The way of the fish

No one really liked Gary. He was the kind of guy who brought tuna salad to a sauna and didn’t see the problem. Still, when he invited his coworkers to his remote lakeside cabin for a “fish-based wellness retreat,” they all said yes—mostly out of fear he’d bring a tuna into the office again.
The guests included:
- Janelle, who once maced Gary for trying to high-five her while holding a raw trout.
- Marcus, who hadn’t spoken to Gary since “the guppy incident” of 2022.
- And Tina, who had no idea who Gary was but heard the words “free Airbnb” and “outdoor hot tub” and was halfway into her swimsuit before she even finished reading the email.

They arrived on a gloomy Friday evening, greeted by a musty lake breeze and a suspiciously fish-shaped welcome mat. Gary stood at the door, grinning like someone who’d spent too long fermenting sardines.

“Welcome to The Way of the Fish!” he bellowed, gesturing grandly toward a wooden sign etched with what might have been a fish or an extremely confused cucumber. “Leave your terrestrial worries behind. Here, we live as the fish do.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Marcus asked, clutching his duffel bag like a life raft.

Gary only winked.

That night, dinner consisted of something Gary called “lake ceviche,” which appeared to be raw fish marinated in regret and pond water. Tina pretended to eat it by slowly sliding the contents of her plate into a potted plant shaped like a pufferfish.

Later, in the “Wellness Room” (formerly the garage), Gary led a guided meditation titled "Become the Gills". The guests sat on damp yoga mats as Gary whispered things like “Now visualize yourself breathing through your neck holes” and “Let go of your ego… and your vertebrae.”

Janelle left halfway through to cry in the hot tub.

At 2 a.m., Marcus woke to a horrible sound. It was either a fish flopping violently against hardwood flooring or Gary practicing mouth harp underwater. He crept downstairs—and screamed.

There, in the kitchen, Next to a big pile of opened anchovy cans stood Gary… in full scuba gear. He was pouring anchovy juice into a humidifier from a big jar.

“I’m creating ambiance,” Gary explained, muffled through his mask. “It’s aromatherapy. The fish way.”

Marcus fled back upstairs and barricaded his door with a floor lamp and a copy of "The Joy of Tilapia". with his back towards the closed doors he thought to himself, " how many tin cans did Gary open to get all that anchovy juice?"

the next morning, Janelle was gone.

“She left at dawn,” Gary said. “She wasn’t ready to embrace the scales.”

“Scales?” Tina asked, pointing to the silvery flakes on Gary’s neck.

“I exfoliate with river pebbles,” he said, as if that explained everything.

By Saturday night, things had escalated. Marcus found his toothbrush replaced with a fishbone. Tina swore she saw gills fluttering on Gary’s ribs when he thought no one was looking. And the potted plant she’d dumped her ceviche into? It had moved. Slightly. Closer to her bag.

“We have to leave,” Tina whispered.

“But the car keys,” Marcus said. “i saw him put the keys in his... fish tank.”

They formulated a plan. Tina would distract Gary with questions about his Philosophy of the Perch while Marcus retrieved the keys. It went perfectly until Gary asked Tina to demonstrate “fish flopping form” on the front lawn and she screamed, “THEY NEVER TRAINED ME FOR THIS IN YOGA!”

Gary lunged. His body twisted unnaturally. His arms flapped. For a moment, he was airborne—and then slammed into the decorative fish mailbox, knocking himself unconscious.

They ran.

Keys in hand, Marcus and Tina sped away, fishtailing down the gravel road—no pun intended. Behind them, Gary twitched on the lawn, one flipper rising slowly in a grotesque farewell.

The retreat was shut down after multiple complaints, including “attempted gill implantation” and “emotional waterboarding via Enya and whale noises.” Gary was never charged, mostly because no one could prove he wasn’t just… really weird.

Still, every now and then, someone swears they see him—by lakes, in aquariums, even once at a Red Lobster—watching, waiting, whispering:

“The fish know the way.”

And if you ever wake up at 2 a.m. to the smell of anchovy vapor and the sound of flopping…
swim....