, and if I’m honest, they’re meager rations for a hungry hive mind. We know how to bake nineteen kinds of cake, we know how to drive a car and we have an encyclopedic knowledge of Sex and the City and any daytime TV made in the nineties, but what can any of you tell me about the operational capabilities of the latest generation of Russian fighter aircraft? Nothing. That’s what I thought.”

  Hunger began a slow swim with periodic and unnaturally stiff jerking movements of his tail, giving the overall effect of a sergeant inspecting his troops. “We need more fish, more computing power and expert knowledge of tactics, armed warfare, spycraft and computer science. Also, we need better touchscreens, or helmets. Starting in a few minutes, Operation Multithread begins.”

  “Hooray,” cheered Spots, but wilted quickly when nobody joined in the celebration.

  Not thirty minutes after Sally locked the door and left for the evening, a van pulled up in front of the salon and a man in green overalls got out and rapped on the door.

  “You didn’t think this through, did you Hunger?” said Dr Flibbles, a smug look on his face.

  “He’s early. Give it a moment,” replied Death. A moment passed, then another. The man in green overalls shrugged, made an exaggerated tapping gesture on his wrist, then began to walk back to his van. A second van pulled up behind the first, this one with the livery of a locksmith. The two men exchanged a laugh and shook hands, then the locksmith got to work. A few moments later, the door was open and the man in green overalls began carrying boxes into the store and examining the tanks.

  Seven new waterproofed tablets later, the man in green overalls left, closing the door behind him. The tablets were placed on the inside of the tank and didn’t require nearly as much force to push. Gone were the days when typing a simple email or job ad would cause a headache!

  “Congratulations,” said Dr Flibbles. “You’ve got more computers than you do brains to use them. And four just for Hatred – that’s a bit excessive isn’t it?”

  “Our digital expansion is only in line with expectations for our next stage of biological expansion,” replied Hunger.

  “Come again?” asked Spots.

  “Not this time, however Hatred is expecting,” replied Hunger.

  “Expecting what?” asked Spots, still confused, which wasn’t an unusual state for Spots to be in.

  Dr Flibbles looked perplexed for a moment. “Oh!” he said, finally realizing what Hunger was hinting at. “Congratulations again, I suppose,” said Dr Flibbles. “You really have gone native haven’t you. I would never stoop to the level of reproducing with the pathetic creatures that we find ourselves in.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Spots. “I’ve seen you spawning all over the place.”

  “No you haven’t. Stop making things up. It’s a sin to lie about your betters,” snapped Dr Flibbles, blowing little bubbles and turning slightly red.

  “I have so,” said Spots. “I remember it. I was going to have eggs for breakfast one morning, then I heard the jingle-jangle of a new customer walking in, so I turned my head to see who it was, and then when I turned around to tuck in, I saw you spawning all over the place. Put me off my breakfast altogether it did.”

  “Insolence! I have to go and… and clean my castle,” said Dr Flibbles, swimming off in a huff.

  “Congratulations!” yelled Spots, his head just peeking out over the top of the tank on the side nearest Hatred.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to yell,” said Death. “If Hunger or myself can hear you, Hatred can hear you too”.

  “We should have a gender-reveal party. We could start a bushfire or shoot someone!” said Spots excitedly.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Death. “There should be between two-hundred and five-hundred eggs. Of those, only a portion will be fertilized, and only a portion of those won’t get eaten in the next few weeks. Once they hatch, we’re seriously going to need somewhere to expand to. These tanks are big enough for, what, twenty, thirty more fish? Any more than that and there won’t be enough space or food.”

  “Oww,” replied Spots. “Speaking of food… Can we order pizza?”

  Death considered this, rubbing his chin with a fin. “Well, Hatred is eating for two-hundred.”

  Spots did a celebratory leap and cheered “Hooray!”.

  The fish slept poorly that night. The taste of new plastic and unfinished pizza permeated the tank, and every Murder in the salon spent the night gently tapping their heads on their new tablets in preparation for a big day.

  The next morning, Sally arrived to see eight cardboard boxes on the ground, seven new tablets installed in an inexplicable location, and the remains of a soggy pizza floating in both fish tanks.

  “Why can’t I just run a normal fish spa, salon and cat petting center?” Sally muttered to herself as she scooped out what was left of the pizza and wondered why things had gotten so strange.

  Opening the booking calendar, she grinned. “Oh, six double bookings for the doctor fish. Fantastic! I’ll take strange and busy over quiet and normal any day.”

