Deep in the heart of the Australian outback, the sun scorched the land around the isolated Lake Fortune with merciless cruelty. Our story begins out on the water, in a little tin boat, where an old fisherman was pulling back on his fishing rod with all of his might. Groaning in exertion, both his old back and the fishing rod were bent precariously close to snapping.

The fish hooked on the other end of his line fought back like a demon, preventing the fisherman from reeling it closer. It yanked the line this way and that with monstrous strength which caused the little tin boat under the fisherman’s feet to rock about erratically. Still, the man held his bent-backed pose in opposition to the fish, hoping to win out in a battle of stamina. Unfortunately, the boat quickly grew so unstable, rocking so violently, that it threatened to tip the fisherman into the water. He was forced to act.

He stopped pulling back, releasing the tension and allowed the fish to drag the line out. Then, in a surprising display of acrobatics for such an old fella, raised one leg up to the side, high above his head, before stamping it back down into the bottom of his boat. A tremble went through the hull and the boat when still. Somehow, his unorthodox sumo stomp had completely counterbalanced the wild rocking of the boat. The fisherman wasted no more time and was already pulling back on his rod again to halt the fish’s escape.

A furious scowl formed on his face upon seeing how far away the fish had swum in those few seconds. Through a cigarette that dangled in his mouth, the fisherman drew a deep breath of tar-filled air. He needed a full pair of lungs to properly voice his feelings to the fish, “Ya filthy mongrel!” he screamed, “You disappoint yer Nana! I ain’t gonna use salt when I cook ya. You’re nothing but a…”

It should be pointed out, that for safety reasons, the fisherman’s curse words must always be censored. The stream of filth that constantly pours from his mouth is the stuff of nightmares. So powerful is his grasp over foul language, that it surpasses the natural bounds of the universe and enters that of the supernatural.

“...mistake yer parents made. A pile of vomit smells better than you. Babies cry when they see ya mug!!”

Due to being both drunk and moments away from a heart attack, his words were slurred. It mattered not. Nor did it matter that he had to swear around the cigarette still hanging from his mouth. Whether the fish’s native tongue was English or not was irrelevant. As were the metres of water suppressing the sound between the two of them. The supernatural elements involved in the fisherman’s curse words enabled the unholy defilement of language that spewed out his mouth to not only reach the fish’s ears with perfect clarity but to also insult the poor thing right down to its very soul.

The fish began thrashing and twisting about in the water in a tantrum. This released a lot of pressure from the line. The fisherman smiled wide, revealing his yellow, rotted teeth, and heaved back on the rod again, reeling the line furiously. By taking full advantage of the fish’s indignation, the fisherman was able to pull it back all the distance it had stolen from him earlier. Unfortunately, it came to its senses before he could pull it any closer than that. The line went tight again and no matter how much the man strained, the fish would no longer budge, not even another millimetre.

This was truly a fishing battle for the history books. For well over 30 minutes, the man had been struggling against the fish at this intensity level non-stop. While his fishing skills were indeed breathtaking, it was the sheer stubbornness on display that was the most awe-inspiring.

The fisherman never gave up as sweat poured down his overweight body like torrential rain. Each step he took made a wet squelching sound from all of the accumulated sweat puddled in his gumboots.

He never gave up when his weak, old body threatened to fail on him. His over sixty year diet of greasy pub food and cheap beer had given him a huge gut that stuck out from under his singlet, clogged arteries, and the athleticism of a potato. As he desperately gasped for each breath of air through his cigarette, his whole body ached, all the way down to his bones. Despite the pain, he stood firm and kept fishing.

Of course, he never gave up as the wicked sun burned his skin. Wearing only a singlet, shorts, and a pair of gumboots, the fisherman's sun protection was laughable. His shoulders and back had become the colour of tomatoes. The skin on his crooked nose was peeling so bad that it looked like a rose. But that was nothing compared to the vision of hell that was the crown of his head, where his otherwise wild and unkempt hair no longer grew. The sunburn was so horrible up there on his bald patch, that painful red blisters had formed. When one of these blisters burst and the fisherman felt blood and pus drip down the back of his head, not even a single thought of quitting crossed his mind.

