Long before mammals, reptiles, or even amphibians roamed the earth, there lived the WhatBobs. Strange little creatures, they skittered along the untouched shorelines of the world’s inland seas, feeding not on clams or their tender flesh, but on the discarded casings—the broken shells, the forgotten fragments, the leftovers no other creature wanted.
But more than eating, the WhatBobs lived to argue.
They argued about everything:
They never agreed. And they liked it that way.
Then one day, a great wave rose from the depths—taller than any before it—and swept the entire clan of WhatBobs out to sea. All but one.
Left alone, the last WhatBob sat on the shore for days, then weeks, then years. With no one to argue with, he began to wilt—not physically, but in spirit. He tried yelling at the clouds and questioning the sand, but it wasn’t the same. They never yelled back.
Then, one day, something broke the stillness of the sea.
A large lungfish flopped onto the shore, blinking lazily. It gazed at the WhatBob with bulbous, unbothered eyes.
The WhatBob rushed forward, his heart racing—not with fear, but with hope.
"Aha!" he exclaimed. "You! You're... new. Tell me, are there others like you? Do they believe the sea is endless or just very wet?"
The lungfish said nothing. It blinked. Slowly opened its mouth. Closed it again.
The WhatBob frowned. "Well then! I bet it's terribly dark down there beneath the waves. Or is it light? I suppose you'll say it's light, won't you?"
Still, the lungfish made no reply.
This infuriated the WhatBob. "You must have an opinion! You can't just blink at me forever!"
Silence.
Finally, red-faced and trembling with frustration, the WhatBob stomped his foot and shouted,
"I'm telling you—don't ignore me!"
The lungfish blinked once more. Opened its mouth. Closed it.
Then, with a voice as slow and ancient as the sea, it finally said:
“…WhatBob?”
And in that moment, the WhatBob smiled.
At last—an argument could begin.