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Spearhumanerfish Nails Forty ‘Good-Sized Ones’ At Favourite Hunting Spot ‘Club Med’

World champion spearhumanfish, Bobby Bluefin, has done it again. Competing in Spearhuman World‘s annual tournament – held on a chain of remote, inhospitable islands on the western edge of the Atlantic watermass – the world renowned humanerfish managed to locate a feeding-frenzy of large people, and managed to pick off forty good-sized specimens in under an hour.

With all of the humans that Bobby speared (mostly East Coast Americans, plus a few Canadians) making the legal minimum of 150 pounds – and at least five of them tipping the scales at closer to the 300 pound mark – Mr. Bluefin easily secured the 50,000 clam purse for the eighth year running.

“That Club Med spot has always been good to me,” Bobby says, relaxing with a cold bottle of reef juice after the rigours of the day, back at home in the watery depths off the continental shelf and keeping a sharp eye out for ill-fated squid, which he snatches as they pass in a head motion so deft it is complete before it begins. 

“My pops first showed me that location when I was a just a little tuna. We’d pelagic on over there on a Saturday morning, usually stopping for McErels on the way.  Then we’d locate the resort. It’s never that hard, there’s always a steady stream of boat traffic coming in and out from the beach as the humans work up an appetite for their all-they-can-eat buffet. Yes. Yes, I’m afraid they did have fish. I know, Jim, I know.”

We pause here and stare off into the blue depths for a while, thinking of all the good fish, gone too early. Luckily we are immersed in saltwater so no one sees our tears. Eventually Bobby clears his throat, lights a phosphorette, and continues on.

“Anyway, once you’ve got the resort in your sights, it’s really just a waiting game. Midday is usually best. The humans like to congregate in the shade at that time to feed. I find if you hold off until the daddy humans have had a few beers they’re especially easy to nab.”

At this point Bobby hunches forward in the current, and begins gesturing vigourously with his pectorals as he describes exactly how he hunts down the people and shoots them through both lungs with a steel bolt while they casually eat their lunch.

“I take a deep gulp, close my gills, and belly crawl up out of the water and onto the beach. It’s so beautiful up there. Hot as heck let me tell you, but it’s like an entirely different world. Strange sounds, wind in your scales, danger around every palm tree. So exhilarating. Anyhow, I get right up into the middle of the human buffet, and fish I am telling you, they don’t have a clue what is about to happen. They’re all like ‘try the shrimp bro, it’s rad,’ and I’m just there under the table, holding my water, waiting for them to reach for the hot sauce. And when they do and it’s just pop, fish. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Murders mate. Hardcore. Hashtag saltlife bro.”

Bobby lets out a gout of bubbles then, and quietly but methodically picks off the imaginary humans in the empty water around us, pointing his fins like an imaginary spear gun.

“The people are all freaking out by then, running in all directions, but I just keep firing.  I put the dead ones on a line so I can drag them around behind me, and I have to work quickly before the sharks show up. They call them cops, and they’ll steal your catch without a second thought, and possibly go after you if they’re feeling frisky.”

Mr. Bluefin continues on. And on. He describes in lurid detail his human killing spree, not seeming to notice his audience starting to get green around the gills. 

“Through the jaw, through the sternum, through the eyes sometimes, oh it gets messy no two ways about it. It is a blood bath up in there.”

A visiting reporter suddenly has to go. But the obvious question is yet to be asked. 

“What? No, Poseidon no, you can’t eat those humans. Way too bony. No, this is just for sport. What magazine did you say you were from? The Walrus? The hell is that anyway? Look, I’m not uncaring about all this. For example, it is commonly known that the people mate for life, or at least tell each other that. So I make sure I get ’em both you see? If I kill the daddy human, I get the mama too. Not right to leave one of them out there just walking around alone, wondering who dragged her partner into the ocean, never be seen again.”  

And with that the interview draws to a close. Bobby says he has some lures to tie, as he’s going open plains humaning tomorrow. 

“Yep, gotta rig up some Porsches full of hamburgers. Drag those around the flatlands and you can catch some absolutely enormous people let me tell you. World record humans bro. But don’t you worry yourself about those poor bipeds,” he adds, noting his audience’s distaste for the wanton killing of these magnificent creatures of the shallows. “It’s all catch and release.”

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