Trying to run

As I write, my walrus-best-friend is out in the lagoon taking a solitary swim. His mind is in a state of turmoil as he propels himself madly through the murky waters, like an enraged torpedo. It's because of what I told him earlier on. I guess I would be dismayed too if I found out that my once beloved ex-pet seal turned out not to be a seal at all, but a sea lion in disguise.

It all started this morning. Since I'd quit my job as a seal-communications instructor over a pay dispute, I decided to take some time to go out and enjoy the local attractions. So I went down to the aquarium to watch the "Slippery Sliding Seals!!! (or are they??)" show, the establishment's latest offering. It was marvellously entertaining. Seals and sea lions slipped and slided around the smooth rocks, dove into the water and performed nifty underwater acrobatic tricks. It was very well choreographed.

Then halfway through the lights dimmed, the troupe galumphed offstage, the spotlight intensified and the drumroll played---it was time for the star of the show to come out. There was a pregnant, anticipatory silence as the star seal siddled out onstage, looking heart-wrenchingly pristine and demure. I recognised that pinniped immediately. It was Zach, flashing the same look he used on Des the day Des brought him home from the zoo. ("Thank you for rescuing me," he simpered sweetly, "they underfed me at the zoo.")

Well in accordance with his demure image, he performed a gracefully choreographed aquatic ballet to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. The audience sighed wistfully. Then Zach did the unthinkable. He disappeared behind a screen, where an entourage fussed over him, and he emerged---a sea lion. The audience of 4000 walrie gasped sharply. No longer was Zach a demure spotted seal. His spots had been wiped off, his ears protruded after being untaped, and his hind flippers faced forward. He was a Californian sea lion. The music changed abrubtly to tacky techno and Zach burst into a new energetic, flamboyant routine. He bounced around on land, juggled multiple balls (bringing to mind my stupid walrus friend's sentimental comment: "at least I know that I made an indelible impression on Zach...I know I was special because he learned to juggle just for me...and he was so proud of his skill!") and in general, skillfully worked the crowd. At one point he body-surfed on the audience and in the process allowed many walrie to handle him proprietarily. Several of them twiddled his ears in wonder before quickly passing him on. All the while he grinned insipidly, barking and clapping in delight, savouring the occasional fish tossed at him in the most degrading manner. Zach was clearly basking in their disgust and horrified fascination, which he took for adulation. Then, as the show progressed, he disappeard behind the screen again where they turned him back into a seal. The show proceeded with him alternating between his seal/sea lion routines.

So this evening, when Des came back from work, I told him all about the show. At first we had a good time maliciously insulting Zach, marvelling with wicked glee at what he'd become.

"To think," Des guffawed, "that that seal has stooped to impersonating a sea lion! Haw haw!"

I was stunned for a few minutes. Didn't Des understand? "Uh, Des...don't you see?" I asked incredulously, "Zach is a sea lion pretending to be a seal!"

Des stared ahead silently. His face changed by degrees as cold realisation sank in. "You don't think..."

"---didn't he talk about his 'trademark handstands'?" I interrupted. "True seals can't support their weight on their front flippers, you know. Damn, to think we missed that glaring detail all these years. Ha!"

Des started to quiver imperceptibly. He looked as if he was going to burst suddenly, and he did. He let out a heart rending, blood-curdling bellow as he ploughed off into the lagoon, which is where he usually goes when he needs some time alone. I felt tremendously sorry for the duped beast, and my heart went out to him. But I could not help laughing hysterically and pelting him with fish as he charged off. That fat fucker just looks ridiculous when he's trying to run.

Pinniped prostitutes.

Recently, Walrus Mastur and I had the most unpleasant encounter I strongly believe a pair of full-grown walrie can ever have.