No, not when he felt his bladder bursting, nor when the edges of his vision went dark. Not even when he felt sharp pains in the left side of his chest. No matter what, the man refused to give up. The fisherman’s perseverance and willpower were exemplary displays of humanity’s greatness.

Yellow teeth and undiagnosed lung cancer were not catching fish, so the man stubbornly did not concern himself with them. He smoked all the time. He smoked so much that he had essentially denied himself a single breath of fresh air for the entire duration of this fishing battle. Scratch that. He had essentially denied himself a single breath of fresh air for most of his life. The man smoked while fishing, while eating, while on the toilet, and even while sleeping.

Taking one last draw of his nearly-finished cigarette, the fisherman aimed for where he thought the fish might be and spat the cigarette butt out into the water. With god-like hand-cigarette coordination, he had a fresh one lit in his mouth before taking his next breath.

There was a pause in the battle. The fisherman waited patiently as a surge of water flicked the cigarette butt he’d just spat into the water, out of the lake and into the bottom of his boat, where it joined dozens of others. He might have been able to use this opportunity to steal a few reels of his line but stayed his hand. It was dishonourable to use the fish’s environmental conscientiousness against it. But as soon as the fish was ready again, the battle resumed once more.

The fisherman pulled hard on the line. The fish did not budge. In retaliation, it swam hard to the left, then at lightning speed, spun about and bolted to the right. This attempt to force the fisherman off balance failed; he didn't budge. They both continued to struggle but found themselves locked in a stalemate.

The stalemate would not last for long however. As time ticked on, the fisherman’s greatest weakness, chronic alcoholism, finally revealed itself. The sun, sweat and the voices in his head had him feeling awfully thirsty.

Earlier that morning, he had finished off half a carton of beers. Just as he was getting started on the second half, he hooked this fish and had to stop drinking prematurely. Now, the remaining cans were sitting under the seat of his tin boat just out of reach, taunting him. No matter how skilled he was, reaching for a beer now would put him at risk of being off-balance and losing the fish.

It drove him mad to know how tantalisingly close they were. His thirst grew ravenous. It gnawed at the back of his mind. It whispered in his ear. It clawed at his throat, torturing him, growing in intensity until he could no longer ignore it anymore. The fisherman came to a decision: It was time to risk it.

He started by firing off a few of his nastiest insults, "I'd rather eat pig's leftovers than you. I read your story on Royal Road, yikes. Admit it, yer shiny scales are compensating for a tiny fishing rod, aren't they?!"

As the fish spasmed in indignity, the fisherman crouched down and shuffled himself towards the beer cans. The fish must have also decided that enough was enough because it also chose that moment to make a big play. When the fisherman's right hand released the rod to reach back for the drinks, the fish stopped fighting the line and instead, charged the boat.

The sudden release of tension caused the man to stumble back and almost trip. It left him crouched, in an awkward position, with only one hand on the line. All the fish had to do now was turn back and yank the line out of the fisherman's grip.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The fisherman didn't seem worried, however. Far from it, actually. His mouth twitched into a grin. Years of experience, backed by his superpowers, had given him a precognition-like insight into the mind of fish. From the start, he had expected this level of treachery from the fish and set a trap. The fish had fallen for it, hook line and sinker.

The man began phase 2 of his plan. He kicked his feet down and spun around, like a dancer, swinging the rod out wide in a one-armed grip. Water and cigarette butts splashed up around him in a perfect spiral.

As the fish was already moving in his direction, it was caught unprepared. The added momentum from the fisherman’s spin pulled it right up next to the little tin boat. Little good this would do the fisherman though, as he was now half-crouched at an even more awkward angle, tangled in fishing line with his arm stretched out behind his back. Again, it looked like the fish had won, but again, the fisherman wasn't done.

