Feathered angels with beaks wheel above the world, ready to swoop with zeal upon the unwary. Any fish been up there either never returned or wasn't believed and shunned as some sort of alien abductee and put on shows where the general public could sate its appetite for the bizarre. There is no heaven.

Dagwood worked himself down a little where the light wasn't so intense and the water less hot. How to get home to the nice and the known? What he knew about navigation you could put in your eye and not notice. He scanned a horizon that wasn't there and sighed.

Presently a large shoal of Yellowfin came hurtling toward him and before Dagwood could react he was in a fish stampede: imagine a toddler amidst a herd of charging bison. They didn't eat him, mind. Just sped on by, laughing and chattering away so rapidly he couldn't make any sense of what they were saying.

Had he known what eyelids were, Dagwood would probably have wished for them. Such a fearsome and colourful, bewildering sight. The smell and the sound and the feel of a thousand huge different strange odd unknown bodies rilling by. Eventually the turbulence seemed to die down and he sought to regain his composure.

I never sawed a fish like you before. Nigel was an old beat Tuna left behind and out of tune and out of time and out of life and hope and luck: forlorn and sad. I bet you never sawed one such as me.

Oh indeed I did, spake wary Dagwood: edging back to make a safety zone. I've seen you on The Oracle before. I hear you murder smallfry in their homes.