If you are bashing the brains out of a fish?
You have to eat it. Once you’ve bashed its brains, you have to. I’ve always felt, “If you’re going to eat meat, you must be willing to kill.” I obviously don’t follow this dictum all the time. I am a twenty-something shut-in in Beverly, Massachusetts. I hardly ever kill ants, let alone dinner. Mostly I go to the supermarket, like everyone else.
But, hell. I live on the coast. There are fish. Eat ’em if you got ’em.
Bashing the brains out of a fish with a piece of fencing that Matt has brought from his house for the purposes of chopping up bait. It’s our cutting board. It doesn’t kill fish so well. Big fish have thick skulls.
You cannot kill a 30-inch striper with a cheap-ass 1-by-4 that you’re using as a makeshift cutting board. This is something you should know. I did not.
“Fuck!” Thwack!!! Thwack! I feel terrible. This fucking fish won’t die, and I’m just torturing it.
This fucking fish is indestructible.
The 1-by-4 breaks over the its head on the third or fourth hit, and the striper twitches some more. I grimace. I could practically vomit, but I don’t. Matt runs back down the dock, back from the yard–a hundred yards away–with a rock pilfered from the landscapers. It’s time to put this fish son of a bitch out of its misery.
Boom! Strike one. Direct hit. Blood gushes through the striper’s eye, splashes onto the dock. BOoom!! Strike two. Brains on the dock, definitively dead. BOOOOM! Strike three. Head crushed. Game over. You can calm down now.
“Why won’t you please die?” That’s what I can tell you. But it’s not the whole truth.