A Local Priest Was Doing His Rounds When He Came Upon An Angler About To Head Off For His Dawn Fish.

"My Son, you look troubled, do you mind if I come out with you this morning, I haven't been fishing for many years."

The fisherman was taken back but didn't want to say no. He wasn't a religious man but he was scared that his rejection of the holy man would spread throughout the town, and possible would cause bad luck.

They sailed out and found a patch of ocean; wild and isolated, they couldn't see land, only the red sky of the raising sun over the swelling waves gave the priest any bearings. That combined with the sea sickness had his knuckles white holding on to the side of the boat.

The fisherman whistled and hummed as he threw lines into the sea, he would normally softly sing, but the lyrics wouldn't suit the Priest, he thought.

The Priest looked on suspiciously as the tune he did recognise, it took him to a time many generations ago, when his Father would come home drunk, and the neighbours would awake. He had the burns and scars to prove it.

The swell continued rocking and it's rhythm was only disturbed by a soft tugging. The fisherman, whose mind had wandered to the soft thighs of the local farmhouse daughter, the girl he had spoken to last night, the girl he had promised to see soon, suddenly looked up and grabbed his rod.

The priest looked up and was shocked to see him struggle. A man so accustomed to his trade, and a man of his size should not struggle with this task, he thought.

The fisherman grunted, his muscles swelled. Sweat dripped down his forehead. "Father," he gasped, "help me."

The Priest took turns, and in shifts they dragged in this 7 foot Marlin. His scaled shone under the new sun and the azure blue.

The rest of the morning they pulled in over 40 fish.

It's a sign of God thought the Fisherman.

As they sailed into port a crowd had gathered around. The fisherman was a popular man and he was normally due back hours ago. People worried about his fate, especially considering the local farmer's daughter had last seen him with the Priest.

People gasped as the Fisherman stood at the bow and the Priest steered the boat home. The Fisherman threw the rope on the jetty clambered up, tying her securely.

The farmer remarked: "That's a big fucker!"

The Fisherman's eyes grew wide, several people gasped, swearing in front of a servant of God was an incredible sin.

"I beg your pardon?" Said the Priest.

The fisherman had to act quickly. He couldn't let the farmer be disgraced, he couldn't let the father of his future wife be spat upon and scorned. "No your grace," he intervened, "it's not what you think! It's what we call them in this province. Our dialect, you see? We call them fucker-fish."

The Priest apologised, "I am sorry, my son. I thought you had disrespected me, and therefore directly disrespected God. A thousand apologies, go now, in peace."

The fisherman held up the Priest before he was about to leave. "Monseigneur, please. Take the fucker-fish. It's too good for us, and I've heard the Cardinal is in town. Your grace brought God onto my boat, and he blessed me, and this town. Take this fish, for us."

The charity smote the Priests heart. Tears welled in his eyes as he loaded the fish and took it back to his parish.

The birds were awoken and sang beautiful, personal symphonies for him and his fish.

The cardinal was waiting for him. He walked from the stoop of the church, his shoes crunching on soft gravel, his blue eyes rivalled only by the sea. His wrinkled face matched the topography of the basque hillside just south west of this parish.

"Father," he started "I have news fo- is that a Marlin?"

"It's a big fucker!" Claimed the Priest!

"I beg your pardon, Monseigneur? How dare you speak to an agent of the Vatican in such a foul way?"

"No! Your grace, you don't understand," he explained, "that's what we call it here, a fucker fish!"

"A thousand apologies. I was too hasty to condemn you. This is a great sign, and it foreshadows what I have to tell you! The pope! He is coming to feast tonight! This fucker will be perfect, I will have it prepared by the sister Magdalen."

The fish was brought in by the servants, the cardinal following behind proudly. Sister Magdalen had come from the kitchen to see what the commotion was.

"That's a majestic marlin, Cardinal."

"More than a marlin, sister! A huge fucker!"

She spat on him.

"I am a nun. A servant of God. I am married to him. How dare you?"

The cardinal wiped the spit off his face. "You don't understand, sister. This is what the fish is called. A fucker-fish."

"A thousand apologies, your grace. I will have it prepared immediately for tonight. May you help me scale it and prepare it?"

The pope arrived without fanfare. He had just been from Montpellier and the count had layed out a fanfare outside of the cathedral, and one hundred virgins inside of it. He looked forward to the country charms of his next visit.

He was welcomed by three nervous quaint people. The Priest, a small stout man, his hands scarred, and one eye permanently half closed. The Cardinal, tall, proud, his back ram-rod straight. The twinkle behind his blue eyes warmed even the coldest rooms. The Sister hid behind her face, slightly swollen now with age, there was a beauty hidden deep down there. It wasn't hard to imagine she had been beautiful decades ago.

"A wonderful parish," the Pope began, "a wonderful people, a wonderful clergy and church. But what is that wonderful smell?"

The welcome party smiled at once.

"Please, follow us to the dining room."

As they entered together the smell hit them at once. The larger fucker was laid out on the mahogany finish table, cooked in lemon butter sauce, served on asparagus and mashed potatoes. Cherry tomatoes still on the vine had been roasted and garnished the titanic plate.

"God is great," the pope remarked. His stomach churned and his mouth watered. He had never felt so hungry in his life. "Tell me the story of this fish," he said as he say down.

The Priest said: "I caught the fucker!"

The Cardinal: "I scaled the fucker!"

The Nun: "and I cooked the fucker!"

The Pope's eyes widened, and the three suddenly froze. Their tongues stuck to the roof of their mouth. Then the pope smiled, he leaned back and placed his feet on the table. A cigarette was fetched from his robe and placed in his mouth and lit as he smiled.

He chuckled and spoke, "Yeah nah, you cunts are alright."