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Krab Kaper

Short Fiction by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com

Art
by Angel Jose Carabello

Some lettuce just leaves a bad taste.

I don't know why, but this critter won't eat the stuff, instead preferring collards and other greens.

So imagine warm light, cool breeze, a splash of gurgling water, eight explorable square feet, one climbing ladder of latticed sticks, a thatch of tasty greens beckoning from above, and our hero methodically clawing his way upward for all he's worth—which is normally about five bucks, free if you simply pick him up, as Taj did.

It's a hermit crab, about the size of a jawbreaker, the landlubber version found in tropical seaside brush. This crab and its three crabby cohorts hail from Gulfcoast Florida, having hitched back to Chicago in a sack of shells collected by the four-year-old son of my youngest producer. I normally frown on the taking of souvenirs from sites above and below, these being nature's mobile homes for myriad denizens wet or dry, but young Taj didn't know better, no major harm.

I help him and the other three kids, all now dedicated crab owners, as they outfit a large terrarium in the day-care area of our video production facility. Dabbing quick-clean non-toxic paint, each decorates his crab's shell for easy identification, this despite my warning that these critters often change houses for better fit and the latest in chic crab style.

We provide a small plate of corn meal, little-bit fruit bites, and other crabby snacks, but for some reason the one now climbing after greens always decides to pass when it's offered iceberg.

Apparently, some lettuce just leaves a bad taste.

So we're watching the crabs one day when my friend/client Flynn stops by with a sackful of test products designed for kid safety and/or fun learning. He needs some marketing hooks, packaging, design, anything I might contribute as his agency-of-record creative director. My name is Danté, but Flynn's been occasionally calling me "The Image Maker"—ever since I deigned to narrate Stephen Geez's novel Fantasy Patch, the tale of my infamous tilting at pharmaceutical conglomerate windmills.

Flynn shows me a sort of child's poncho boasting swirls of fabric stitched to hold pocketfuls of kidstuff, tearaways for safety, elastic gathers to avoid strangle-strings, all topped by a nifty hood with sewn-in sweatband crafted such that side panels pull away to ensure full peripheral vision when young street-crossing bike-riding skater-boarders turn their heads to look both ways. Flynn has inked a distribution deal with a chain of big-box stores, a test-market roll-out in the Chicago 'burbs, but the product needs a name, a hook, and some cool images screened front and back.

Big-eyed Taj dons the smallest in Flynn's Santa-sack, and I'm instantly reminded of a hermit crab, the swirling shell, this spiky-haired lad peering out from under the hood, his expression that sneaky escapade-plotting look of appraisal often found on little kids and littler crabs.

I notice the real crab has reached his goal, now perched atop the ladder, contentedly munching his greens as I paint an art-deco shell design onto one of Flynn's pullovers. The kids all want them, but each prefers to paint his or her own design.

And there's Flynn's hook: "KrabbShells," pre-screened as a plain hermit shell, each including a small set of disposable permanent fabric markers so pint-sized fashionplates can customize unique looks—or visit Flynn's company website for ideas and templates, a safe place to post pictures of their own and to admire the works of other young artists.

Next we paw through Flynn's collection of new products. I'm intrigued by a tiny ball with a slot that reveals a mini-light and magnifying glass with tiny tweezer and gripper. They prove especially handy for examining real crabs up close and personal. We all want one.

Flynn trundles off to meet with the big-boxers. They're lucky to be working with such a good man who values loyalty and integrity, one who looks out for others and the world we share—unless you cross him or try to hurt a friend, but that's a longer story.

So KrabbShells sales climb rapidly for the big-box, and Flynn's company feeds on the green, but we're not in control of the promotion, and Flynn's contract doesn't confer veto power over the unacceptable: our retailer starts offering one free hermit crab with every KrabbShells sale.

I do encourage responsible pet ownership for young people to learn about caring for others. Hermit crabs aren't endangered, and they're certainly not dangerous, but I have a pet-store client who rightly rails against such indiscriminate pet-mongering. Buy a hermit from one of her outlets and you're not getting out the door without the proper habitat, supplies, how-to pamphlet, and a thorough conversation. Living creatures are not toy prizes; they should be entrusted only to those who truly want them and will properly care for them.

The big-boxers dismiss Flynn's objections, opting instead to enforce their contract in lieu of maintaining good faith between buyer and supplier. We're all angry, including the kids and their chums, most of whom want to voice their outrage. After some serious hand-wringing over where to draw the line between exploiting young'ns and nurturing their burgeoning need to self-express, I do what people so often pay me to do: orchestrate one bodacious media spectacle, nationwide coverage, a public relations cesspool to mire the mid-city headquarters of these crass exploiters of innocent crabs.

So picture this: more than two-dozen subtly supervised teenies and tweenies dressed as hermit crabs, their hand-painted KrabbShells emblazoned with "Kidz for Krabs," a crusading cadre marching sideways in the cutest camera-calling crabwalk you could ever imagine, irate high-voiced orators delivering little-bit sound bites for sympathetically amused on-the-scene TV reporters, crowds gathering to gawk and chant, our urban beach awash in a growing tidal wave of righteous indignation.

In a surprising move, egregiously unprofitable for successful builders of bigger boxes, our adversaries opt out rather than address the problem, apparently preferring to retreat into their shells to avoid fostering an image of cavers to special-interest pressure.

So Flynn gets his product back, then re-launches with a smaller big-box that's been angling to out-box the bigger big-boxer. Cranking up the Danté publicity machine proves a cakewalk—a crabwalk, as it were—after the impromptu kid-protest already raised awareness about the irresponsible spreading of, well, crabs.

Besides, offering free KrabbShell handhelds that open to reveal a tiny light, magnifier, and tweezer/gripper crab pincers starts piling some serious green on Flynn's plate.

Taj's crustaceous little friend promptly moves himself into a bigger, more stylish shell, and the young'ns all learn about making planet-friendly choices when their own careers someday find them climbing that ladder in the age-old quest for a little bit of green.

It's a lesson fit for a sound-bite:

Some lettuce just leaves a bad taste.

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Fantasy Patch    Picture This!       Danté Roenik creates ad campaigns, reveling in the fine art of rendering his concepts on million-dollar canvasses financed by big-budget clients. Intoxicated by the sheer power of directing public opinion, he dares wage war against the conglomerate behind a worldwide anti-depressant increasingly associated with sporadic violence. To juxtapose his images with reality, he enlists a mixed palette of business tycoons, his fiancée/attorney, a team of corporate-spy soldiers of fortune, one resurgent news anchor, and the best TV-production crew in Chicago.       But the sharp lines dividing perception from truth begin to blur when the darker motives shaping mass media come to light. Forced to re-examine the ethics of designer pharmacology, Danté is painted into a corner, his future about to be erased as patients die, clients lie, and unhealthy doses of murder prove too hard to swallow.       Too late to whitewash the stain of deceit, Danté must decide who deserves to appear in his picture, the true subject an unfinished self-portrait way past its own deadline.       It’s not what you see, not what you get . . . But all you could ever imagine. Let Danté show you how . . .       With a Fantasy Patch!

Fanasy Patch  A novel by Stephen Geez Trade Paper edition 334 pages ISBN:978-1-936442-06-5 $13.70 Kindle edition $7.70