A single, trembling chela drew me closer. A set of bulbous eyes crawled across my lithe body. Shivers ran down my spine and, for the briefest of moments, I contemplated following my deepest carnal urges. Then reason returned and I struggled against the advances of the massive crustacean.
Klaws Kinski, with his movie star good looks and bad boy swagger, was the sort of enormous crab who drives all the boys wild. So why did I find myself pulling away from his powerful grip?
“Bigs, relax babe, is 2022,” Klaws gurgled in his syrupy Eastern European accent. “Nobody shocked by same-sex relationship anymore. Especially not here in Tweed Head.”
“Firstly, Klaws, I’ll thank you not to assume my gender,” I replied, pushing away his powerful propodus. “But it’s not that.”
“So is because I am crab? Bigs, I thought you were more open-minded than this. I mean, I am not the first oversized sea creature you’ve been with.”
“You leave the Big Prawn out of this,” I snapped. “What we had was very special and he remains an important decapod in my life. If I’m going to be honest, it won’t work out between us because…”
“Because of what, Bigs?” Klaws snapped, flexing his unguis. He had a reputation for being an intense, erratic and intimidating crab, but even I was shocked by his behaviour. “Because of what, you big baby?”
“It’s because you’re only half a crab, Klaws. Your head, thorax and hind legs are painted onto the side of a barn.”
“What are you trying to say, Bigs?”
“You’re a billboard with pincers, Klaws. You’re not a Big Thing at all. Now get your filthy – yet juicy and delicious – fingers off me.”
Klaws, but no cigar
Despite being several thousand times the size of a regular mud crab, Klaws suddenly seemed very small indeed. I’d like to say I’d never seen him looking so flat, but come on, he’s mostly a two-dimensional drawing, so that’s just how he is.
I turned my back to his deranged muttering, figuring that I would console myself with an informative and fun crab catching tour or or a plate of shuckin’ delicious oysters drenched in French shallot vinaigrette from the nearby Oyster Shed.
But something made me turn back. Klaws is capable of anything – what if my harsh words had caused him to self-harm? He may have even found solace in the alcoholism that had made him the most reviled roadside attraction to come out of the legendary Natureworks studios.
I should’ve known better. Within minutes of telling me I was the only one he had eight eyes for, Klaws had already moved on. There he was with a group of young Korean tourists clasped within his burly grip, posing for a selfie.
He sautéed them with the same saccharine words used to lure me in – all “I’m crayfish for you” and “Do you want to see my love mussel?” At that moment I realised that a crustacean like Klaws Kinski, even when slathered in a rich garlic sauce, can never truly feel love.
It is true, after all, that crabs have no heart.
