“Can I sit here?” Ben delicately slid into the armchair. It was a nice armchair, turn of the century. It had this wonderful pale green fabric, worn just the right amount. Ben adored green fabric, and antique furniture, so naturally he was quite fond of this particular armchair.

“I’m sorry man but you’re entirely wrong, he’s a national hero, no one has ever performed like him in competition, he operates on an entirely separate plane of existence!”

Ben seemed entirely lost in Jim and Robes’ argument, bombastic like always. 

“This is not a matter of opinion,” Jim countered. “The man is nothing more than a troglodyte. It’s not even a real sport, it’s a bunch of, what is the English term… good ol’ boys! Yes! Good ol’ boys consuming ‘piss water’ beer and stroking their egos, not to mention the poor creatures!” 

           Jim and Robes were forever butting heads, for sport,  generally without good reason. It seemed to Ben that each was out to prove who was the greater belligerent. Ben had met Jim Morrison and Maximilian Robespierre at a gala for the Preservation of Peruvian Tradition in America. Ben was waiting tables, and met Jim while on his smoke break. Jim was playing at the event under a pseudonym. Ben didn’t quite remember how he met Robes, only that he was at the gala and was drunk and angry at all the women. The lofted ceilings of their apartment (technically Ben’s apartment, as he was the one paying rent) roundly amplified any noise from the living room and sent it careening in the direction of Ben’s bed. This held a positive effect when he would wake to Jim’s soft and rhythmic crooning, but Jim hardly sang anymore. More often than not Ben would wake to the slightly muffled sound of Robes shouting some expletives in his native French tongue (“NE TOUCHEZ PAS, VERMINE!), countered by some harsh, and loud, words from Jim (“I’LL BASH YOUR STINKING FROG HEAD IN!”). This was how their arguments always broke down, no winner, just two grown men who fundamentally disagreed on just about everything and weren’t afraid to make it apparent. Ben was once again reluctantly forced into the role of mediator, a frowning face holding the chaos at bay. 

“You guys are acting like children. What’s with the raised voices? I know that both of you know that Sherman is prone to anxiety as a result of his sensory disorder.  Robes have you no virtue?  Jim, show some decorum.” 

Then Ben turned, looking with concern at Sherman in his terrarium. Sherman was Ben’s best friend, his confidant, possibly the only sane entity in the apartment. Sherman also happened to be a turtle, a turtle that was at that moment sound asleep. 

“We’re sorry Sherman/Pardonez-nous,” Jim and Robes said in unison. Jim seemed to mean it but Robes’ apology was less than heartfelt. 

“So what’s going on with you guys?” Ben’s inflection had shifted from concern to reserved disdain with athletic ease. 

“Well…” Jim paused, “We were discussing Roland Martin’s recent title win at the Chattanooga Fish and Game Expo, and then I was telling Robes about what I saw when I went to the library yesterday”

“He is full of lies!” Robes interjected.

            “His usual Reign of Terror,” Jim rejoined.

“Jim, what did you see at the library?” Ben motioned for Robes to be quiet. 

“It was outta this world man, tripped me the fuck out, you gotta listen to this. Right? Here it is…” Jim was making grand gestures with his hands that didn’t quite sync with what he was saying, “This old Brit guy, bowler hat pea coat with a necktie, Church shoes, full get up, ya know?  This guy caught a 14-pound yellow sturgeon in the fountain outside the library!”

Ben tried to process this astonishing information, then scoffed, 

“Well Jim, I don’t know if you really saw this, but I’m sure you think you saw it.”

“Yellow Sturgeon are native to the South Pacific!” Robes jeered. 

“Trust me, man, I’m not the silver tongue type. It’ll be on the news tonight, WNYZ-LP .” Jim added with a touch of disdain.

“The Korean channel that used to show old Buster Keaton movies? Do we even get that with our cable package?” Ben inquired.

“The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death,” Jim said. 

That was enough to rouse Robes. “There is no such thing as a free press, only a propaganda machine! No more senseless lies!” 

“Don’t be so disputatious about it Robes. Screw the corporate owners. There are still real journalists out there without bias” Jim said.

“I say those Buster Keaton films are the stuff of Revolution. And you, you probably believe that for men to be free, men only need to want to be free!” Robes countered, eyes bulging out of his head. 

“Yes exactly!” Jim said sardonically.

“Imbecile/CRETIN” Robes yelled. 

“Whoa–yeah! Fuck Journalists and stuff!”  Ben was totally lost. He had been craving seafood since the yellow sturgeon was mentioned. 

The three of them stood in a tight circle, pointing in each other’s faces. Robes started bouncing back and forth like a boxer in the ring before a match, punching the air in front of Jim. It looked quite odd, given that Robes stood about a foot shorter than Jim and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Jim, meanwhile, was simulating oral copulation. 

“Despotism is killing innocent people so that the guilty don’t escape!” Robes was glowing red, his anger seemingly in endless supply.

“Woah, hold on a minute bud, who said anything about despotism?” Jim barked.

“Liberty is like growing up, you have to suffer! Machiavelli was right when he said the greater good excuses minor evil!”

“Robes, man… calm down,” Jim tried. “You do understand that a free press is the last defense against despotism, right? Look how being a despot turned out for you and your buddies back during the revolution. Let’s not lose our heads here. This isn’t a good look on you man.”

“Guys!” Ben looked down at his wristwatch, “The KitchenAid Senior PGA Championship just started!”

The three of them suddenly lost any interest in arguing and rushed to the couch. They loved golf above all else. Jim and Robes got to the couch first. Ben wasn’t in the mood to rush, sturgeon was still on his mind. 

“Can I sit here?” Ben pointed to Robes’ antique green armchair. He grabbed for the remote and turned the tv on.

“JE M’EN FICHE.”

“IT’S THE FISH!” Jim shouted out.

On the tv a grey-haired reporter, speaking in Korean without subtitles, was standing in front of a library next to a dapper British man, smiling ear to ear, holding a very large yellow fish.