“But?”
“Yeah,” replied the fish. “Dragon King of the South-East, remember? With responsibility for the Indian Ocean, southern sector.”
“You mean,” said the fisherman, “Australia?”
The fish nodded. That is to say, it moved up and down in the water, using its small rear fins as stabilisers. “And New Zealand,” it added, “not forgetting Tasmania. But excluding the Philippines. And where I come from, blokes don’t wish for the sort of thing you do.”
“They don’t?”
The fish shook its head; the same manoeuvre, but in reverse. “One, all the beer you can drink. Two, sitting in front of the TV watching the footie with a big bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Three, more beer. Interested?”
“Not particularly.” Asaf frowned. “In case you didn’t know, this is a Moslem country.”
“Is it? Jeez, mate, get me outa here quick. Talk about a fish out of water…”
“Quite.” Asaf lifted the flask and began to tilt it sideways towards the deck of the boat. “Are you sure that’s all you can do?” he said encouragingly. “I’ll bet you anything you like that if you really set your mind to it—”
“Watch what you’re flamin’ well doing with that…”
Asaf nodded, and restored the flask to the vertical. “What you need,” he said, “is more self-confidence. And I intend to give it to you. Inexhaustible wealth, now.” He started to count to ten.
“Just a minute.” The fish was cowering in the bottom of the flask, frantically feathering its tail-fin for maximum reverse thrust. “Um, will you take a cheque?”
“No.”
“Plastic?”
“No.”
“Then,” said the fish, “it looks like we got a problem here.”
“We have?” The flask inclined.
“Yes.”
Asaf shrugged. “Fair enough, then. What can you offer?” The fish oscillated for a moment. “How about,” it suggested, “a really deep bronze tan? You know, the outdoors look?”
“Don’t be stupid, I’m a fisherman.”
“Right, good point. I guess that also rules out a magic, self-righting surfboard.”
“Correct.”
“All right, all right.” The fish twisted itself at right angles and gnawed its fins. “What about stone-cold guaranteed success with the sheilas? Now I can’t say fairer than that.”
“Yes, you can. To take just one example, inexhaustible wealth.”
The fish wriggled. “Stone-cold guaranteed success with rich sheilas?”
Asaf nodded. “I think we’re getting warmer,” he said.
“Rich, good-looking sheilas?”
“Marginally warmer. Still some way to go, though.”
“Rich, good-looking sheilas who don’t talk all the flamin’ time?”
“Better,” Asaf conceded, “but I still think you’re missing the point somewhat. I think if you zeroed in on the rich part, rather than the sheilas aspect—”
“I got you, yes.” The fish turned over and floated on its back for a second or two. “What about,” it suggested, “rich old boilers who’ll pop off and leave you all their money?”
Asaf shook his head. “Too much like hard work,” he said. “And besides, you’re displaying a very cynical attitude towards human relationships, which I find rather distasteful. Let’s stick to rich, shall we, and leave the sheilas element to look after itself.”
“Could be a problem with that,” the fish mumbled. “The sheilas are, like, compulsory. Chicks with everything.”
“How depressingly chauvinistic.”
“Yeah, well.” The fish waggled its tail-fin. “Sort of goes with the territory, mate. You don’t have to treat ’em like dirt if you don’t want to,” it added hopefully. “I mean, if you want to, you can buy ’em flowers.”
Asaf sighed. “Gosh,” he said, “how heavy this flask is. If I have to stand here negotiating for very much longer, my arm might get all weak and…”
“All right, you flamin’ mortal bastard!” the fish screeched. “Just watch what you’re doing with that thing.”
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.” The fish swam in slow circles, occasionally nibbling at the sides of the flask. “OK,” it said. “But this is the best I can do.”
“I’m listening.”
“Just the one sheila,” said the fish persuasively. “And she’s stinking rich—”
“Beyond the dreams of avarice?”
“Too right, mate, too right. Richest chick this side of the black stump. And all you’ve got to do is rescue her, right?”
Asaf scowled. “You haven’t been listening,” he said. “All I’m interested in is the money. Climbing up rope ladders and sword-fights with guards simply aren’t my style. I get vertigo.”
“No worries,” the fish reassured him. “I’ll handle all that side of things, just you see.”
“Sure,” Asaf growled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re a two-inch-long fish. Don’t you think that’d prove rather a handicap when it comes to rescuing wealthy females?”
“Huh!” The fish sneered. “Now who’s the bigot?”
“But…”
“Just ’cos I’m small and I’ve got fins—”
“Be reasonable,” Asaf said. “You can’t escape your way out of a thermos flask. How are you going to cope with heavily guarded castles?”
“I’ll have no worries swimming the moat,” the fish replied. “Anyway, I’m only a fish right now. As soon as I can get home and out of this flamin’ fish outfit, I can go back to being a dragon. Dragons can rescue anybody, right?”
“I suppose so.” Asaf rubbed his chin. On the one hand, the Dragon King hardly inspired confidence. On the other hand… He looked down at the boat, the empty nets, the threadbare sail. “Very well, then. So long as it’s guaranteed success.”
“Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Look…”
“All right,” Asaf said. “So what do I do now?”
The fish darted up the meniscus of the flask. “Just chuck me back in,” he said, “and then row to the shore. I’ll be there waiting.”
“Straight up?”
“On me honour as an Australian,” the fish replied solemnly. “No bludging, honest.”
“Oh, all right then.” Asaf jerked the flask sharply sideways, emptying its contents into the sea. There was a soft splash.
“Waste of bloody time,” he muttered to himself. Then he rowed to the shore.
He was just pulling his boat up on to the beach when there was a sharp WHOOSH! immediately behind his back, and sand everywhere. He turned slowly around and saw a very old, very battered Volkswagen dormobile, with lots of stickers inside the windscreen. He frowned; and suddenly realised that instead of his comfortable old fishing smock, he was wearing strange new clothes: a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, shorts, trainers and no socks. There was also some sort of sticky white stuff all over his nose and lips.
“Hey!” he said angrily.
WHAM!
Hovering over his head was a huge, green scaly lizard.
“G’day,” it said. “Jeez, mate, you don’t know how good it feels to get me proper duds back on again after being squashed inside that poxy little fish skin. Ready to go?”
Asaf stepped back. He had to retreat quite some way before he could see the whole of the dragon. He began to wish he hadn’t started this.
“Hey,” he said, “what’s going on? Who are you, anyway, the local area franchisee for the Klingon Empire?”
The dragon chuckled. “I’m a dragon, mate,” he replied. “What did you expect, a little skinny bloke with glasses? Now, are you ready for off?”
“Off where?”
“Off to see this incredibly rich sheila,” the dragon replied. “Now I’d better warn you, she’s not exactly a real hot looker, but so what? Like we say in Oz, you don’t care what’s on the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire.”
“All right,” Asaf muttered. “But what’s with the broken-down old van? Why the stupid clothes?”
The dragon looked offended. “We’re going on our travels, right?”