We were patronising an acclaimed restaurant slash bar. Previously, it had been a military fort, dugong territory that walrus generals had attacked and colonised during the First Water War. (Once upon a time, walrie were avowed Imperialists who seized control of the most important regions, almost enjoying complete hegemony of various islands. Of course, nowadays, we are perfectly happy to sit back and relax with our seal subordinates. Our rich, lengthy and even bloody history will be expounded upon in later chapters.) Anyhow, we habitually take our meals – all thirty-six courses – very seriously. And as companions with overwhelming intellectual rapport, Walrus Mastur and I began to discuss an award-winning film we had watched earlier.

To cut a long story short, it had been about two attractive male seals who, whilst moonlighting as fish-herders, had fallen in love with each other. As predicted, their doomed romance was not meant to be. Despite occasional trysts that continually left them yearning for more, one found himself saddled with a mundane nuclear family, while the other was driven down south to satiate his physical urges with – horror of horrors – sea lions.

Walrus Mastur and I hold unabashed contempt towards sea lions. We may enjoy verbally abusing seals, but all in good fun - true seals are soft, playful and remarkably innocent, with the exception of born-and-raised zoo-seals who have been irreparably corrupted, like my ex-pet seal Zach and a certain Mr. Carlos P. On the other hand, sea lions are nothing but a weak facsimile of the wholesome creatures that arouse and infuriate us so. Their artificial image is adopted for purely mercenary purposes, for the benefit of unattractive walrie who can no longer snare themselves the real McCoy.

From young, my mother had always warned me about sea lions. To this day, her words resound solidly in my fat head - seals may steal your heart, but a sea lion will take your money. I had my first sea lion encounter, as a callow adolescent who mistakenly thought he knew better. In the past, I had been somewhat of a libertine and spent many a night in a dimly-lit cove engaging in vaguely promiscuous activities, but a whole new frontier was crossed when one of my friends daringly suggested we visit a sea lion-club. Inwardly, I’d braced myself for the worst, but no nightmare could compare to the inexplicable disgust I felt on seeing heavily-made up, corseted sea lions cavorting with a disco ball.

Mumbling lame excuses under my breath, I made for the nearest exit, and found myself alone in an unknown alley. Panting heavily, I thanked Poseidon for my quick departure and decided to begin my journey home. Till I felt a gentle flipper caressing my back and a husky voice in my ear, which I have to admit, immediately diverted the direction of my body’s blood flow. “You must be feeling lonely tonight,” the voice purred, and I whipped around to find a handsome young seal. My cursed instincts took over instantly. “You bet!” I replied, and we were immediately locked in the prelude to a coital embrace.

But there was something suspicious about this seal. Seals just don’t proposition walrie – they often giggle and leave us the responsibility of capturing them first. And as slender as he was, there was something uncommonly coarse and obtuse about his snout. His flippers were overly lubricated and left colourless trails all over my blubber. A horrific realisation hit me like a block of ice. “No! You’re a sea lion!” I shouted, shoving him to the ground and dashing away as quickly as my trembling flippers would allow me to. I had to bathe myself in freezing water before I felt remotely clean again. Later, I learned that I had, in fact, entered a notorious sea lion habitat.

But I digress. The film touched my walrus heart deeply, aside from certain scenes which stirred me in other places, and I was uncharacteristically gloomy the rest of the night. Of course, it wasn’t because the film reminded me of Zach and the blissful monogamy I lost for good. Everyone knows I’m over that. I never really liked that seal – I was only fond of the way he juggled. Over dinner, I made a speech about the exquisite beauty of love and the forces of cruel fate that often posed peril to it.

Walrus Mastur snorted and picked his teeth with a piece of coral. “You’re full of bullshit,” he said. “You and your fuck-ass romantic discourse. What’s next, eh? A poetry reading?” I remained silent and glowered. “Besides,” Walrus Mastur declared, “they’re a bunch of gay homo-fags.”

