Help! I Just Can't Get Away From These Beefy Crabs

I was woken up by a rogue postman who smelt of orange crush. He whispered to me, “Your uncle’s home.” He was the first vertebrate I’d seen in what feels like weeks of plain deep gray ocean spray.

I still could hear the soft shuffling of collapsing sandcastles and the growing hustling of chitin spikes stabbing the fresh-baked sand. Instinctively I girdled up, exorcising my head all the way around backward. Behind me, growing larger against the horizon, like paint smudging in all directions cross-canvas, I see that unfathomable number of crabs with what seems to be fresh raw meat duck taped all over them. I can hear that fat “thwap; thwapping” sound as the meats bound up and down as the crabs run after me.

Days fade to days with such a horrible sound. My earwigs have begun to hold each other tightly and do ragdoll leaps from my ears. The crabs could have followed me by the trail of splattered families of earwigs darted behind me. But these beefy crabs have no need for trails, for they can always find me.

All the meat and cheap duct tape rattle in slow motion pubescent beating against itself like a soggy drum, the sound of sweaty hands clapping sarcastically. As they rear closer to me I realize that I hadn't taken my Bupropion in weeks and that contestant numb absence hadn't replaced the blue butterfly whaling, dreams of cutting; or slow inhaling. But all that is quickly forgotten those beefy crabs are still getting closer, and now they are furiously winking at each other while humming Jimmy Buffet, and through my horror, I realize the meats are flapping along in tune.

My shrunken muscles have raised to the occasion but they are just singing snail’s trail songs compared to the raw meaty power of the crabs’ inner soups and jellos squishing up against their armor, pushing them ever forward, ever closer. I don't know how much longer I can edge ahead of these beefy crabs, please someone send help.

I only got this note out because that damn rogue postman said I didn't have enough stamps to ship someone of “my weight” back home. He said he’d take this note “cause that whats a good uncle would do.” I can't let these beefy crabs catch up to me ‘cause I don't know where they got that meat from, and even worse I don't know if they want more.

For more articles by Hubert E. “Eyebrows” Perrywinkler, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email


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