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Starbucks was horrified. All of her life she had believed that fish sticks were made of cod or haddock or shark, or some other fish that nobody really cared about. But to think that a beautiful mer-creature could be harvested, partitioned, battered, and deep-fried to make a convenient snack sickened her even more than the thought of her ten thousandth Grande Cafe Latte, of the sight of Aqua-Trump's pubic comb-over flapping in the sea current, or her memory of the day she was ripped from her idyllic ocean paradise to become a playtoy of Madison Avenue.
Starbucks heaved and blew chunks of pomegranate fig newtons from her mouth and from her gills. When she recovered herself, she arose with a single determination - to seek and exact revenge from Mrs. Paul. But first she had to establish a clandestine eco-terrorist organization with enough money, members, and lawyers to take down the fishicidal maniac, as well as all fish-haters, wherever they might live.
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