For those who don’t remember, I once owned a fish named Hercules.
Hercules was not a carnival goldfish a child takes home and lovingly names Glitter Sparkles before it dies three days later in a cereal bowl. Hercules was a large, angry, prehistoric-looking King Midas Cichlid who carried himself less like a pet and more like a tiny underwater warlord who had been wrongly imprisoned.
And for a while, I respected that. Every man needs a hobby, and apparently Hercules’ hobby was guarding a fake plastic plant like it contained the nuclear codes.
A Political Crisis
Back in 2007, Hercules first entered the broader Wesblog universe when I got in a very serious political argument with Charles and Kevin. At the conclusion of our debate, one of us, I can’t quite remember who, announced he would “eat that fish” if Hillary Clinton won the Democratic primaries. This was not a policy position we arrived at lightly. We had weighed the issues, studied the candidates, and eventually concluded that the most responsible civic action was threatening to consume a pet.
I wrote at the time:
“For those of you who don’t know, my fish, Hercules, faces death by consumption if Hillary Clinton wins the Democratic primaries. Though he can be a bitch, and will bite anything entering his aquarium, I like Hercules and do not want to see him eaten. For this reason I am announcing Wesblog’s support of ‘Anyone but Hillary’ for President.”
This was probably the high-water mark of Wesblog’s political commentary.
And honestly, I stand by it. Democracy requires sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice is canvassing. Sometimes it’s donating. Sometimes it’s telling America that if it makes one wrong move, a pet fish gets served with lemon butter.
Fortunately for Hercules, and America, my threat kept Hilary off the ticket that year.
Unfortunately for me, Hercules remembered my betrayal. That fish hated me with the white-hot intensity of a boomer paying property taxes.
The Attack
Then one day, Hercules struck.
There was no warning. No dramatic music. No slow-motion widening of the eyes. One second I was adjusting aquarium décor like pet store Joanna Gaines, and the next second this aquatic bastard launched himself out of the greenery and sank his tiny chainsaw mouth into my knuckles.
Hercules – also known as Bitch Fish when I am angry – bit me like Charlie.
Let me be clear: This was not a cute little “Oh look, he thinks your finger is food” moment.
This was a deliberate act of fish-on-human violence.
He sunk rows of needle-sharp teeth into my hand, leaving me with “two serrated strips matching his upper and lower jaws.” My knuckles looked like I had lost a fight with a staple remover.
A Betrayal
The worst part was not the pain. The worst part was the betrayal.
I had defended this fish publicly. I had used my considerable political influence, which at the time consisted of a blog read by my friends and possibly one confused guy searching for Atlanta bar specials, to spare his life. And how did he repay me? By developing a taste for blood.
At that point, I had to reconsider the entire arrangement. This was no longer pet ownership. This was appeasement. I was not keeping a fish. I was hosting a Ichthyo-terrorist.
Hercules Hits Craigslist
After the biting incident, I finally accepted that Hercules probably needed a bigger aquarium. So I placed a Craigslist ad looking for a “good” home.
In my head, I imagined the best-case scenario: maybe Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie would decide they wanted to adopt some more pets. They seemed to be all about adopting things in the late 2000s..
But Brad and Angelina never called, which I still think was short-sighted of them. Maybe Hercules could have been the spark that couple needed to stay together – make it work for the pets.
Instead, I eventually gave Hercules to a elderly gentleman who, in my memory, looked like the sort of old man to say, “So I tied an onion to my belt. Which was the style at the time.”
He seemed calm. Wise. Possibly retired. Maybe exactly the kind of man who had the patience and spiritual fortitude required to care for a fish that had tasted human flesh and liked it.
Peace Returns
With Hercules gone, peace returned to my aquarium. I could finally add some hippie community fish to the tank – the kind of fish that spend their days floating around, eating flakes, and not biting me.
Wanting to make sure my new aquarium community would not “kick each others asses all day long,” I did what any responsible adult would do.
I joined a fish forum.
The Internet Police
The website was called Aquarium Advice, because apparently there is an online community for everything. Somewhere out there, strangers were spending their free time discussing water pH levels, tank compatibility, and the emotional needs of mollies. Naturally, I felt these people needed to hear about my fish attack.
I included pictures of Hercules. I linked back to the original post. I probably assumed the Aquarium Advice community would greet me as a hero — a survivor, a whistleblower, a man brave enough to speak truth to fish.
Instead, I was contacted by the moderators. Because the internet, as it turns out, is a very serious place.
“Profanity”
Not because I had owned a violent fish. Not because I had placed that fish with an elderly man who may or may not have understood he was adopting a freshwater Hannibal Lecter. Not because we once threatened to eat said fish depending on the outcome of a presidential primary.
No, the problem was language.
Apparently, my use of the phrase “Bitch Fish” was too much for Aquarium Advice.
This was shocking, because until that moment I had not realized the aquarium community was being moderated by the FCC, Focus on the Family, and one angry substitute teacher from 1994.
The fish mods were not amused by my colorful description of Hercules. And they were concerned about my foul language.
Profanity on the internet?! What’s next… porn?
I had accidentally become the bad boy of Aquarium Advice. I was scolded by fish people. But I stand by my words.
Hercules was a Bitch Fish.
He taught me that pets do not have to love, or even like, you. Sometimes they merely tolerate your existence until you place your hand within striking distance. He taught me that democracy is complicated, aquarium maintenance is dangerous, and online fish forums have stricter language standards than PBS.
Most importantly, he taught me that every great pet story needs three things:
A threat of politically motivated ichthyocide.
A bloodletting.
And a moderator named something like FishMom72 telling you to watch your mouth.
The Legend Lives On
I like to imagine Hercules still swims (How long do those fish actually live? Seriously, someone who isnt banned from Aquarium Advice should probably ask.) now in a larger tank, but still angry, misunderstood, and patiently waiting behind a plastic plant for one more shot at my knuckles.