It was so dry. It was all Chad could think about. His throat was parched and his emptying gills screamed for water. The door was just across the room, but the way his tail flopped and weighted him down, forced him to pull his bulk inch by inch across the carpet with just his arms, it might as well have been a mile. By the time he made it, the mouthful of water was already gone, dribbled out through his gill-slits. Just reaching the door-knob proved a challenge. He reached up a desperate hand . . .
And there was Paul, still in the Chad-suit, dripping water from his shower and with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Tsk tsk," he chided, wagging a finger. "You shouldn't be out of your tank, you naughty little fishboy. You'll dry up and die!"
Chad's voice scratched in the dry air, but he managed to croak out, "Give - me - my - skin -"
Paul just threw his head back and laughed. "Are you kidding? I put your skin-suit on over my real skin, and I made sure not to use any of the shop's 'special non-stick spray'! It's already bonded on, and you're never getting it back!" Paul's evil laughter and Chad's utter hopelessness were the last things he remembered before the dryness overcame him and he blacked out.
* * *
He woke up again in the fish-tank, and that was where merChad stayed for a long time, the days running into weeks and blurring into an endless horror of demeaning insults, constant dehumanization, and increasingly squalid conditions.
But if there was one thing a point-one-percent super-rich asshat like Paul could be counted on to do eventually, it was to grow bored with his favorite new pet. He came around less and less. He paid less attention. And eventually, merChad became more trouble to keep than he was worth, so he was sold off to someone else.