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.