Gone Fishin'
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“Pleasure to work with you, Vriska!” he calls, as you slog through the ankle-deep fish-scum-saturated swill that inevitably accumulates under the processing machinery once the day warms up.
“You’re fake as shit, Jake English!” you holler back over your shoulder. “But thanks.”
(If you want the rewards of being loved, or, y'know, paid, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of gutting five hundred salmon with only a dumbass newbie to help you. Isn't that how that quote goes?)
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- Part 1 of Gone Fishin'
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“Ahoy there!” someone calls, from the docks you just left, shrouded in shadow, shit.
You pull your vichy knife off your belt and prepare to commit a murder in self defense. It always puts you on edge, lurking around shipyards at night, for some reason.
Wait. Who the fuck says ‘ahoy’? Even the corniest old captains don’t fucking say ahoy.
“Jake English,” you reply, your voice nearly lost on the wind. “If that’s you sneaking up on me, I’m gutting you like the world’s beefiest halibut and selling you to the cannery.”
(If you live with omnipresent mass-fish-death, obnoxious-ass coworkers, and crushing existential uncertainty for long enough, you break through into a kind of giddy despair. This time, you've definitely got that quote right.)
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- Part 2 of Gone Fishin'