He had kept his free hand low near the beers so as not to get tangled in fishing line. It was no longer reaching for the cans, however. Instead, it shot down to his boot where it grabbed a hold of a knife, strapped on with saran wrap.

Gut knives are these weird little knives with a hooked rear blade, designed to split the skin when gutting animals. Not the kind of knives you’d normally associate with throwing at fish. That would be a ridiculous thing to do. That said, the fisherman’s gut-knife-toss-fishing technique was second to none.

Letting go of the fishing rod entirely, the man pointed that hand at the fish. The other hand ripped the knife free of his boot and brought it up over his head ready to hurl. The fish’s brilliant scales shone near the surface giving him an easy target.

Smiling wide, the fisherman gloated one last time, before he swung his hand down in an exaggerated motion, "I've got you now, ya turkey-necked bludger!"

Time seemed to slow. Both the fisherman and the fish instinctively knew that this was the most important moment of their battle. The fish had a split-second to make a decision that would determine whether it lived or died. As the fisherman’s arm came down, the fish tensed its body, ready to unleash its full strength into one last desperate dodge. A million thoughts raced through its fish brain in that instant. The fisherman was prepared to adjust his aim ever so slightly at the last moment so where could the fish dodge and not find death? Where could the fisherman not have accounted for? How about...

Like a gun firing, the fish’s tail shot out with a tremendous bang, launching itself straight up. It burst up out of the water and high into the air. In much the same way that the man wasn’t a normal fisherman, this wasn't a normal fish either. It was a magnificent golden barramundi with beautiful shining scales. From head to tail, it was almost as long as the fisherman was tall. The sun reflected off the golden scales, lighting up the surrounding lake like a disco ball.

Lake Fortune's golden barramundi: This was far from the fisherman's first encounter with this fish. It was in fact his lifelong nemesis; his white whale, if you will. He had put his heart and soul into catching this very fish, every day of his life for decades. To see it out of the water, shining in all its glory, could have brought tears to his eyes. That is if he wasn’t too busy throwing his knife at it.

The fisherman was not able to adjust his aim enough for a lethal strike, proving that the barramundi had indeed made the correct decision leaping upwards. Instead of piercing through the fish’s head as planned, the knife flew too low and stabbed into its tail. Blood exploded out of the wound behind the fish, like the jet stream of a rocket, as it continued its ascent.

Falling forward and grabbing the edge of his boat, the fisherman gazed up at the glorious spectacle. His teeth grit in frustration. Experience told him that he hadn't done enough; the fish was crazy sturdy. He was certain that despite the fish’s wound, once it fell back into the water, it would be able to swim away. Not only that, it’d come back the next day, healed and healthy. It'd probably even return his knife to him just to rub salt into the wound.

Thoughts of the fish's smug face had the fisherman seeing red, "No you bloody don't!" he roared.

The ol’ fisherman had one last trick up his sleeve. Still on his hands and knees, he reached over and grabbed the boat's hooked anchor. With a flick of his wrist, he twirled it over his head twice. Then he sent flying up towards the fish. Rope slid through the man’s fingers. The anchor flew true and made it to the fish just as it reached the apex of its leap. The anchor wound tight around the fish before hooking secure onto its own rope.

The fisherman tightened his grip and pulled on the rope as hard as he could. The fish was yanked down from the sky, straight towards his waiting arms. It slammed into him with a heavy thud and they both fell back into the boat.

Then, silence.

The man was in shock, he couldn't believe it. The wet, slimy, monster lying wrapped in his arm was the golden fish. His golden fish! He had done it! He had actually caught the damn thing! After years of struggle and failure, here it was, in his boat! His jaw hurt from how hard he was smiling. Words could not express the wave of elation that swept over him. He had never felt so alive! He had never been so close to a heart attack.

