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You just can't keep down a good fish.
I let Jebidiah Weymarsh into my apartment and told him of the ghastly horror that had seeped up through the floorboards: “Sorry for the fish smell, Weymarsh,” I said by way of introduction, “but the fan above my oven broke last night whilst preparing a fried grouper fillet; however, more troublesome were the ululations – more pronounced last night than the previous night – when a giant fissure opened up in my bedroom and swallowed my wife Zelda, her suitcase, her clothes, my car, her photos and our good china, not to mention my checkbook and credit cards.”
Dr. Drib
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