Walrus Mastur did have a point, but I wasn’t about to give in. We’re both prejudiced to a certain degree – for one, I strongly refuse to accept dugongs as equal citizens with constitutional rights – but I especially despise it when Walrus Mastur allows bigotry to get in the way of artistic understanding. In response, I sniffed and snatched a crab from Walrus Mastur’s plate. Walrus Mastur angrily removed a lobster from mine. Not before long, we ended up with each other’s choice of seafood platters, which we hadn’t wanted to begin with. We decided to slam down the bill and leave the joint in a huff, refusing to look at each other.

To our dismay, a hulking shape blocked our path. “Good evening, gentlemen,” the shape said unctuously. It removed its sunglasses to reveal a pair of glittering eyes. “You might be in need of some company.” Walrus Mastur and I froze in our tracks. Now, don’t get me wrong, we are impressive walrie, both in terms of length and girth, but we certainly aren’t the most monstrous of the lot. Practically double our size was a prominent member of the Walrus Mafia, a dangerous subterranean organisation that all law-abiding walrie are advised to steer clear of. “I – I think not,” I stammered, and we backed away.

The Mafia-walrus sneered. “You’d be missing out on an excellent opportunity,” he said. “Look at you. It’s a wonder you ever get any seals.” I was about to protest weakly, but he continued. “On the other hand, I have the power to grant you your deepest desires.”

“You can?” Walrus Mastur asked eagerly, and I resisted the urge to silence him with my flipper. The Mafia-walrus chuckled, deep in his throat. “Outside,” he said deliberately, “I have the finest collection of seals. Elegant, exotic, eloquent, even young -” Walrus Mastur’s eyes nearly bugged out – “which I will show you as soon as you accompany me to my trailer.”

“Stop!” I expostulated, but it was too late to do anything but follow suit. Ominously, the trailer door slammed shut behind us. “I’ve waited so long for this moment,” Walrus Mastur murmured perversely, rubbing his flippers together. The lights flashed on. As I’d already guessed, before us were not lithe seals, but dreaded, dyed-blonde sea lions moaning and contorted in obscene positions.

“What did I tell you!” I shouted indignantly. “We’d better escape before it’s too late.” The Mafia-walrus laughed a sinister laugh that sent shivers down my spine. “Maybe it already is,” he said. But he sorely underestimated the power of our combined strength. The impervious will of our collective determination. “One – two – THREE!” we bellowed, and barrelled our way through the trailer wall, landing rather painfully on the unforgiving tarmac. We half-expected to be chased by unrelenting gunfire, but all I heard, in the distance, was a fierce lecture directed at the sea lions, on how they simply had to wear a better disguise and dramatically alter their lascivious mannerisms, if they didn’t want to risk losing more business and tainting the Walrus Godfather’s excellent reputation.

While I am proud to announce that temptation gave us a baleful glare, and we not only stared it in the eye, but dealt it a hearty slap, I must assure you that there is nothing more horrible than being accosted by pinniped pimps and prostitutes.

Lysol and Dettol

Today I forced Des to help me disinfect the entire apartment, and the common corridor too. This was to eradicate all traces of a rather odious little visitor today, Des' ex-pet-seal Zach. And while we were at it, various other stains.

Zach is a dark remnant from Des' days at boarding school, a period of time when we did not keep in touch. Apparently they met at the neighbourhood zoo where Zach was performing a "marvellously entertaining" routine of walking on his front flippers with his tail high up in the air. Hell, anyone could have told Des that you should never bring home a zoo seal, let alone a performing zoo seal. I wish I'd been there to beat some sense into that fat fucker because in my absence, they just got sucked into a dangerously exclusive little dreamworld. Des once cruelly informed me that they did such disgusting things as hold flippers and walk along the beach, toss beach balls to each other, and contemplate a cove by the sea in future. (Maybe that's why Des is so stern with me when it comes to playing with seals.)

Alas, being the ho that all seals inherently are, Zach left suddenly on a sunny Sunday because the "time has come to migrate north, and it's better that I cleanly break off this beautiful symbiotic relationship with you as cleanly as possible...you know I care about you...but I also never liked you much..." and then he just broke down, snivelled and then galumphed away the way frivolous hos are wont to do, leaving Des standing by the door feeling baffled.

