A Cast Of Crabs

The cutthroat Crab Racing Circuit had undergone many changes throughout history. As generations evolved, they learned to modify and upgrade, in hopes of shaving off a 100th of a second, which often meant the difference between medaling and finishing. The years passed, until one day, racers were more machine than crustacean. Chiten gave way to ceramics and, in some case, titanium. Steam was a lightweight and powerful system of propulsion, and countless hours were spent experimenting to find the ideal drive.

Why?

Because of the crabs’ obsessive need to push the limits of speed, of the exhilaration of the race itself. To win.

Nice. The morning sun bathed the French shoreline in radiant glory. A crowd had gathered by the track; all of them chittered excitedly.

The racers gathered around the largest of them, a grizzled old Stone Crab named Pierre. He had 5 O’clock shadow before 10:30. His shell was a used titanium that sagged. Once a micro engineering marvel: steam-powered ceramic legs, perfect for both racing and combat. Legs which had carried him to victory more times than any other crab in history.

He was engaged in conversation with Gaston, a curious fellow who had replaced his legs with tracks, like a tank. Most of his other upgrades were damaged, some of them extensively, but he still had thoughts on victory.

“Gaston,” Pierre rumbled, “I appreciate ze work you have put into your mods, but you are a danger to yourself and others.”

“You don’t know the words you speak, Pierre. I have ze feeling ze day will be mine!”

A brightly colored Harlequin Crab snorted, “Unless you are dead.”

“Shut your chelae, Brigitte!”

The others chuckled.

A new racer entered Pit Row, a young Blue Crab who split the crowd with a cacophony of oohs and ahs from the bystanders. He was freshly modded with a new titanium leg, featuring top-of-the-line steam propulsion. He gave Pierre a nod, but the Harlequin Crab called him by name, “Benoit!”

“Brigitte.”

She skittered over to him and gave him a big hug, “Sexy new leg!”

One of the racers, a one-eyed Ghost Crab by the name of Luc, chortled, “Only one?”

Soft laughter encircled them from the gathered onlookers, but Benoit only chuckled, “I had to sell everything to pay for it! My house, my things. Everything!”

Another racer asked, “So, you’re homeless?”

“I will find someplace to live — especially with today’s winnings.”

Guilleume retorted, “One bionic leg isn’t going to help your other five pitiful legs. You will probably just spin around in circles.”

This time the laughter was not quiet. Benoit grit his mandibles, “The only one going around in circles is the blind racer. How’s that ocular implant treating you, Luc?”

Another round of laughter from the crowd.

Luc puffed his chest, “It is very beneficial!”

Benoit rolled his eye stalks, “We’ll see,” then looked around.

“Where is Amelie?”

“She’s not here yet,” said Pierre.

“No, no. I saw her earlier, by ze tide pools,” Brigitte announced.

“We should get her,” Pierre said, “ze race starts in 10 minutes.”

So, seven crabs walked sideways through the crowd, on their way to the tide pools near the back of the beach, where the crab grass grew so high. They hunted high and low, and even called for her, but no answer.

“Now what do we do?”

Before anyone could answer, a scream pierced the air, from the sandy bluff just above them. They raced up to the grass and were shocked to see the soft underbelly of their former comrade, Amelie. Her legs had curled in death.

Brigitte turned away and put her claws to her mouth, “Mon dieu! How horrible!”

The scream had brought a Dungenesse Crab from the crowd. His mustache was finely waxed and he introduced himself as Hercule Crabrot. He assured everyone that he was an inspector.

“Zis is a crime scene, and ve shall treat it as such!” He rummaged around in the grass for a minute, then exclaimed, “Aha!”

‘Vatt is it?”

“I beleef I have found ze murdair weapon!”

“Murdair! Oh…” Brigitte nearly fainted.

Hercule stepped from the grass, and in his claw held a razor clam, “Ze sharpened edge of zis must have been honed enough to slice right through ze young lady’s exoskeleton.”

“But that’s impossible!” Benoit cried, “her shell was titanium! Razor clams could never cut through that.”

Luc turned to face him, “Unless eet was forced through ze shell by a tremendous force!”

Brigitte gasped, “But ze only sing weeth enough power to do zat would be… would be…”

She looked directly at Benoit’s brand-new leg.

“No,” he said, “I would never…”

Hercule held aloft his giant claws, “Ladies and gentlemen, zere ees a killair among us! Right here on zees little bitty race track!”

They all looked at Benoit.

“No! I didn’t!”

Hercule sauntered ever closer to Benoit. The others closed in around him as well.

“I - I swear! I never touched her!”

Luc was so close, Benoit could almost smell his breath, ‘Oh, but you could have. Where were you just a few minutes ago, while we were all waiting? DID YOU KILL AMELIE?!”

“NO!” Benoit sobbed.

“Yes!” Luc pushed.

“No,” Hercule said.

“Wait, what?”

“Her shell was super heated. Zees softened it enough so ze razor clam would slice right through.”

Nobody spoke.

“Ze kind of heat created by a monochromatic beam of light.”

Benoit gasped, “Luc, you have a laser beam in your ocular unit? You cheater!”

“No!”

Hercule surmised, “Ze reflective qualities of Amelie’s new armor must have played havoc weeth your vision, no? You would never have been able to see well enough to finish ze race, Luc. You had to keel her.”

“You bastard!” Luc swung his ocular unit around at Hercule, getting him dead in his sights.

Benoit threw sand in Luc's good eye.

"My eye! How could you blind me? I thought I was your friend!”

“Friends don’t frame friends for murder.”