Land of the Lobsters: Entree de la mort

[First thing I've written in a while. Go team]

Survivors of war say that before a bomb drops, you hear the humming. The whistle on the wind, as it plummets down to earth and unleashes hell. In our world’s case, the whistle was a long one. Over the course of months, we should’ve heard the warning.

They said our arrogance would bring our downfall. The media and the public alike. And they were right.  We played god. The U.S. government seeked a firm grasp on various industries in 2024, after the White Bomb incident- including genetic  manipulation  and fisheries.

We thought a family of lobsters with amplified pain cells  would result in better tasting meat, and with a few mutations here and there, introduced hundreds of  them into several areas of the world’s waters. These lobsters were also stronger, more potent,  and more sexually aggressive  than what was previously formed. Wrap your hand around your thigh. That’s how big they were.

Unfortunately, these mutated lobsters-mubsters is what we dubbed them- were better than we anticipated. The mubsters quickly eliminated the normal lobsters- hereafter dubbed normies- within three months, as they lived their days fighting, feeding, and fucking. Soon, the mubsters drove the normies to extinction. Worse yet, they didn’t stop there.

These mubsters had heightened pain cells- but somewhere along the line, their brain activity was increased significantly. We intended for them to feel pain on an extreme level, but not for other sensations. Embarrassment. Lust. Pride. And rage, as we soon found out. Their brain activity had multiplied ten-fold, and growing. They were feeling too much. Thinking too much. Soon, they had learned how to operate equipment, and created lobsters of different shapes and colors. I call these  the “lustaceans”, because these were the casanovas of the lobster caste- the uber-hummer, if you well. The peak of lobster and human engineering, they were six feet long, and had an IQ on average, greater than our scientific minds.


You don’t want to know how I know all this. No, really, you don’t. My name is Juan Schiff and this log chronicles the final days of the human race.