So I, Simon Pimbleston, found myself having to dine at a wretched old sea cabin, close in proximity, but not within the legal boundaries, of the Flattensberg harbor of Mannatskish. The old cook was dressed in his ill-fitting wax-cloth sea cloak, and his face sagging, yet somehow stretched, as if all the water had been drawn out of him by years of exposure to salt. >One thing on the menu today. Will Yer be having it 'tor not? Famished as I was, I obliged. He went back into the shack, brushing aside a filthy yellow curtain, ostensibly there to keep the flies out, yet somehow, more flew out from within than rushed inside. He emerged a few moments later, with a hefty bowl that smelled like the spray of brine in your nostrils right before a tide drags your under. >Boiled. It's a depth dweller. Fishermen don't quite know what it is. They caught it before, but no name for it, yet. Good eatin' though. Taste just fine. First time is hard, it may very be an acquisition of taste. I look at the gelatin monster inside my bowl. Putrid and rank, the colors, the viscosity... I tapped the bowl with my spoon and it juggled. And kept jiggling. Like the mere reverberation of the water fed life into it, it began to pulse