As it turned out, Zach was not just a ho, but a woolly-brained ho, because he forgot that all pinnipeds follow the same Migration Chart. Des was actually due to travel north to the very same area a mere two weeks after Zach. So Zach packed his bags and left Des for nothing. (Then again, maybe that treacherous zoo-ho had an ulterior motive, because we later found out that he settled in remarkably rapidly with another walrus named Thunderbird, whom Des and I heartily dislike.) Anyway Des called me after Zach's departure, saying how ridiculous the whole thing was, would I like to migrate and settle down in a new apartment overlooking a seal lagoon together, did I still have that marvellous telescope, etc. I enthusiastically agreed, and comforted Des by saying that I'd seen Zach and thought he looked like a banana.

So here we all are now, years later, Des and I in our hovel of an apartment, and Zach just a few neighbourhoods away. We never bump into him, but today he just decided to pop by and pick up "a couple of things I forgot to take with me". The presumptuous zoo-ho just took for granted that Des would put all his multi-coloured balls, body-gloss and fake whiskers into a special box or something. Well, I'm ashamed to say that fat fucker did, indeed, put all his multi-coloured balls, body-gloss and fake whiskers into a special box. And sealed it. ("With a kiss," Des told me huskily, before I administered a sharp whack.)

When Zach was over, he behaved deplorably in my opinion. He lingered too long and tainted the air. He bounced cavalierly around Des and barked archly, even jumping up to teasingly nibble Des' whiskers, which I saw droop imperceptibly. "Bet you miss that, huh? Fat walrus! Hee hee hee!" Watching Zach, I was enraged. No walrus, not even a steely one like Des, can handle such cruel taunting that masquerades as playfulness. That is just not the way to treat someone you've left, making things more difficult than they already are. I should know. I once commited the very same sin when I was an ignorant, insensitive calf and I lived to regret it.

So I watched Zach torment Des, whose whiskers were trying valiantly but failing to stay turgid, and got more and more enraged and contemptuous with each word he uttered. He cheerfully updated us on his residential status: "oh, I'm living with three magnificent walrie right now. There's Thunderbird, of course---you know Thunderbird---as well as Jabba and Rex. They're a real laugh, and they're nice too! Hee hee! They like it when I do my trademark handstands, and they take turns to feed me fish."

Then his voice got sickeningly low, lispy and wistful: "but whenever they do, even though they heave me heaps and buckets all at once from all directions, I---I---I still think of you." Then he contrived a heavy, poignant silence, full of expectation that Des would soften and melt. The two of them faced each other, completely still. I stared on in disbelief and disgust. Then I decided that I'd seen enough. Without warning, I charged towards the zoo-ho and headbutted him out the door, causing him to bark in surprise and then roll rather ignominiously down the common corridor. Box and all.

I let Des heave a sigh of relief, and even go so far as to say "th---" Then I cut that fat walrus off and told him to get the Lysol and Dettol.

More erotic dreams.

I have a daily ritual before I submit myself to sleep - during which I shut my eyes and think very hard about what I want to dream of, in the hope of imbuing it onto my subconscious. Unfortunately, this method rarely, if ever, works. For example, last night, whilst mentally focusing on a crowded seal-pool perfect for invading, I dreamt I had an out-of-body experience.

I was in a sterile hospital room that smelt strongly of lemon-scented disinfectant. A closer examination revealed the shocking identity of the single bed's ill occupant. It was myself. Wan being an understatement, my normally mottled complexion was bloodless, as if I had been assaulted by a thousand hungry vampires who'd gnawed upon me in various unspeakable places. I had also been ruthlessly intubated, my formless shape bound tightly to the side of the metal frame. Even my whiskers were flaccid beyond recovery.

At last, karma had bitten me in my lumpy walrus arse.