There was this bittersweet, quiet moment between two old rivals as the man lay there. He looked deep into the fish’s eyes and the fish looked back into his. The silence was powerful and beautiful until the fish ruined it by smiling and speaking loudly.

"Dude! You have NO IDEA how RAD what you just did was! That was EPIC! Hahaha!"

That was what did it. As the fisherman stared at the fish in disbelief, struggling for breath, his whole chest exploded in pain and he finally started having a heart attack.

"Ahaha, look at your face! Surprise! Lmao! Sorry, sorry dude, I’m being rude. Let’s start over with some introductions. Hehe, actually I kinda followed you into town once so I already know your name. You’re Wally, right? But you're probably all like, 'who da heck is dis fish?' hehehe. Allow me to, like, introduce myself. Ahem," The fish pretended to clear his throat, "I am ‘Destiny Fish’ hehehe. You can just call me bro though bro, Coz, like, after all we've been through together, we're like, official brothers now, knowwhatImean? Hehe, Just wanna let you know, I'm not even mad about the knife in my tail, or all those hurtful things you were saying earlier. If anything, they made me respect you more, hehehe. You're an absolute fishing legend bro!"

Wally, the fisherman, clutched his chest and wheezed, "Destiny Fish?"

"Yeah bro that's me haha. Gosh, you should see your face right now lol! Must be quite a shock, talking fish and all… Ummm. Actually dude, are you ok? You're not looking too hot, sorry if I'm being rude again."

Wally gurgled.

"Ahh... Oh, damn man. Hang on, I'll go get my wand and see if I can help you," Destiny Fish flopped about in the boat a bit. His face turned pink and he turned back to Wally, "Gosh, this is real awkward... but I kinda can't fly out of your boat without my wand. Could you give me a leg-up bro? Hehe, I don't have any legs, but you know what I mean."

Wally’s whole body burned in pain; he was desperately fighting for each breath. His bloodshot eyes stared at the fish in confusion. What in the world is going on? He thought. Is this damn talking fish a drunken hallucination? Have I finally lost my mind? Is this the devil, come to take me to hell?

Suffice to say, the talking fish and its positive energy were freaking Wally out. He already had enough problems right now with the heart attack and all, so he made the sensible decision. His famous stubbornness fired up and he decided that even if it ended up being his last act in this world, he was going to yeet this fish the hell out of his boat.

He rolled over and started to push the enormous fish. Struggling and groaning in pain as the last of his life's energy burned away in the effort. With some flopping from the fish to assist, he got it up, over the edge, and it splashed into the water.

There it’s gone. Now, where did I put those beers? He thought as the last of his strength left him. His vision started spinning and he tipped forward, face-first, into the lake after the fish. The cool water enveloped him. He tried to gasp but got a lungful of water instead. Now he was drowning on top of having a heart attack.

He could barely make out the golden-scaled fish swimming off into the depths through the murky lake water. Moments later, it returned with a bent, knobbly, brown stick in its mouth. It started waving the stick about. The water around Wally changed and he felt strange prodding sensations over his body.

“Gah, I don’t know what to do! Oh man, Oh man… Ok, I got an idea, bro, I’m gonna try something a little extreme, brace yourself,” The fish’s voice was clear, despite being underwater.

It waved the stick around in a grandiose fashion and shouted, “DESTINED TO MEET AGAIN!”

Red strings shot out from the end of the stick held in the fish's mouth. Millions of strings; billions, filling the water, twisting and wiggling their way around Wally and Destiny Fish. Lake Fortune soon became an undulating, red-string cocoon. Spears of string shot down and pierced into the chests of Wally and Destiny Fish. The strings wormed their way deeper into their bodies; a surprisingly painless experience. From the mass surrounding them, two large streams of strings shot away from the lake into the horizon, each going in different directions. It wasn't long until all the strings had either wormed into bodies or flown away. Only the two old rivals were left floating in the water.

The golden fish looked at his bro, eyes filled with hope.

The fisherman was dead.