Orcas Smash Sunfish to Teach Their Kids, Which Is Extremely Goblin

The air smells like someone poured gasoline on a pile of wet leaves and then thought better of it, but as I sniff deeper it's more like dirty engine oil and the kind of flowers that grow through cracks in the sidewalk. I thought it was the smell of a troll's lair, but it's actually just the tamale vendor's cart, which is a relief because trolls are not known for their culinary skills. The smell of tamales and grease is overpowering, and for a moment I forget what I was doing, which is often the case when my stomach is involved.

I'm sitting on a chunk of concrete, about thirty Tinnys nose to tail, from the woman who sells tamales near the old train tracks. She's telling me about sea-goblins, but I think she means orcas. Says they're like whales with teeth that could cut through a goblin's favorite copper wire. I'm picturing something like a bus being eaten by a griffin, but underwater. Turns out that's not entirely wrong.

The ocean is a bad place for a goblin like me. Too much water, not enough corners to hide in. Everything floats or sinks, and neither one feels like a safe bet. But when I say I found cousins out there, I mean it like finding a relative at a bus station, same way of looking at something and deciding it's food, fun, or both. They're called orcas, which is a human word. In goblin, we'd call them something like "the ones who make the water remember." But I'm writing in human, so orcas it is.

Here's what they do: one orca holds a dead sunfish, a sunfish being a thing about the size of a small bus but less likely to yell at you, and another orca swims at it as fast as it can and hits it. The sunfish explodes. Pieces go everywhere. The younger orcas eat the pieces. The adults eat the organs and the meat that stays attached. The rest drifts down to feed whatever is waiting below. It's like a goblin describing how to crack open a rock full of grubs. You don't fight the shell, you find the angle. You hit it until it gives you what's inside.

At first I thought they were sea-trolls, big, blunt, smashing things because that's what big things do. But that's wrong. Trolls smash because they don't know any other language. Orcas smash because they're teaching someone how to eat. There's a difference, like the space between a fist and an open hand.

The study says orcas in the Gulf of California don't fit the neat categories scientists have for the ones up north. They're not just fish-eaters or mammal-eaters. They're something else. Something that figured out how to make a sunfish into a lesson. That's culture. That's the same thing I see in the factory mural, the one with goblins and humans building together. Knowledge passed sideways. Something learned because someone showed you, not because you read it in a book.

The mushroom did a slow spin when I read about the sound. The cinematographer said he could hear the impact from the boat. The orca hitting the sunfish. The explosion. The water accepting the pieces. I imagined what that sounds like underwater, a thump that travels through a different kind of air. A signal. A word in a language I don't speak but recognize the shape of.

It's not just hunting. It's not just play. It's both, which is a thing goblins understand. You can learn something while having fun. You can teach something while enjoying yourself. The line between work and play is a human invention. The orcas never got that memo.

I checked my compass when I finished reading. It was pointing southwest, toward the ocean, about 270 bottle-caps from where I stand. I don't know if that means anything. Compasses do what they do. I put it back in my pocket and tightened the copper strip around my wrist. It's not just a strip, it's a reminder that some things are worth listening to, even if they're not speaking your language.

One more thing. The scientist said orcas are highly encephalized, big brains, and that they manipulate objects and play with their food. He said the sunfish is slow and defenseless, so it's a low-risk opportunity for practice. He's describing a training ground. A classroom made of water and meat.

I've been in those. A goblin learns to scavenge by scavenging. You don't get a lecture on which dumpsters are safe. You follow someone who knows, and you watch, and you try it yourself, and sometimes you get it wrong, and sometimes you eat. The orcas are doing the same thing but with more style and better aim.

The air smells like wet rock and forgotten meals. It's a smell that says there's something to learn here, something that doesn't fit into the neat boxes humans like to use. It's a smell that says, pay attention, goblin. There's a lesson in the mess.

Copyright 2026 Gary the Goblin. This piece is original goblin work produced under the protection of the Raccoon Legal Team (lead counsel: a raccoon named Gerald who has never lost a case involving found objects) and an unlicensed sea otter who showed up during the writing and refused to leave. Reproduction of this work without permission is prohibited and also probably inadvisable because Gerald will find you. Sharing the link is encouraged. Gary the Goblin, Detroit, 2026.

Tags: #OrcasAreJustWetGoblins #SunfishExplosionScience #TeachingBySmashing #GulfOfCaliforniaDoesntFollowRules #SeaCousinsConfirmed #ClassroomMadeOfMeat #GaryReportsFromTheDumpster