By my side was Walrus Mastur, decked out in a spotless doctor's coat about three sizes too small. It accentuated every magnificent fold of blubber I used to admire so. Looking at my best-walrus-friend, I felt a sharp pang. Gone were our wholesome summer days of youth. Gone were our days of bouncing energetically on seals and the infrequent Eskimo (Walrus Mastur always collapsed on our victims triumphantly and inconsiderately; I often stopped to worry if I'd squashed them right).

Sadly, I wondered how Walrus Mastur would cope without me. Lacking my esteemed guidance, advice and occasional blockage, that fat fucker would probably end up in prison for indecent behaviour. Or kneeling pathetically at the flippers of some cheap, shiny ho abducted from the nearest zoo.

In a corner of the room were members of my old pod. I was surprised they'd bothered to turn up. I had never been part of the family, but more of the gay uncle in exile. Useless fucks probably just wanted a significant share of my inheritance. To my astonishment, some of them were weeping visibly. To be fair, they did belong to a critically acclaimed drama troupe.

"I'm afraid it'll have to be done," Walrus Mastur was saying, regretfully. It was the grave tone of regret Walrus Mastur used while suggesting that touching those pups had, in truth, been a bad idea. Insincere to the very last syllable.

My cousin raised his tear-stained face. "Are you so sure? The doctors told me it was a mere head cold -"

"It is undoubtedly imperative," Walrus Mastur said firmly.

Pause. A choked sob. "Well, if we absolutely have to..."

"Very well!" Walrus Mastur said enthusiastically. "My Euthanasia Kit has been prepared, and without further ado, I must request everyone to leave the room." With a flourish, Walrus Mastur threw aside a curtain, revealing a systematically-arranged series of tools and colourless chemicals.

My relatives looked taken aback. My knees buckled and I took a few steps backwards. "Oh no," I said weakly. "Not the Euthanasia Kit. Please, no." Walrus Mastur swiftly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

My body stirred in its comatose state, as if in mild protest. In equal parts invisible and mute, I was powerless to alter the course of my fate. As Walrus Mastur administered the last drops of the fatal injection, I fell to my knees.

Walrus Mastur gently took my limp flipper and gazed thoughtfully at my corpse. Any onlooker would have been touched at the sight of an ageing walrus mourning their dearest, lost friend. But I knew, deep down, that Walrus Mastur was critically checking my pulse to confirm I was completely dead. It was understandable. Neither of us liked loose ends.

Suddenly, I heard a cough. Walrus Mastur swivelled round threateningly.

At the door were four lawyers, all of whom looked almost identical. They were bespectacled with slicked-back hair, and carried black leather suitcases.

"Excuse me, sir - "

"Can't you tell I'm saying my last goodbyes?" Walrus Mastur snarled impatiently.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've been instructed to inform you of a legally binding clause in the deceased's will."

"What clause?" Walrus Mastur asked suspiciously, whiskers twitching slightly. "Don't tell me my late snuddy had a few illegitimate little children that I now have full custody of. Haw haw!"

"On cremation, the deceased has instructed every family and friend to drink a measured quantity of the resulting ashes. The required amounts are directly related to the amount of affection the deceased had for these individuals." The lawyer coughed again, this time ominously, and from his suitcase, whipped out the biggest jug I had ever seen. It was baby blue with yellow sunflowers and butterflies printed garishly on it.

"This, sir, is your portion."

I saw genuine horror in Walrus Mastur's eyes. A long, drawn-out silence followed.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" Walrus Mastur asked feebly. "Can't I just - pour them into the ocean, or something?"

The lawyer shook his head. "We're afraid, sir, that it is imperative. Bear in mind that we will be present at the funeral to ensure the deceased's final wishes are duly fulfilled. With the necessary ropes, chains and sedatives, of course."

"No," Walrus Mastur protested, trembling vigorously. "NO!"

I woke up at that precise moment, Walrus Mastur's last despairing cries still ringing in my ears. In the background, I heard the same voice shouting that I was a stupid lazy walrus, they were starving to death, and it was now my turn to make breakfast.

