I was staring down into a cooler full of crawfish. I guess I zoned out because my vision went a bit blurry and I tried to imagine that moment from the prospective of the little creatures about to be boiled alive and salted. Their final moment would be on a red and white checked table cloth as monsters ripped apart their bodies; their death song would be simple slurping sounds and crunching. I’m not saying that the crawfish had any idea that doom was imminent, but existence was still quite shitty for every little creature in that cooler.
Crawfish are cannibalistic and there were at least one hundred pounds of the little savages just writhing around beneath my gaze. How horrific would that be for the ones on the bottom? I was witnessing a constant battle; it was crustacean king of the hill. The largest and strongest would claw their way to the surface only to succumb to exhaustion and find themselves back on the bottom.
I imagined a point of view from the cooler looking up. I pictured myself as a magnificent backlit giant with a booming voice saying “I choose you!” as I reached down into the cooler to save one of the crawfish from peril as if I were a god. I really did it. But I only saved one (saving a handful would’ve been weird) and I placed it on the lid of the cooler until I could find a bowl of water or something. That’s when I turned my back and the chocolate lab that’d been watching me with a sideways cocked head struck. She took my Chosen One in her teeth and started tossing him/her around the yard. The Chosen One snapped back a few times with surprisingly strong pincers but the smart money in a Labrador vs. Mudbug fight is always on the dog. She killed my little refugee and walked away from the corpse. I shrugged my shoulders at the irony and went back to gorging on liberally seasoned swamp-people cuisine.
I stayed sober that night and went bar hopping as a designated driver (which is a station I’m starting to enjoy). The “sober guy” is also a new perspective for me and just as novel as my previously imagined one. I’d stand and talk or sit and watch with a water bottle in my hand and I saw the revelry around me as the bouncers and bartenders must see it; ridiculous. There were women that I’d dub solid twos that were walking around like dimes. There were pudgy bastards strutting like pimps. Old men were experiencing temporary youth via Jack Daniels and young punks were puffing out their chests in imitation of maturity thanks to Bud Light. There were useless fights and missed opportunities and failed pick-ups all around me and I couldn’t help but smirk. All of these fools were writhing around me in a stumbling mass of humanity and all of them were oblivious to the fact that the God of the Mudbugs was in their midst.