“Welcome, friends, to this years annual Ice Fishing Exposition! Firstly, I’d like to thank the Ice Fishers of Ingratia (IFI) managing committee for allowing this amazing event to happen each year, and to Mrs Vermillia for her generous donations to the community. You guys are the best. Thank you, again.”
The chairperson, a Mr Zorbag the Forest Troll, sat down on a three legged stool. Besides him, a large avian, his adopted son, Thomas, squawked loudly and flapped it’s large yellow wings. Zorbag fished out worms from his jacket pocket and somewhat lovingly placed the squirming buggers in Thomas’ clapping beak.
The turnout for this years Expo was moderate. Numbers had been declining since the events heyday, but as times progress, as does interest in the age-old art of ice fishing; seemingly, in this case, for in the direction of disinterest. Gareth had been attending for a while now, after reading about the practice and event in an old gazette left as funeral gift, entitled “Sportsman of the World”. Ice fishing is an old practice, with it’s roots in the people who once dwelled upon the Great Lakes in the mists of prehistory; nowadays, of course, not many people are stupid enough to live on frozen water. To subsist, these ancient peoples would fish the waters beneath them using mixed ingenuity and sheer bravery.
The art involved carving a triangular hole into the crust of ice, then, after tying a rope to oneself, diving in and using a specialised, cone-shaped axe to hunt the fish. The fish, in this case, dwelt upon the bottom of the lakes, where the light barely reached. On his first attendance, he had attempted to swim to the bottom, but the lightness of his frame and buoyancy of his bones had hindered him, keeping him afloat. Alas, Gareth went more for the interesting people, and, more importantly, so he can say that he’s a veteran ice fisher; (“ice fisher? how interesting! you’re so cool, Gareth!”, “I am, aren’t I? Hah! And that’s not all; let me tell you about the bookbinding course I took last summer…”). Yes, Gareth truly is an insufferable hipster.
“Ho! That’s a big one!” The sun was high, and glittering light reflected up in blades across the plains of ice. A row of tents had been set up beneath parasols, opening upon woven carpets and small tables, each carrying a number of light drinks and snacks, including ginger ale, sausage rolls and, at the chairpersons behest, octopus-shaped cocktail sausages, lightly cooked, with peach chutney dip. Gareth was engaged in conversation with one of the newest arrivals, who sat besides a large walrus named Gumbo, who had just exclaimed very loudly in admiration of a rather large catch.
“I am not sure how you can condone their behaviour, Gareth. They’re just such icky people, they definitely do not deserve to be able to stand up like that and just say what they like without repercussion. It’s the duty of the powerful to be respectful of their power and not abuse it, and to maintain a degree of safety for all those who are without such power. By allowing those individuals and polyviduals the platform to spew their hateful rhetoric, you cannot predict how their words might affect those listening, be they active or passive, audience or passerby.”
“That may very well be the case, dear Marceline. But surely you must agree, being an independent, educated Dean of Neutral Studies, an academic to the fullest, surely you see that to shelter such individuals from disagreeable rhetoric instead leads to an insular mental state? If the lion is too afraid to eat the seal because it is afraid of breaking a tooth upon its hard shell, then how will it ever learn to hunt? If your listeners, passerby or no, never encounter words that might offend them, how will they ever understand offence?” replied Gareth, cocking his skull to the side, rubbing his bleached ulna. “Why, Gareth, do they need to know offence? Why understand a barbaric feature that society would best do without?”
“Surely you don’t mean that? Gosh, imagine the world! What would I say to all the sheeple who consume nothing but popular music and have their tea with cow’s milk! How would I ever inform them of the negative health consequences of drinking the milk of another creature, of the harmful bacteria and the hormone disbalance, if I must first consider how the sod would be offended at my slating of their drink of choice! Everyone may have the right to choice, but I must surely be free to tell one their choice is, frankly, a bit shite!”
The conversation was getting heated. Marceline the frilled lizard was shuffling in her seat, and Gumpo was eyeing Gareth, his lip twitching and his fins curling around his teacup. No doubt cow’s milk resided in that brew, but it was too late for Gareth.
“And quite so, Marceline, what if it was to transpire that you decided to take offence to something which I had quite deliberately posed to mean quite the opposite! Say, a warm-hearted compliment directed at your frills. Would I therefore be in the wrong for my good intentions? Nay, I say! Nay!”
“How dare you!” she trilled. “Just because I have frills does not make me any less of a citizen of this realm! You bigoted scum! I knew this was a bad idea….I’m getting...I...I...I’M TRIGGERED.” She shrieked loudly at Gareth and flared her frilly plume of lizard-skin, shaking it wildly at Gareth, repeating how she was now TRIGGERED. Gumbo, stepped up and started shouting furiously at Gareth, and the chairperson, Mr Zorbag the Forest Troll, came bounding over, Thomas squawking close at his heels but stumbling over its rather stupid feet.
“What’s happening here? Miss Macaroon, please calm down. Please, we have a nice safe trigger-zone in the far tent; there’s cookies and cow’s milk and lots of books on social oppression for you to read. Mrs Yiff, please take her to the TRIGGER-tent.” Zorbag turned to Gumbo, who was clouting the air with his fins and yelling at Gareth. “Ok Gumbo, that’s enough. You can go with her too.”
Zorbag was standing pensively in front of Gareth. Many of the other Expo attendants were glaring at him, or turning away. Zorbag’s hunched frame was taut, resigned beneath his robes; socked feet peered from beneath the hem and strap of sandal. “Gareth…” he hummed. But Gareth jerked, standing, towering over Zorbag. His white skull blocked the sun above his head; his eyes stared down upon the troll, enveloping him with their gaze, absorbing him. The ice was thrumming beneath them, the brightness of the sky glared from beyond his head. All stood still. Gareth leaned in closer.
“Hey Marcey you stupid skink, frilled lizards suck and you’re not very good at ice-fishing!”
Gareth strode from the Ice Fishing Expo, the sun framing him, painting the tall black figure with a brilliant glow. The echoed screams of triggered individuals cascaded like fire around him, into the sky and through the ice. He strode away, never looking back.
Gareth might be an insufferable hipster, but Gareth fucking hates stupid, self-entitled frilled lizards.
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