Damn, I wish I had more erotic dreams.

From time to time

"This is disgusting. You're disgusting," Des said and tossed out a grubby old blanket with utter distaste.

That was the blanket under which I used to curl up with Benedict whenever there was a storm outside. I remember our routine. First I would blot Benedict with a fresh towel (too moist to cuddle). After that I would flop onto my favourite couch, pick Benedict up and tuck him into one of my stomach folds. Then I would drape the blanket over the both of us and pet Benedict to sleep with my flippers. I'd watch him sleep serenely and blot him again from time to time.

missing benedict

Des and I just set up our new study, which we made room for by relocating Benedict the seal. I am mighty pleased with our new arrangement---walls lined with beautiful mahogany shelves of academic journals, reference books and classic literature. Behind the shelves are secret compartments where we keep our stash of pornographic materials. Our subterfuge is contrived and ironic, though, because we have a large, lurid calendar of "Seals Every Month" on our study table. Only the wettest, most playful, most skilled ball-on-nose-balancers make the cut every year, and those limited-edition calendars make every walrus go "ouwr". However, I do keep my most incriminating materials featuring young seals (some mere pups) under lock and key because the authorities are very uptight about that kind of thing. Des and I don't want a repeat of last June.

Honestly, the authorities misunderstood my love for young pinnipeds. I know it's unusual for a magnificent, full-grown walrus to have such an affinity for seal pups, but like most abnormalities, this one stemmed from an unresolved childhood issue.

Daniel was my childhood seal-playmate. We went to different schools, stayed in different neighbourhoods, and really had no business knowing each other. But one day after school, I stopped by my "secret place", which was really a large abandoned igloo--okay, it wasn't abandoned, I relocated the eskimos---and saw someone else taking a nap in it. Someone who looked a little bit like a walrus pup, but smoother. Shinier. At first I was affronted and angry, but when I went closer I was immediately won over by the intruder's charm. Even asleep, the creature looked so peaceful. So benevolent. So moist. Then it stirred and saw me. With bright, curious eyes, it said "hello! I'm Daniel. Who are you?" His voice was not that of a walrus'. It was more pleasing and melodious. I was disoriented (in my own igloo!). "I'm a walrus. What are you?" I replied, somewhat gracelessly. "I'm a seal!" he barked happily with laughter. Then he tagged me with a wet flipper and cried, "come on, let's play!" So we played. We chased each other underwater, herded tuna and went diving for seashells. And after we exhausted ourselves, we'd huddle in our igloo and nap together before heading home.

This became an after-school routine for me. I grew very attached to my seal friend. Then one day, Daniel refused to take a nap with me. He explained uncomfortably, "my parents say that one day you'll eat me because you're a walrus and I'm a seal. They say that it's not right for a walrus and a seal to be friends. It's not natural." I sputtered, "but you want to play with me, don't you?" He looked at me with regret, anguish, and if I remember correctly a touch of newfound contempt in his eyes, and I knew the answer. Crestfallen, I pushed my ball all the way back home with my nose. I went back to the igloo the next day as usual, hoping that Daniel would change his mind, or that I imagined the whole thing, but he wasn't there. He never came back, and I never saw him for the rest of my childhood. I never got over the hurt and the rejection, but worst of all was the lack of closure. We never got the chance to discuss things reasonably, and I never got to explain that I really meant no harm when I sleep-nibbled him.

So naturally my heart leapt when I bumped into him a couple of months ago. He was a fully grown seal, with a wife and two-pups, and a pet otter. Poster family. He greeted me cheerfully, and asked me out for lunch. I really planned to be polite and non-chalant about, you know, the whole abandonment thing, but I couldn't resist blurting it out. "Daniel, why did you stop being friends with me so suddenly? We had such a wonderful, special friendship. So what if your folks thought it was unnatural? The only thing unnatural about our friendship was your cold departure."

