It's always been my assumption that the animal most likely to topple mankind from our lofty perch of dominance over the planet is most definitely the octopus. Bollocks to the dolphins. I'm not afraid of anything that can't open doors or drive a tank. But those villainous molluscs? Handles and levers aren't going to be an obstacle. They're amongst right now, learning the ways of man from the cold brine of their aquariums. Every time I take a look at the giant Pacific octopus they have in Tynemouth, its cold dead eyes impart a simple message. "One day I will kill you, and the only reason you're still alive is that I haven't worked out how to make it really hurt yet."
Frankly, I'm pretty sure the only thing that's kept our civilisation safe all this time is the fact that octopuses hate each other almost as much as they do us. Global dominance is a hard trick to pull off by oneself, though I'd put down money that there's at least a couple of the cephalopodic bastards who have built their own volcano lairs - presumably staffed by hypnotised cuttlefish and guarded by cybernetic sharks.
In other words, the octopus was a scary enough prospect just when it was an eight-legged malevolent predator that could solve problems and squeeze into crevices. I don't have the words to describe how much more terrifying they've become now I know they can see the fucking future. Some naysayers might greet this terrifying development with full-scale denial, pointing out that four predictions in a row would happen once every sixteen times - easy enough for the population of even a small aquarium to manage. Others would wonder whether the Germans have also imployed squid to predict the stock market, or perhaps bet on Wimbledon winners with the aid of a pair of curious sea-cucumbers.
All those people are fools. The octopuses are now, at long last, demonstrating their true powers. And why would they do that - WHY - if not for their certain knowledge that for humanity it is already too late...