Keep her in the dark. In water. She’s no good dead. Gotta cut her while she’s fresh. Slip your chipped knuckles into her accordion gills. All that tender wet meat still breathin’. Her heart a taiko drum beatin’ against your fingers. You’ll feel sorry looking down at her. Powerful too. But don’t feel sorry. She’s just a Trash Fish. If you’re kind, you’ll cover her eyes with something. A hand. A shirt. The greasy rag devoted to automotive repairs. Hold her down. She’s stronger than she looks. Might need a friend to help if she starts strugglin’. Trash fish are known for their fight. Makes it all the better when ya bleed em though. Grab a knife. Not your best one. Trash fish don’t deserve no prize blade. They’re tough. They can handle the blunt ones. Cut her down the middle. Like grandma with the seam ripper. Trash Fish is messy. Her silver belly belching blood all over the driveway. She’ll fight. And fight. Then freeze.
Then you eat.
Trash Fish should be so lucky. Could be eatin’ trout. Better yet, some salmon.
Trash Fish should be grateful.
Trash Fish better believe she’s lucky.
