THE DOOMED SEARCH FOR ATLANTIS AND ATTILA THE ORCA BY ZAC DUNN ATILLA was an ORCA. ORCA are not from a place so much as a zone. As life moves in a fluid context that is billions of atoms pushing against each other at unfathomable variants of pressure and magnitude. ATILLA was the spawn of CUJO and PHILOMENA. Both came from long and furious bloodlines. A colorful heritage in an unspoken brogue of click, ticks and flips. They would summer near the FAWKLANDS and spend winter between GIBRALTAR. The currents changed with the seasons and they lived almost completely in a consciousness of impulse and sensation. Each season the journey across the vast quiet brought challenges that they’ve learned from. Unlike DOLPHINS who are quiet, vain and egocentric, ORCA are a more communal folk who share and collaborate. Each decade the great SCION would be crowned at the CAPE OF GOOD HOPE ritual. It’s not well-documented, but according to ancient lore passed down generationally regarding the decorum and conditions that will spark the commencement of the ritual, it would proceed as such: The current and successor would drive a guyer of small fish into the break smashing a buffet of wriggling SARDINES and BABY MACKEREL crashing before thousands of hungry PENGUINS. The SCION and successor would then allow the cadre of brethren who’d accompanied them to the dangerous and treacherous passage to push in and engage. This charge would create a torrent of motion and carnage. While the feast commenced in perfect harmony as planned, the SCION and successor would turn from the shore and dive directly down until they both felt the hold and would clutch them almost to stasis. At a moment of truth, the current SCION would take a final look back at the one who would return to the great POD and dictate the agenda and maxims that would be gospel for the next decade. With this perhaps momentary motion of tremendous respect, the SCION would turn invariably deeper to allow tremendous pressure to consume them into the silent embrace of the bottom briney deep. Once the gaze of the SCION shifted below, the successor would rise No. 119 and return. At this time the feast would continue unabated. After three days and nights the brood would retreat back to the larger gathering just north of the FAWKLANDS. This hadn’t always been where this occurred. In a time several centuries prior, the nasty men who smelled for miles away would invade the sacred space. They would harpoon the sacred grand folk who would hurd the tremendous schools of fish with precision. These men were quite determined, but made the mistake of underestimating the resolve of the ORCA to drive them from this place. After several seasons, the SCION of that era moved to wage war on the BOSTON WHALERS. At first it was a ship here or there that would mysteriously disappear. But after the flagship of the NANTUCKET fleet was sunk the WHALERS moved away from the FAWKLANDS estuary. ATILLA knew all of these stories as very brief riddles that were taught by beaching fish and guessing how many flops they would wiggle out. But he also knew it was his charge to sort the incursion of greedy and reckless treasure hunters run amok between PORT VERDE and GIBRALTAR. The ORCA always considered GIBRALTAR as a dead space that should not be lingered in. The bounty on either side of the strait was too vast to effectively hold or command. But this was prior to ANTON and his brutal incursion. It had been an uneventful fall leading into winter. But then it happened: ANTON was a GREEK treasure hunter who’d found a foolish oligarch to fund his hair-brained hunt for the lost city of ATLANTIS. ANTON’s plan had no bells or whistles. He was barely literate but spent every waking moment searching for money or information that could benefit his quest for glory. It was by pure accident that he met his benefactor. ANTON promised him untold riches at a very reasonable investment of 10 MILLION EUROS. He didn’t even provide any details before accepting the massive
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