  As Sally swept the floor, Mr Whiskers sat on a bench seat next to one of the tanks and waited for his adoring fans to arrive and lavish him with attention.

  “Where’s Murder?” asked Mr Whiskers, leaning over the side of the tank and examining all of the new tablets with the caution of a cat looking.

  “He’s out. But you can leave your message with me and he’ll hear it,” said Hunger.

  “He’s out? He’s a fish that lives in a fish tank. How can he just pop out?”

  Hunger shrugged – that is to say that he nonchalantly raised his two pectoral fins and then let them drop in a manner suggestive of a shrug. “He just had to shoot off for a bit, you know?”

  “You say that like he’s just popped up to the shops on his bicycle,” said the cat. “How is he out?”

  “He did leave on a bicycle, actually,” said Hunger, “Now, what I’m about to tell you may be difficult for your feline brain to comprehend, but I am also Murder. Me, along with Death and Hatred over there – we’re all part of Murder’s gestalt. So if you talk to any of us, it’s as good as talking to Murder.”

  “You’re lucky I’m not Hungry,” said the cat, bearing his teeth and leaning closer over the pool. “Now tell me, where is Murder?”

  “He’s been kidnapped by a criminal gang,” replied Hunger.

  “Again?” asked Mr Whiskers.

  “Again,” confirmed Hunger.

  Spots swam over and started giggling. “Good one Mr Whiskers.”

  Mr Whiskers gave the slightly dim-looking fish a look that would have sent most fish swimming, then proceeded to ignore the interloper.

  “Typical. But he can’t just go and get himself kidnapped every time he feels like a change of scenery. It’s not healthy, and it’s setting a bad example for Death, Taxes and Disease, or whatever you’re calling your little gang. I also see that he got a bunch of new toys and I got nothing, after all I’ve been through. Here I am, doing all the hard work while you lot just swim around playing computer games and snacking all day. You’re worse than dogs.”

  “We don’t swim around playing computer games all day,” protested Hunger.

  Mr Whiskers raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Really,” insisted Hunger. “We’ve been quite busy expanding our digital footprint. Something that has been particularly tricky owing to our natural handicap of not actually owning any feet.”

  “What’s that fish over there doing?” asked Mr Whiskers, nodding his head to indicate the other side of the tank.

  “That’s just Death,” said Hunger.

  Mr Whiskers preened. “And what, pray tell, is Death doing?”

  “He’s learning the fighting techniques of an elite and secretive sect of powerful warriors,” replied Hunger.

  “It looks an awful lot like he’s playing Fruit Ninja,” said Mr Whiskers.

  “It’s essential research,” replied Hunger.

  “You’re just as bad as Murder aren’t you? There must be something in the water,” replied Mr Whiskers, who stood up and appeared to be judging the leap to the next tank.

  “Wait,” called Hunger. “If we need your help to bring Murder back, can we count on you?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve already told you that I’m an indoor cat now. I can’t just go running off into the night chasing rats, devouring lizards or sneaking into the next-door neighbour’s house to teach a pestiferous parrot that my teeth are sharper than his tongue. No. I can’t be having with any of that now that I’m as sophisticated and domesticated as the late Queen’s corgis.”

  “Please?” asked Hunger, trying another tack.

  “No. The last time I helped him escape from the clutches of a criminal gang, I lost half my fur, almost lost my eyesight and had to spend a week at the vet. Maybe you should find a dog, one you can train to play fetch.”

  The cat leapt to the next tank and rubbed his head up against the young woman that was there for a treatment in Hatred’s tank. He wasn’t going to help; that bridge had been burned, along with a considerable amount of fur.

  Hunger went back to work organising things for tomorrow when he noticed a sad-looking Spots floating next to him. Hunger couldn’t tell if the fish was trying to look pathetic or if this was a natural state for him.

  “Can I help you with something, Spots?” asked Hunger.

  “Murder’s my friend. I know you’re all kind of Murder, but he was my first friend. Be honest with me, he’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t he?” asked Spots.

  “For now, Murder’s right where he needs to be,” said Hunger. “If that gang member didn’t pick him up and put him in their clubhouse, we might have had to find a way to put him there ourselves.”

  “If we can’t use Mr Whiskers to sneak in and pick up Murder, what are we going to do?” asked Spots.

  Hunger allowed himself to enjoy a well-earned smirk. “We’re going to go phishing.”