The Society of the Fish's Fishermen

It was a cool and calm day for fishing. The kind of weather every angler hopes will be on the forecast as he strings up his rod and reel. Today is the day that I thrive. I am known ubiquitously as The Great Fish’s Fisherman. Think of me as a murderer if you will, but I will always voice liberty and equality for all fish, even if it costs me my river. Even if it costs me my life.

           Nobody really knows what I do for a living, if you can call it a living. I work by myself, and occasionally take requests from fish in need. That day, however, I was defending my own neck of the woods. Or should I say: Bend of the river.

Four young gentlemen strode confidently to the riverbank. They were decorated in numerous fishing items, sun hats lined with lures, rubber wading boots, and vests that held small boxes with various hooks, jigs, and other allurements that most fish could never resist. Fortunately, I am blessed with a bit more brain than a Panfish or a Pike. I slowly slid my way under an uprooted tree. The tree had always been my favorite spot to lounge. It was also my favorite spot to plan my next move. The four men heaved their trinkets into the deadly rapids and proceeded to retrieve them over and over again.

           Many hours later, one of the men picked up his rod and began to complain. He was a tall man, with a fine hairstyle that matched his beard. I crept closer. The man was whining to his friends, or maybe they were his brothers. Like I said, my job is to voice liberty and equality for all fish, not to figure out which of my clients are related. The man began,

           “I can’t believe you got us all to come here Lucas! I told you that this bend in the river was no good for fishin’! Anyone who would dare try another minute of casting and reeling is certifiably insane!”

I laughed out loud, knowing that they couldn’t understand me and made a rush for the dock. I breached the surface and hit the dock with a, “crack!”. The one who had been complaining jumped in surprise and stumbled on his oversized fishing boots into the river. Once under the water, I caught hold of him with my mouth and looked back at the surface. The other three men were frantically casting and reeling, as if in an effort to catch the poor whiny fisherman who had fallen in. I stared back at the terrified man under the water and gurgled to him,

“You’re getting off easy this time.”

His eyes widened to the size of a Freshwater Pearl Mussel as I threw him back up onto the rickety old dock. The dock rattled slightly as he hit.

           “I’m getting out of here!” He quavered. He picked up his belongings and ran like a gazelle with a cheetah behind him. I like to think of myself as the cheetah. Two of the remaining three fisherman also picked up their fishing equipment and turned for home. The remaining man, a shorter and much weaker looking fellow, shouted at the deserters to come back to the river.

           “I won’t leave this spot until I’ve caught enough fish to eat! If you three are too cowardly to stay and fish, then I guess I’ll have to catch dinner by myself!”

           I sighed a bubbly sigh. Fishermen like this were the hardest for my type to deal with. No matter how frightened you got them, they would never give up the, “hobby”, as they call it of massacring all Fishkind. A friend of mine, a Northern Pike of about 50 inches in length, had dealt with numerous stubborn fishermen over the years. The act of reversing the fishing process had started to weigh heavy on him, and he left the Society of Fish’s Fishermen. Our motto is: Liberty and Equality for All Fishkind. I followed that motto like children followed the Pied Piper: to the death.

           I lunged up at his line and ripped my head back, pulling the weak man into the rapids. As he tumbled away, he was caught by a device designed by an old acquaintance of mine, a Large Mouth Bass named Ned. The device was a net that ran with the rapids and disposed of anything caught in it into a large tube. The tube created a suction that kept the water out, and the victim in.

           I swam over to the clear tube and stared down my second fisherman that day. The difference was, I wasn’t letting this one go.

           “That’s a nice one!” said Ned swimming up next to me. “I knew you’d get one sooner or later, you catfish always do!”

           The small man gaped at us, trying to find the words to speak, “Who are you?” he managed to squeak out.

           “I,” I began slowly, ominously, “am the Great Fish’s Fisherman.”

           The man tilted his head and wiped water out of his eyes. “The Great Fish’s Fisherman? What’s that?”

“People like you,” I circled his tube and stared at him from the other side, “are always trying to catch and eat us fish.” I edged up to the glass, my whiskers scraping the tube. “I am the Fish’s Fisherman. I am their avenger.”

“So what does that mean?” The man asked in an annoyed tone. I rolled my eyes: humans never had a taste for the dramatic.

           “It means I’m going to eat you!” I smiled at him sarcastically and flicked my tail as I swam away from his fainting body.

           “We can fry him later tonight!” Ned yelled from next to a rock pile. A cheer went up from among the fish who were spectating. That night we had the biggest feast I’d had in a good long while.

I got a few nods and waves during that party, but nobody will truly associate with a Fish’s Fisherman. Nobody really knows what I do for a living, if you can call it a living. I work for myself, but never really get anything out of it. The society of Fish’s Fishermen both exists and doesn’t exist at the same time. As a member, I am ubiquitously known and feared for being a Fish’s Fisherman. Unfortunately, the price of being feared by one’s foes, means one must also be feared by all.