The old man club
The Trout-Head: He’s the first one who sat across from me. A pale, muscular human torso topped with the wet, unblinking head of a trout. His mouth just hangs open, gasping at the humid air. He’s wearing nothing but a tight, black banana hammock that leaves nothing to the imagination. His skin is etched with messy, frantic charcoal lines. The Spear Fish: This one is a monster. He has the long, jagged bill of a marlin for a face, pointing straight at my chest while we lock hands. His shoulders are wider than the doorway, rippling with scribbled-in muscle. Like the others, he’s stripped down to a stark black banana hammock, showcasing hairy, trunk-like legs. The Shark: A nightmare in a black banana hammock. He has the gray, sand-paper skin and the soulless black eyes of a Great White, but the body of a heavyweight bodybuilder. Every time I heave against his arm, his gills seem to quiver. Those tiny briefs are the only bit of "civilization" on him. The lion is a lion in brown jeans
About The old man club
The Trout-Head: He’s the first one who sat across from me. A pale, muscular human torso topped with the wet, unblinking head of a trout. His mouth just hangs open, gasping at the humid air. He’s wearing nothing but a tight, black banana hammock that leaves nothing to the imagination. His skin is etched with messy, frantic charcoal lines. The Sp...Read more