_I can’t stand crab._

_Genuinely, why is it ALWAYS crab!? I have a dozen traps on every corner of this time island and yet all I ever get is crab._

Erin flips off a plane as it goes by, his days of finding logs and dragging them to make large a SOS (or three) are long gone. He hadn’t seen this island when he flew over, hadn’t even known there was an island here. It’s not on maps- not that that’s all too surprising, practically every country has its own map so it figures there’d be some over sight when you’re simply trying to make yourself seem more impressive.

Regardless, he starts to pull the makeshift trap from the water.

“Sup, John.” He mumbles as he pokes at one of the crabs. It’s a lovely color, bright reddish orange arms and a black body. “Any luck this year?”

The crab does not respond.

“Figured.” He drags the trap onto the beach.

He was right this time, it is mating season. All the small crabs making their way to the water to breed before the babies find their way to land to repeat the cycle.

He doesn’t go after the big crabs.

He will not be going after the big crabs.

He used to live by a beach, absolutely hated it. Sand is a pain that can get in every orifice at one wrong move. The water just makes it worse, making it _stick_. No beach showers here, either you go back to the water to rise it off or you scrub at it which just makes it feel like one of those exfoliant body scrubs that just rubs you raw. The very worst part was the animals though.

He remembered back when he was a kid, little tiny person who didn’t realize most things were afraid of things bigger than them like he was. Picked up a crab with no hesitation, excitement in every feature as he held the tiny thing that tried to find purchase against his fingers. Then he screamed. Such a tiny thing, but it was strong.

He doesn’t want to know how strong the coconut crabs are.

John ends up properly grilled for lack of a better term. Impaled on a stick and roasted over an open fire like a sad Christmas carol. Erin has to admit he feels the slightest bit guilty for having to maim the poor guy, but it’s eat or be eaten on this island and he has seen these little guys tearing peices off whatever they can get their grubby little claws on. He’s sure once he dies on this god forsaken dirt plot that John’s children will happily eat his carcass, so let’s call this a quid pro quo.

Eventually he pulls the crab off the stick and hits it with a rock until it starts to crack. His hands are used to the hard shell after all this time, getting to the cooked meat of it without too much fanfare.

He holds the claw between his teeth to suck the meat out as his hands begin pick at the meat from the body. He’s still not desperate enough to eat the overall disgusting looking intestines from these things, at least not yet.

How long had it been again? He’s been keeping track in some cave, a real Cast Away situation right there- now if only he could find himself a Wilson. Talking to a permanent figure like a volleyball would probably feel a bit better than talking to crabs who he’s going to eat and pretending they’re all the same crab.

He could always come up with new names for them, maybe Noel, that’s a nice name- or perhaps Arthur, a real nice strong name that comes with a cold, calculated aura of someone not to be fucked with. Or maybe there could be a girl crab this time, make it something pretty like Faroe or Lily-

What was he thinking about again? Oh right, crabs. For eating. Not the lice at least, that’s a nice little positive for whenever things are looking down-

_At least you’re not dealing with the STI crabs, amen._