Rogue Manatee
On an unknown date in the winter of 1999, a fisherman out on a remote Florida creek had, unknowingly, driven his boat over a large, rotund West Indian Manatee. There was no one around. The boat’s propeller left a total of eight cuts into the manatee, all of which were deep—not so deep as to be life threatening—but deep enough to puncture the animal’s thick, blubbery hide.
This is doubly unfortunate: first, because of the harm done to an innocent creature, and second, because the cuts had, by some random accident, been left in the shape of a swastika.
Two months later, a college student visiting a tourist center in Apollo Beach spotted what appeared to be a manatee resting in the nearby warm, discharged waters of a TECO power plant. On its back, white scar tissue bore the unmistakable symbol of Nazi Germany. She immediately dialed 911 and officers were dispatched to the scene.
* * *
The governor of Florida, Kenneth Mackay, had been briefed on the situation. His aides sat with him in his mobile command center, or MCC as he called it, and he practiced a short speech meant to calm the tumultuous hearts of Florida citizens as they rode out towards the site of the incident. “There is not,” he began, “a more serious threat to peaceful life in Florida than that of Nazism. Man or manatee, we make no exception for hate, regardless of which species spews it out.” His aides nodded at him in approval. Another patted his shoulder and handed him his prescription bottle, which he waved off. “Maybe after,” he said. “I’m feeling good today.”
When they arrived at the tourist center, Governor Mackay was greeted by the Apollo Beach police department who’d established a perimeter surrounding a small stage and podium. “Sir,” the chief said, “we’ve searched the area. The manatee has fled the scene. We’re beginning a larger sweep of the surrounding waterways, but,” his voice trailed off, “you know how elusive they can be.”
Mackay nodded, “Thanks for your work here. Tell me, how’s the local pulse? How do people feel?”
“Not good.” The police chief held his stare at the governor for a long time.
* * *
As he approached the podium, Governor Mackay noted the large swath of press and cameras surrounding the stage. They’re hungry, he thought. They’ve been wanting to get a hit on you for so long now, Ken.
He straightened his tie and leaned into the microphone.
“My fellow Floridians,” he began, “I am sure you’ve heard the news lately. I am sure you’ve felt the same pain in your hearts that I’ve felt. This is, by all accounts, the greatest threat to our democracy that there’s ever been to date. What we have here,” he said, motioning towards the nearby waterway, “is a rogue agent, a rogue manatee, who feels as though our country is his safe haven.” He paused for a moment, looking directly into as many cameras as he could. “Let me be clear. It is not.”
You’ve made a good start, Mackay thought. You’d better not fuck it up, Ken. Though, if you did, it wouldn’t be the first time. In his mind, he heard a faint cackle.
“I am certain that the great police force of Apollo Beach are doing everything they can, searching every river, every lake, and every puddle within the local vicinity to track down this threat. What we need now is a concerned and alert citizenry,” he said, pointing towards the cameras. “If you see something, say something. There is not a more serious threat to peaceful life in Florida than that of Nazism. Man or manatee, we make no exception for hate, regardless of which fuckin’ spic—goddamn it—my apologies, which species spews it out. Thank you.” He stood there, silent for a moment. “We’ll, uh, now begin taking questions if you have them.”
Congratulations, Ken. Who would’ve thought you’d be able to fuck up a speech condemning a manatee? Now look at them, he thought, you’ve just thrown them red meat. Another hit on Governor Mackay . . . it’ll sell papers around here. But, I suppose we both knew you weren’t the man for this job. No, you belong in a padded room. I mean, just listen to yourself. Listen to us!
He waved towards the press, who’d moved closer. “Governor,” one began, “can you please clarify your message? Did you use the word ‘spic’ as a slur towards Latinos, or was this just another verbal slip up?”
“No, no, no—we value our Hispanic community here in Apollo Beach, as well as the rest of Florida. I misspoke when I said that. Of course I wouldn’t use a racial slur.”
“Sir,” another reporter said. “You just mentioned that you wouldn’t use a slur, but if you’ll recall from earlier last year, when dealing with the tiger who’d escaped from Lowery Park Zoo in Tampa, the one who was exclusively stalking poor, black neighborhoods, you did in fact use a racial slur in your speech at that time. How can we be sure this incident wasn’t intentional?”
That’s a good question, Ken. How can we be sure? These, what do you want to call it this time, verbal slip ups? They happen far too often to just be simple mistakes. Though, I’m sure you can reassure yourself that it really wasn’t you. Not the ‘real’ you, whatever that means.
“This incident,” Governor Mackay began, “this verbal slip up, is not conducive towards our conversation here. Let’s refocus on the threat at hand: the manatee with Nazi sympathies.”
One Hispanic reporter pushed his way towards the front of the crowd. “If you have a problem with me, cerdo, why don’t you come down here and talk?”
“I feel as though we’re not being civil towards one another here—”
“You couldn’t even catch a Nazi manatee,” another reporter shouted. “Why should we trust you?”
“No manatee ever called me spic,” the Hispanic reporter said. A few others began repeating it, and a moment later, the press crowd was chanting ‘No manatee ever called me spic, nuh uh!’
“People,” the governor pleaded, “please calm down!” He looked back and saw the police chief with his hand on his holster, looking nervous.
A reporter climbed on stage and approached Governor Mackay, “We ain’t your people!”
“Sir, please—”
The reporter pushed the governor and they fell to the ground. From behind the two of them, three shots rang out. And then another. Governor Mackay suddenly felt a rush of cold, and as he pushed the reporter off of him, he noticed that his neck was bleeding. The reporter had three shots to his side, and wasn’t breathing. Ken looked over and saw the police chief with his gun out, looking aghast. The noise from the crowd was beginning to fade. The sky up above seemed to lose its blue hue, but in a way, he felt calm. As though his heart realized what was happening. His pulse slowed. Time slowed.
Well, this is the way it ends, the voice in his mind began. You and me, going out together. What fun, but . . . we should have seen this coming. After all, you being you, and me being you, there wasn’t any other way for this life to go. That is, us on the end of a gun. I had a good time, though. And, frankly, I don’t think I’d really want it any other way. Goodbye, Ken. Maybe now you’ll get some peace.
* * *
After the incident, the Nazi manatee case had intensified, with calls to find the creature broadcast on every local news station for weeks. The state of Florida held a special election to replace the late Governor Mackay. One candidate, who ran on an exclusively anti-manatee platform, won with an overwhelming majority—the largest win percentage in the state’s history.
To date, the rogue manatee was never found. Some had speculated it had fled south, down to Argentina or Chile, but any real, tangible evidence for this is slim.
