Letters from the Front: the Fish and Caucasian Wars
Dear Mama,
You taught me to be a good fish, a moral fish, a hardworking fish. You never taught me to be a soldier fish, and that’s what I see now I needed most. Seems like a lifetime ago when I sprang from my egg, ready to see and conquer all the coral and seaweed this ocean could throw at me. You didn’t warn me though, mama. You didn’t warn me! You shouldn’t have sheltered me! There’s a darker, more sinister world out there, one in which we fish aren’t long for this life. One in which pale men in khaki shorts pull us from our life-giving home and we suffocate to death. I’m not mad at you for sheltering me, mama. I just want you to prepare my younger siblings; all 1,568 of them.
These men are monsters, mama! They titillate us with delicious worms just hovering there in the water. But these worms are wrapped around cold, indifferent, unfeeling death. Soon as we’ve bitten down on the worm, a jagged, rusty piece of metal is yanked through our lips, and we’re dragged by some invisible force attached to the hook, scooped up with some sort of shiny net that has webbing attached to it, and forced to pose for a picture. And then these pallid demons use the picture as a mating display on their dating profiles to attract the females of their species. They congregate at Bass Pro Shops; a retail store devoted to our genocide, then sing along to “Don’t Stop Believing” as part of their mating ritual. Can you even imagine such a thing? Do you even want to try?
I’ve heard tell that men of other colors in this region don’t really fish all that much. I wouldn’t mind losing another friend to a black man, if only for the change of pace. Legend says that men of different colors across the world use giant nets to capture us, but this is done for the survival of their rustic villages, and they don’t make us suffer the indignity of a trophy photo to add insult to our murder. That’s the way to die, mama. That’s the way to die. On the front lines, with honor, dignity, and for a purpose. I did hear they sometimes use pieces of candy that foams up when coming into contact with a popular salty beverage to ferret us out of muddy holes in the riverbank, so I guess it’s bad all over for we wretched lot cursed to be born fish-kind.
These pale men have weapons which allow them to kill us more efficiently. They have some sorcery which even shows them how many of us are under their boats. The monsters that power their boats drive the Asian Carp into such a crazed frenzy, they leap out of the water into their boats, or are shot with a bow and arrow for fun. Who even dreams up such kinds of fun? These white men here…I just wouldn’t have believed such a monster could exist if I hadn’t seen it firsthand. I know you told me to avoid fish kind that have pincers and shells, but they’re really not so bad, and I think you need to rethink your racist views of crabs and lobsters. I’ve made a few friends of this race, and they’re struggling in their own war against these white men. Apparently they’re seen as a delicacy in certain areas and television shows are dedicated to their war with the white men. What horrible times we live in, mama, what horrible times.
I swam really close to shore one day and watched what happens to us after we’re caught. These men put us on a stone table, slice us open, and remove our flesh. Sometimes we’re even still alive as it’s happening, and they douse us with a water hose during the whole process just to tease us, I guess. Meanwhile, other white men stand around drinking beers and telling lies and exaggerated tales about their own experiences with catching and cutting us up. I hate these white men, mama. I hate them. Jimmy the Pike was caught, made to pose, and thrown back because they said he and his kind are “tons of fun to catch but too bony to eat”. If there was a God, I’d have been born a pike, mama, I’d have been born a pike.
What they say is true. Truly, maritime interspecies war is hell. Tell daddy I love him. I will write more when I can, and if I am alive and still swimming. I am off in search of the mythical city of Bikini Bottom, where I hear we have advanced so far as to have our own buildings, cars, and restaurants, and where all of our kind are safe to have whacky and whimsical adventures with talking sponges and explorer squirrels.
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Image taken from:
https://lacseulfish.com/fishing-information/