The Ocean’s Call

In Promo by The Blue Shark

Ah, Pauline Marjorie Studebaker.

They say you’re the heavy, the one whispered about in hushed tones. Yet, to me, you’re nothing but a stranded vessel in the vast, unyielding ocean of reality.

Do you hear it, PMS?

The ocean’s call, relentless and deep.

It’s a world where the tides don’t bow to the whims of the censoring quill. Your attempts to shape and mold Arcadia’s essence are like trying to chain the waves – futile and laughable.

In this boundless sea, the shark’s the embodiment of nature’s ruthless balance.

You see, the ocean don’t discriminate, it don’t censor. It’s a domain where might and cunning reign supreme.

You wish to stand strong in a man’s world, PMS? But the ocean, dear censor, it’s a realm beyond the petty constraints of gender. Creatures here care not about such distinctions. Fathers carry young. Mothers do the hunting.

The ocean transcends boundaries you so desperately cling to.

Your efforts to sanitize our world, to strip it of its raw truth, it’s akin to damming the ocean with pebbles.

You’re out of your depth, Studebaker.

In your crusade to police our reality, you’ve become blind to the true nature of existence. Your cause, as noble as you believe it to be, is but a ripple against the might of the ocean’s fury. You and your ilk stand against the tide, pitiful and misguided.

In the ocean’s depths, every drop of blood is an omen. And you’ve spilled blood into these waters.

My waters.

It’s a signal, a beacon for predators like me. It’s the smell of weakness, the stench of desperation. In your quest for control, you’ve only exposed your vulnerabilities. Like a wounded fish, you thrash and flail, drawing ever more attention, ever more danger.

Your blood in the water, it’s the beginning of your end. It’s a declaration that you’re outmatched, outmaneuvered.

In this world of predators and prey, you’ve shown yourself to be the latter. Your every move, every attempt to suppress and censor, it’s been watched, analyzed. You’re not the hunter here, PMS. You’re the prey.

You should’ve left the kid alone.

But you thought you could tame the ocean, didn’t you?

What you didn’t realize is that the ocean tames you. It molds you, shapes you, and if you resist, it breaks you.

In the ocean, strength lies not in rigid resistance, but in fluid adaptation. And you, PMS, you’re as rigid as they come.

Your censorship, your control, it’s all been a facade. A weak attempt to hold back the inevitable.

But here’s the truth, PMS.

You can’t censor the ocean. You can’t control the tides. And you most certainly can’t escape the fate that awaits you in these waters.

Your blood has been the signal. And now, The Blue Shark circles.

With each pass, I come closer, my jaws ready to snap shut on your delusions of control. For in this world of predators and prey, there’s only one truth – when the Blue Shark smells blood, the hunt is on.

And in the silent depths of my sea, PMS, no one hears you scream.