The fish have decided to invade the mainland.

Amid piles of sardines and slimy trails of cod, in a world that has gone completely vegetarian, a group of punks finds itself investigating mysterious deaths in a nursing home populated by clueless elders and sprightly harassers...

A grotesque and explosive novel that has already become a cult classic in the underground scene and beyond. Read it at your own risk, it contains active ingredients...

The disused municipal canteen we had set our sights on was located on the second floor of an abandoned building in a quiet neighborhood near the city center. The sign of the cinema below would provide us with the necessary electricity, and the tavern with which we shared the block would ensure a worthy alcoholic survival. Our choice seemed more than appropriate; even the nursing home that dominated the surroundings was a reassuring presence.

Seen from a certain perspective.

Thanks to the bolt cutters that Drugo borrowed from a fire truck, it didn't take us long to overcome the resistance of the padlock that barred our way. In no time, we moved into our new self – managed occupied social center: The Indigestible Dirigible.

We had no idea what we would find inside, and without speaking – since we had already smoked a fair amount – we scouted the place like seasoned secret agents. Siringa slipped into his harness, and Spino secured the mountaineering rope to the cast – iron radiator embedded in the wall opposite the windowsill. I had barely turned my head when Siringa was already on the wall, sabotaging the sign of the Splendor cinema, which was screening a classic adult film.

There were barely twenty of us punks, but we had nothing to envy the most skilled secret agents – at least, that's what I thought at the time. The fact remains that in less than ten minutes, Siringa reappeared on the ledge.

We waited for a confirmation signal to activate the main switch, but Siringa was swaying, staring blankly into space. We thought he had gotten an electric shock while dismantling the sign, so we pulled him inside and tried to shake him out of his stupor. Fortunately, he was unharmed – or rather, something had indeed happened, but nothing dangerous. After connecting the wires, Siringa had decided to roll one while still hanging on the wall, like a mountaineer conquering the Himalayas. And now, standing in the center – on the peak – he was not so much astonished by the fact that nearly twenty people were up there at eight thousand meters but by the realization that he knew them all.

Everything was going according to plan. We had occupied the place for barely fifteen minutes, and we already had power. Now, all we had to do was draft a manifesto to send to the municipality and various city newspapers to inform the authorities of our proletarian expropriation. If we kept a low profile, the police batons wouldn't take long to disperse us; but if we engaged in a dialectical dispute with the authorities, we would be targeted by the media and therefore protected by them. A slap in the face for the cops who wanted to drink our blood. I don't remember exactly what we wrote on the manifesto that Lupo delivered to the proper offices. I only know that we clumsily mixed concepts borrowed from the Constitution, the Civil Procedure Code, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and the St. Crispin's Day speech. It was a success – a full – fledged success. The employees didn't just refrain from grilling our ambassador; they didn't even speak to him, too busy talking about fish. And it wasn't even lunchtime.

Lupo returned to the center, stunned to learn that both the municipal workers and the journalists would be eating cod that evening.

After midnight, having technically completed our first day of occupation, the celebrations began. The fog suddenly rolled in, and one hit after another, we found ourselves confusing day with night and night with day. We carried on like that for days, weeks, perhaps months, until, at some point, we experienced our first telepathic communion.

Honestly, I didn't believe that weed had such properties, but I had no choice but to bow to the facts.

I was inebriated – not so much by the telepathic experience itself but by the journey I imagined we would have to undertake to Stockholm. I thought, No one will take the Nobel Prize away from us now. It was a disappointment to discover that we hadn't had a metaphysical experience. The cod were really strolling under our windowsill.

Drago was the first to uncover the truth. Suddenly, his withdrawal from sports news pushed him to leave in the middle of the festivities to grab Guerin Sportivo. I won't even tell you his shock when he realized that the sports pages had been evicted in favor of the news that had been crowding the columns of every newspaper, periodical, non – periodical, and even literary magazines for over a month.

“We have reached our thirty – ninth day of cohabitation with the fish species that have followed the now – famous Cod Uprising. Ichthyologists confirm that all species are now accounted for. The cod, pioneers of this atypical migration, have now settled permanently in Borgo Incrociati, while the pufferfish have invaded almost all the city's cinemas, so much so that this Wednesday's screenings will be suspended in favor of an Alastair Fothergill retrospective.

Good news for traffic on the Autostrada del Sole: last night, orcas and dolphins moved as a herd from the eastbound lanes toward Naples, settling in the highway rest areas. No disruptions for travelers, but we always recommend maximum caution. Keep in mind that these mammals weigh several tons more than your sedans, so be patient.”

So we weren't dreaming – the fish had really decided to rise to the surface.

Unbelievable.