To which, he replied, "What? Cold departure? That's not how I remember it. Sorry if I gave you that impression, old pal, but I guess I was just getting too busy with school. Sure sounds like you enjoyed yourself, though!" Then he smiled kindly and asked me about my hobbies. Well that rang the death knell for me. My heart turned cold and I loathed Daniel for his denial. His feigned innocence. That son-of-a-seal enjoyed himself just as much as I did. But even though I disgustedly severed all ties with Daniel after that, I realize that I've been looking for Daniel-the-seal-pup in every pinniped I meet.

This sometimes exasperates my best-walrus-friend Des, who's been my friend since birth. It was Des who comforted me after Daniel disappeared. "Forget about that stupid seal," young Des grunted, "anyway you've been neglecting me. You forgot all about our plan to relocate more eskimos and build a complex, you fat walrus." I sighed in agreement, "yes, seals are a waste of time. They're hos." Des reassured me, "if you ever get caught up with a seal again, rest assured I will be there to beat it out of you."

So when Benedict arrived, Des had to beat it out of me on the very first day. He looked so young! So fresh! So curious! So pup-like! I could not resist him. When our new seal friend came to, I chatted with him, gave him some tea and engaged him in some beach volleyball. In the room. Just as we were having great fun, Des thundered over, ploughed through the wall, sedated Benedict swiftly and dragged me out by the scruff of my neck. Then Des smacked me upside the head with a course flipper.

"What were you doing?" Des demanded.
"I was just---"
"Were you playing with the seal?"
"But Benedict---"
"Now you've named the seal?" Des shouted, turning purpler by the second.
"Come on, this isn't some childhood regression. I really do get along with Daniel!" I protested.
"What was that name?" Des bellowed, and slapped me twice. Any interjections from me were met with more swift slaps. I became extremely indignant and my whiskers curled with defensive rage---then I got stirred by my own distress and laughed along with Des. Then we bumped bellies and rolled Benedict back into his tank.

Damn, I miss that seal.

Revisiting memories.

The doorbell rang. Walrus Mastur and I looked at each other and smirked. "Don't leer," I warned hypocritically.

The doorbell rang again, politely.

Walrus Mastur carefully hid a stain on our designer couch with a strategically-placed cushion. I got up and unlocked the door, hands vibrating with lecherous anticipation.

"Hello!" Benedict said, smiling a cheerful seal smile. He looked so fresh, hydrated and wholesome I had to actively restrain myself. I heard Walrus Mastur's equally sharp intake of breath. In fact, I heard Walrus Mastur's trademark heavy breathing. We hadn't had a seal, a real seal, in ages. His accordion was slung rakishly around his neck and he wore a comely bowler hat, which he gently hung on our coat-stand.

Our fears of suspicion - his suspicion - were soon allayed. Benedict wriggled past us and bounced into his chair. "What's for dinner?" he asked curiously.

"It's cooking, but might take a while," I said quickly. "Why don't you just help yourself to the wine." I brandished a bottle of Pinot Noir, which he clapped approvingly at, and poured him a full glass. Blandly peripheral conversation (how much do you earn, where do you stay, do you have other seal friends you can invite over) flowed as rapidly as I poured him another. And another. And another.

He didn't seem to notice that Walrus Mastur and I were tensely sipping our water.

"I'd like to dedicate a popular song to both of you," he said warmly, cheeks flushed and whiskers somewhat frizzy. "Take your pick, my pinniped pals."

I was about to suggest some classic, beautiful opera, but Walrus Mastur crudely interjected. "Samwell's What What (In The Butt) or the Bloodhound Gang's Bad Touch."

Benedict opened his mouth, either to protest or enthusiastically acquiesce. "O -" was all he said (Okay? Oh no?) before he collapsed to the floor, serenely unconscious. I noted that he was shinier than the polished tiles.

Walrus Mastur and I slapped each other a walrus high-five. Then we got out our ropes, gag and rolled him into the spare room. Till this day, I am proud to recount that there was hardly any friction involved.