An Odd, Little Novel
In a town named twice (due to its founder's stutter or hiccups, depending on who you ask), Tim has an unusual dream: he wants to be an otter. But in Bottom Bottom, where the mayor taxes question marks and the local bartender serves drinks to match your existential crisis, perhaps that's not so strange after all.
When Tim's attempt to become the town mascot spirals into an accidental otter heist from the Happy Waves Aquarium & Zoo, he finds himself at the center of an underground resistance movement led by surprisingly eloquent otters who specialize in "grand theft shellfish." Guided by the cryptic wisdom of Mr. Sushi (a Polish marine biologist running a Chinese restaurant), and haunted by the ghost of his experimental music career with the mayor's daughter, Tim must navigate a world where corporate executives learn life lessons from marine mammals and the local bureaucracy requires permits for trans-mammalian initiatives.
"'Otter Boy' is a delightfully absurd tale that blends Vonnegut-esque social commentary with the whimsy of Douglas Adams, all while exploring what it means to find yourself in a universe as complicated as mismatched socks. Perfect for readers who love their existential crises served with a side of pierogi sushi and their philosophical revelations delivered by talking otters who prefer to keep their English-speaking abilities to themselves." ~ Neb Jenkins
Prologue: Otter Boy's Cosmic Burp
Tim liked to eat alone in Bottom Bottom, where people feared loneliness more than a tax audit or discovering their goldfish was judging them. This made him a rebel. Not just any rebel, mind you. Tim was Patient Zero in the Solo Dining Crisis of '21, which was the perfect cover for his resistance meetings to come (Oooo. A precursor, prelude in a Prologue!).
"Just one?" hostesses would ask, their voices dripping with the kind of pity reserved for guys who wear socks with sandals. Tim, though, was always ready with a line.
"Nope, me and Friedrich Nietzsche here are gonna wrestle with the void over a couple of salads."
READ MORE"I'm a quantum superposition entity – I exist and don't simultaneously, especially when deciding between the clam chowder and the lobster bisque."
"I'm on a date with myself. We're celebrating our six-month anniversary."
"I'm training for a solo eating competition. I'm going for the record!"
'"I'm writing a book about the psychology of solo dining. I need to do some research."
"I'm a food critic and here to judge the restaurant's solo dining experience."
"I'm in witness protection and can't be seen with anyone else."
"I'm a time traveler, and I'm trying to avoid paradoxes."
"I'm an alien, and I'm trying to blend in."
"I'm a ghost and just here for the ambiance."
"I'm a figment of your imagination; you're just lonely."
"Sorry, a party of infinity minus one. My imaginary pals are stuck in an astral traffic jam."
The hostesses never laughed. Tim figured they were all part of some anti-solo-dining cabal bankrolled by the Salad Mafia.
Brunch, though, that was Tim's real nemesis. Not that he hated eggs benedict, but because brunch was an abomination against the natural order of meals. Tim believed meals should at least make sense in a world of chaos. The universe might be expanding, and dark matter might be holding galaxies together with cosmic duct tape, but breakfast should stay breakfast.
"Have vodka with your Cheerios," Tim would tell anyone who'd listen, "but don't call it brunch."
This was Tim's hill to die on. In a world of real problems – climate change, political unrest, people who say "expresso"– Tim chose to fight a culinary portmanteau.
Tim was just wired that way.
He once spent three weeks protesting outside a café that advertised "All Day Breakfast!" His sign read, "Time is a Social Construct, But Breakfast at 4 PM is Still Wrong." The café owner eventually hired him as their social media manager, recognizing that someone committed to a pointless crusade would excel on Twitter (formerly X—we can dream, right?).
In his infinite wisdom, Tim predicted " Brinner " in 2018. He saw it coming like a prophet sees the apocalypse, except instead of locusts and floods, it was people eating pancakes at 8 PM and Instagramming it with hashtags that made English teachers weep.
His counter was "Lunkfast" – soup and a sandwich at 7:30 AM with a warm beer. It was born from a fridge on the fritz, leaving Tim with room-temperature everything and a choice between embracing chaos or cold cereal.
Tim chose chaos.
A Michelin star chef wept somewhere, most likely in France, where they take food seriously and have laws about croissants. The chef's tears might have been about "Lunkfast" or the state of food in a world of spray cheese. Either way, Tim considered it a win.
But Tim wasn't just about meals. He had bigger plans, the kind that make venture capitalists reach for their Maalox and lawyers.
He wanted to open a restaurant serving ethically raised donkey meat. "Ass Burgers," he called it. The business plan was on a Denny's placemat, with crayon illustrations and a mission statement: "Making America Bray Again."
The menu included "The Jack Ass (Extra Stubborn, Extra Spicy)" and "The Democratic Donkey (Liberal Amounts of Sauce)."
The Republican Elephant was absent, though Tim claimed it was a supply chain issue, not politics.
Venture capitalists, those gatekeepers of dreams who'd fund an app that just said "Yo," said no.
They also vetoed "Child Groomers," a hair salon Tim insisted was ahead of its time. "It's just for kids!" he'd argue, but they remained unconvinced, their faces a mix of confusion and mild concern.
Undeterred, Tim envisioned "Güüber" – Über for rural America. Yell "Sooey!" and a pickup truck appears, driven by a Bubba or Jim-Bob who'd share their life story and jerky. The "Ned Beatty Clause" was still in negotiation with imaginary lawyers specializing in transportation law and "Deliverance" references.
We live in a world where people buy virtual clothes for virtual selves, dog-themed crypto makes millionaires, and social media dictates everything from politics to pizza toppings. Tim's ideas weren't crazy; they were just early, like a rooster crowing at midnight.
Time as a construct be damned.
Tim kept a journal of his rejected ideas, planning to publish it as "Rejected: The Tim Chronicles" or "How NOT to Succeed in Business." It was written in Comic Sans because Tim believed in adding insult to injury.
"The Leftorium" – left-handed products only.
"The Upside-Down House" – built upside down and out of cake and pineapples.
"The Invisible Dog Walking Service" – people who would walk invisible dogs.
"The Self-Help Book That Actually Helps" – the holy grail.
The terms of service for many of these were in Southern Gothic, with William Faulkner as a legal consultant (never mind that he was dead - Tim had hired a medium who specialized in literary ghostwriting, literally (or is itfiguratively?)). Sample clause: "The consumer, henceforth 'the aquatic entity,' shall not, under penalty of Poseidon's wrath, pay with kelp..."
Tim's journal documented it all, each entry more alarming than the last. The Font Psychology Department called it "Patient Zero in the Great Typography Pandemic," unaware the font changes were a coding system designed by a tech-savvy octopus.
Sample entry: "Day 273: Lunkfast spreads. Someone ate spaghetti at 6 AM and winked. Revolution imminent. Also, Güüber's otter division is unionizing. Demands include more slide time and ethical shellfish."
As his town of Bottom Bottom's weirdness hit critical mass, Tim's ideas seemed almost normal. The hostess support group served Lunkfast at their weekly gatherings (perfect for resistance briefings). The Font Psychology Department used Comic Sans "ironically." And somewhere, dolphins were starting a decorative blowhole covering company with benefits and existential crisis counseling.
But that's a story for another day, best served with warm beer at 7:30 AM, in a font that makes designers cry, while an otter with three PhDs drives you to a quantum physics lecture disguised as a temporal dining protest.
Now that's a prologue.
COLLAPSE