Spiccio returned from the newsstand with back issues and more exotic editions, and as soon as he came back, the effects of our last hit faded so quickly that we were almost tempted to report him. Spiccio opened the door, loaded like a camel, muttering something we couldn't understand, then stepped aside. We all thought the same thing: women.
But no girl appeared at the doorstep – just an entire hake brank that our friend had found wandering dangerously in the middle of the street.
So it was true. None of us had ever seen so many up close – at least not in good condition – and it left us quite perplexed. The fish, on the other hand, had little reaction. They slithered here and there through the center and, after getting used to their surroundings, nestled one on top of the other in a corner.

“Breaking News: The cod rise to the surface, causing panic in the city.”

The causes of such an emigration are still unknown. Scientists say humidity could be a determining factor, but not enough to involve the entire planet.

We are faced with an enigma more metaphysical than scientific, even though theologians have no particular theories on the matter. Jesus certainly multiplied the fish, and Moses parted the waters of the Red Sea, but neither of them ever hosted a sea bass in their hut. At least, not a living one.

***

The entire planet is witnessing a truly unique event, which is precisely why environmentalists, more aggressive than ever, have taken to the streets to protest against the abuses inflicted on our new guests.
Unbelievable...
Breaking News. Day five of cohabitation.

***

Our guests don't seem to be struggling at all. The cod are seeking refuge near Borgo Incrociati, while moray eels have been seen hiding in less accessible, dark places such as manholes, drains, and fountains. The sharks, which surfaced near the Foce last night, causing panic and destroying half a dozen vehicles, have moved away to the city's hills.

***

Moray eels in the sewers and sharks in the countryside – better than the Afro – Cuban of '71!

***

Breaking News. Absurdity upon absurdity.

***

The WWF barely had time to take a stand in favor of anchovies, now on the brink of extinction, before cats – having lived through their most prosperous culinary era – declared themselves vegetarians. A huge ideological victory for the WWF, though a major economic loss according to the association's spokesperson, Dr. Pand – Emonio: three hundred thousand pins had already been produced. But that's not all – restaurants, in just two weeks, have decided to completely revolutionize their menus. Environmentalists are pleased, though they suspect their success is due more to strict market laws than to moral enlightenment. No restaurateur could survive selling something that anyone can obtain for free on the streets. So, while the wine list will remain unchanged worldwide, the Interplanetary Association of Restaurateurs and Related Professions – founded for the occasion – has decided to ban fish and meat in any form.

***

It's official, then. All of humanity is becoming vegetarian. It would be morally absurd, the Association comments, to continue eating any kind of living being. The Cod Uprising has sparked this transformation, and even though we now find ourselves living on a planet where we even doubt its spherical shape, that does not mean we can violate the most basic natural laws. If, following the Cod Uprising, even animals have stopped feeding on their own kind, showing a preference for vegetables, we can do nothing but bow before this great mutation – and put a veggie loaf in the oven...

***

No human being worthy of the name will ever again consume the flesh of a poor, defenseless animal – that much is certain.

***

The logic made sense, there was no doubt about that. The world was changing.

We had just occupied the place and hadn't even finished our supplies when the fish left the water, converting the planet to vegetables. This was news worth celebrating properly. And so we did.

Comfort foods came in rapid succession, as did the articles we read aloud in turn, trying to grasp the transformation we had not witnessed firsthand. Naturally, along with the fish came a flood of logistical problems, but nothing insurmountable in the end.

We celebrated our new home and our new neighbors until we ran out of supplies; then clarity wrapped around us, dimming our memory of the articles we had just absorbed. We stepped outside to search for our man, practically oblivious to what had happened – but once on the street, we perfectly understood how a fish must have felt in an aquarium before the Uprising. At any moment, I thought, a huge, distorted, and chuckling face would make us lose a few decibels by tapping the glass beyond which we, along with the rest of humanity, were now trapped.

Suddenly, we found ourselves disoriented in a new world, one we had read about but knew nothing of. We absolutely needed a drink.

We entered the neighborhood tavern, learning what couldn't yet be gleaned from the newspapers. The regular patrons, in protest, drank only white wine, openly mocking the new arrivals over the fried seafood they already missed. The old – time food lovers were the most affected by the Cod Uprising: “So much abundance and no damn dish,” they muttered, replacing their usual curses with the perfect summary of their frustration. Everything was still normal, after all. In taverns, the old folks were always angry – either because their party had screwed them over or because their party had suddenly abandoned them, hurting them in the process, or because their damn team couldn't score a single goal. The tune changed, but the melody remained the same. Except that even football, thankfully, lost the grip it had always held over the average citizen, and footballers – who once lived in sticker albums – began fighting moray eels instead.

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Novel - 244 pag.
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© 1996 - Patrizio Pinna
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Cover illustration by Gianluca Sturmann