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Story Notes: A/N: Just a thought I had. No fish were harmed in the making of this fic. Thanks to Michelle B. my first feedbacker. Feedback: I haven't eaten in oooooh about six hours… zippy_giggleheiney@hotmail.com


It's funny. And he's not sure whether he means that in the `ha – ha' or the peculiar.

He remembers the first time he killed a fish.

Funny. Because since that time he has killed forty one human beings and countless aliens (in his head they don't count, call him a bigot).

But when he thinks about death, murder, he thinks about that fish.

A fish. If he doesn't value the lives of aliens you can imagine he has very little regard for the life of a fish.

But still, that is the image that pops into his mind when he examines his psyche. And he does, he's not afraid of his own mind , not afraid of what he's done. Ashamed, maybe. Afraid, never.

He doesn't lie to himself, a long ago promise.

He remembers the faces of every man he's killed. But it always comes back to that fish.

He bashed it's head against a wooden post four times until he thought it was dead.

The fish still twitched in his hands.

`Just nervous' his father had said (a simple mistake). He wanted to laugh, a bit late to be nervous now. He felt sick.

He never much liked fish after that. He would eat it, if he was, say, stranded on a deserted planet with only Maybourne for company. He'd eat his own toes then.

He liked to fish though, funny.

He felt the sting of another midge…somewhere and he felt the intense need to scratch, it could get a reation out of him like nothing else. Except her.

She was a sight for the blind, standing on his deck in only his crumpled blue shirt.

"There are no fish, are there?" she asked with some certainty.

He looked up at her, squinting in the midday sun and smiled.

"Not a single one."

The End



Anonyny © 0804




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