"I hate fish…" Spot growled the next morning. "Hate it."

Hull laughed and picked a piece of meat off the ribs of the fish, the pointy white bones pricking his fingers. Spot shuddered in disgust and wiped off the scales from his hands on his pants.

"How can you eat that? It tastes so…fishy!"

Hull smiled and made an ecstatic face, then slowly and gently dropped a chunk of fish into his mouth. He chewed slowly, exaggerating the flavor, giving the meat a false "taste ego". Hull swallowed and closed his eyes, sighing contently.

"Geez, what was that? A fish-gasm?"

"Actually, it tastes like shit. But seafood is just part of your diet when you live here…" Hull's voice faded as the sadness of last night re-entered his mind. He shook his head, leaving his messy blonde hair looking rather shaggy.

"How can you eat that!" he said, changing the subject. He raised an eyebrow at the potato in Spot's hand.

"You don't like potatoes! What's wrong with you! Everyone likes potatoes!"

"I'm not Irish, Spot. Besides, they taste like dirt!"

"Because they're in the ground! That fish of yours tastes like saltwater!"

Hull snickered and stretched out on the dock. Spot scowled and massaged his aching calves, rubbing away the tension from yesterday's fright. A few seagulls squawked and flew lazily, occasionally swooping down to the boys to peck at their stolen meal. Hull swatted them away casually while Spot eyed the birds suspiciously.

"They don't have gulls in Brooklyn?"

"Nah, they do. The ones 'round here are different. More uh…daring. Risky."

"Why do ya say that?"

"We shoot 'em in Brooklyn if they get close to us. Ya know, with slingshots."

Hull's jaw dropped. He loved teasing the birds, but never had he attempted to kill one. Sure, he was tough, but he'd never killed an animal, except for clams, fish, and oysters. And, of course, the person in the fire.

"Whatsamatta? It's just a bird."

"But…they represent the freedom of the ocean. If I could be any bird, I'd be a seagull."

"What are ya, a poet? They represent nothing but trash. Anyone ever tell ya what pigeons are like?"

"Rats of the sky."

"Right. Them birds are the pigeons of the sea."

"There's nothing wrong with pigeons or gulls, Spot."

"Yeah there is. They're filthy scavengers."

Only when he stopped talking did Spot realize his mistake. Hull stood up and glared at him, his eyes veiled by a sheet of glossy tears.

"I didn't mean-"

"Shut it."

"Not again, Hull, please-"

"SHUT IT!"

"Fuck…"

"The boy's a thief, I tell ya. He's been stealing lobsters."

"What? Caleb? He wouldn't steal."

"Saw 'em with my own two eyes. Picked a small critter and jammed it in his pocket. The kid was squirming away, that little demon was pinchin' 'im. Serves 'em right, though."

"Nah, liar. He wouldn't do that. 'Sides, he can't kill anything but scallops and bass."

"It's an act, man, an act. He's been swipin' them for weeks now. He's a scavenger."

Hull stopped and eased his grip on the lobster in his hand. The animal, sensing his relief, took advantage of the opportunity and clamped a claw on Hull's finger.

"Cripes!" he blurted.

The two workers turned around, stunned at the interruption.

"I ain't lying. There's ya proof."

"Scavenger."

"Don't ever call me that again, ya got it?"

Spot nodded anxiously. He stood and walked past Hull while unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed it at Hull and leaned over the edge of the dock.

"Here," he growled. "Ya got ya tears and snot on it last night."

Their conversation ended with a splash.


Dun dun dun. As you can see, there's some friction between Spot and Hull-Shore. In the upcoming chapters, there'll be some more flashbacks. But, just to clear up any confusion, Hull used to be a fisherman…er….fisherboy. And, hopefully you noticed this, Hull has a huge problem with being called a "scavenger". Also, I'm starting to get a Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn vibe from these two. And, one more thing, Hull is sort of being based off of Bobby from All The Little Animals. Sort of.