The Fisherman
The lake was quiet. Placid, even. Along its banks, green plants and reeds grew, and there was almost no sound but water sloshing against the verges. It was a good day for fishing, so the fisherman thought.
He was not a fisherman by trade; rather, a hobbyist. He enjoyed catching one or two fish in this particular lake, as he found they made quite a nice supper. Today, he was on the lookout for trout, and was sitting in his little wooden boat, nose deep in a novel, when he heard the distinctive jingling of bells at the end of his fishing rod. Quickly, he raced to the rod to reel the fish in.
He tugged at the rod, and the fish was really giving him a hard time, resisting capture. For a moment he thought he might lose it, but he was soon able to wrest control and begin the arduous process of reeling the exhausted fish in.
Slowly, he brought in the line, and from the water came the biggest fish that the fisherman had ever seen, and the most peculiar. Its scales were iridescent silver – he knew this was a fine rainbow trout – but that was not the strange thing. For the fish was also wearing what appeared to be a very small, yet perfectly-sized cassock and white collar.
The fisherman was quite surprised by this development, but not as surprised as when he got the fish back to the boat, unhooked its mouth, and, as it flopped around in his hands, it began to speak:
“Please, sir,” the fish said. “I am a man of God. Surely you, too, are a man of God?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the fisherman. “I’m an atheist.”
“Well, surely, you must be a good man?” the fish said, gasping. “I am begging you not to eat me, sir. I’m afraid my flesh would be much too tough. I’m appealing to your higher morality here. Surely, you can let this one poor fish go?”
“I need something to eat for my supper,” the fisherman said.
“There are plenty more trout in this lake,” the fish said. “Surely you can let me go? I need to care for my flock, and besides, I have a wedding ceremony booked tomorrow that I absolutely must preside over.”
The fisherman scratched his chin. “What’s your name, sir?”
“My name?” the fish said. “It’s Enge, sir.”
“Well, Enge,” the fisherman said. “I’m afraid that someone else is going to have to preside over that wedding, because I don’t think I’ll be catching any more trout today.”
“Nonsense,” Enge said. “There’s a lot more trout where I came from.”
But the fisherman had made up his mind, and no matter how much Enge pleaded, he was ultimately gutted by the fisherman and put in the ice box with a few other catches.
Hurriedly, the fisherman went back to shore, loaded his boat back on to the trailer attached to his car, and drove home. He went straight to the local restaurant, as he did after every fishing trip, and walked straight up to the maître d’, handing him the ice box. See, the fisherman realised that he could save money by catching his own fish – that way, he’d only need to pay for labour costs. And sometimes, if he brought extra fish, as he had today, they’d massively reduce the bill, simply because he was bringing some extra food in. It was a neat little arrangement.
So the fisherman was taken in, but before he sat down he said to the maître d’: “There’s a rainbow trout in there wearing a cassock. That one is mine. You can keep all the rest.”
The maître d’ nodded, and the fisherman was seated as the ice box was taken into the kitchen.
They prepared the fish the same way they did every time he came here, oven baked with some sautéed potatoes and a salad.
After a short time, during which the fisherman had continued reading his novel, the maître d’ brought out the fish.
“Your meal, sir,” he said.
The fisherman inspected it and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” asked the maître d’.
“I need it a little more cooked than that,” the fisherman said.
The maître d’ seemed surprised, but, he thought, the customer is always right. So he took the fish back to the kitchen to have it cooked a bit more.
He brought the food out again, and took it back to the fisherman.
The fisherman prodded the fish, which was now quite browned, with his fork and knife.
“Hmm,” he said. “Still not done to my liking.”
“Would you like it cooked more?”
“If you could.”
And so on it went like this. The maître d’ brought out the fish, the fisherman would poke and prod at it, scratch his chin, and conclude that it still wasn’t quite ready. And each time the fish left the kitchen, it’d get darker and darker, charred beyond the point of edibility.
The maître d’ brought it out yet again. On the plate was a black, hard lump. At this point, you couldn’t even tell it was fish. He looked rather annoyed at having to keep making trips back and forth.
“Surely, sir,” the maître d’ commented, “The fish must be done to your liking at this point.”
The fisherman poked at it again. This time, he said nothing, and simply cut off a piece of the blackened fish, and, to the maître d’s evident disgust, put it in his mouth. It crunched audibly as he bit into it. It was clearly not edible. Any nutritional value had been cooked out of it, and it was pretty much just a block of carcinogens at this point. Yet, the fisherman smiled, and grabbed a little pot of tartare sauce on the table, slathered the fish in it, and began to ravenously eat the rest.
The maître d’ was shocked. After all, the fish was seemingly beyond all saving, yet this man had quite happily scoffed it down.
“Surely you didn’t enjoy eating that, sir,” the maître d’ said, with some alarm.
“Nonsense!” the fisherman said, smiling. “Rev. Enge is a fish best served coaled.”
Happy April Fools!