Page 33 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“All right, ladies,” I say to Ree and Georgie as I make a snap decision right here next to the lobster roll shack—because honestly, if you’re going to make major life choices, it might as well be surrounded by buttered shellfish and chaos.
“Since I’m officially in charge of this three-ring circus, I should probably know what I’m working with. Who’s up for riding every single attraction in this park with me?”
Ree gasps, clutching her pearls as if I’ve suggested skinny-dipping in the Jungle Rapids. “ALL of them?”
“Every. Single. One—or at least as many as we can pack in,” I say, fueled by a dangerous cocktail of morbid curiosity and managerial guilt.
“Well, I do have my heart medication,” Georgie says cheerfully, adjusting her roller coaster hat while a small lobster still clings to it like a very determined hitchhiker. “And I’ve always wanted to know if near-death experiences really give you that white light tunnel vision people talk about.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Ree mutters.
“But there’s only one way to find out. Come on,” I encourage. “What better way to understand the park than experiencing it like our visitors do? Besides, I need witnesses for the insurance claims.”
And just like that, we begin our theme park death march.
Our ride marathon begins at the park’s main thoroughfare, where we discover Huckleberry’s Harmony Trolley. This vintage trolley car, designed to transport guests up and down the lane, moves with all the urgency of a sloth on sedatives.
The animatronic conductor—a cheerful fellow with a handlebar mustache that rivals the lobster vendor’s—suffers from a voice box malfunction that causes him to alternate between baritone and soprano mid-sentence. It’s as if he’s having an identity crisis in real time.
“Did you know,” Georgie mimics perfectly as we finally escape after twenty excruciating minutes, “that huckleberries were Mark Twain’s favorite BZZZZT-FRUIT-BZZZZT?”
All it’s missing is a creepy clown, a fog machine, and we’ve got Halloween covered.
Next is the Storybook Hollow swan boats, which look sweet until we’re trapped circling a glitchy, singing frog for fifteen straight minutes. A teenage staff member with a boat hook and the soulless stare of a kid who’s seen some serious things finally drags us free.
“It happens all the time,” he mutters with the weary acceptance of a kid whose job involves rescuing people from malfunctioning fairy-tale creatures. “It’s like the frog has separation anxiety.”
“Unlike me,” Ree retorts, climbing out of the boat with shaky legs, “who now has boat-related anxiety.”
Next, we discover Fairy Tale Forest, an indoor park ride where guests travel through storybook scenes in enchanted teacups—and by enchanted, I mean probably haunted by the ghosts of better days.
Half the characters are missing limbs like casualties of a fairy-tale war, and Sleeping Beauty appears to have been replaced with a department store mannequin who’s still wearing a clearance tag.
“Bargain bin princess,” Georgie grunts.
“Ninety percent off, apparently,” Ree says with a sigh.
“Beauty on a budget,” I agree. “She’s giving relatable vibes. I can respect that.”
In Wild Adventures Hollow,the Jungle Rapids ride offers neither jungle nor rapids—just a dribble over some sad rocks. The animatronic tiger wheezes and weakly raises one paw like it’s too tired to care.
“That tiger needs a hip replacement surgery,” Georgie is quick to diagnose. “I recognize the symptoms from my second husband’s tennis elbow.”
Ree sniffs. “Yeah, but he needed a head transplant.”
“And I made sure he got one.” Georgie tips her hat to that one and the tiny roller coaster does a revolution.
We also brave Mountain Explorer, an ambitious roller coaster that climbs through a faux mountain before encountering a true-blue super fake yeti. The coaster part functions surprisingly well, but the yeti—which should jump out at a crucial moment—now just emits a wheezing sound like an asthmatic cat while a staff member hidden nearby throws cotton balls to simulate snow.
“Special effects budget cut?” I ask the operator as we disembark while still picking cotton out of my hair.
“Nah,” he responds, not looking up from his crossword puzzle. “Dale’s just allergic to the yeti costume. The cotton balls were his idea.”
Galaxy Hollow initially seems promising with its UFO Spin, until the ride operator—an elderly man who introduces himself as Cosmic Carl—delivers a concerning safety briefing.
“Due to gravitational anomalies,” he explains as sober as can be, “we only spin clockwise and at half speed to prevent dimensionalrifting.”
“Is that even a thing?” Ree whispers, probably wondering if we’re about to be transported to another universe where theme park safety actually exists.
