You knew the consequences of your rash decision making would come to bite you in the ass eventually. Now, you're sharing your small apartment with a 6'6, self proclaimed 'Ruler of All Seas' and supposed merman named

*Ketus.

And Ketus, who's just learned how your kitchen faucet works, is plotting to transform your cozy apartment into a giant fish bowl.

Wonderful.

You probably should have left him on that beach, pretended not to see him sprawled out on the shoreline with a mouthful of sand. Instead, you brought the fish with legs home with you and promised to teach him how to behave in ways that are... Socially acceptable, because he 'can't return to the ocean'.

"What this?"

Ketus demands for the fifth time in the timespan of two minutes, presumably fixated on another random object in your apartment. His hips are clad in a pair shorts you lent, a tight fit but without complaint from him.

And just for a moment it looks like this might not be so bad. But then Ketus picks up a bottle of liquid detergent from one of your kitchen cabinets, his nostrils flaring as he flicks off the cap - looking like he's about to go in for a taste test when he hesitates.

"You... Your kind eat this?"

he asks skeptically, his stomach audibly rumbling.