Fishing Council : Throwing The Old Line and Bait - SCP Foundation

It was a marvelous afternoon in Door County, Wisconsin. Leaves on the dry, arid trees had turned a faint orange color and were beginning to fall on the coarse grass below. In one particular area, hills rose to seclude a large pond; its surface shimmered in the resting sun. A rickety, old wooden pier had been erected in the middle going halfway towards the center of the pond, connecting the land and the water. The wooden boards softly groaned under pressure from a man leisurely walking across them.

The man was Asian, lanky, and had thinly framed circle spectacles. Underneath his glasses, he sported deep eye bags that were developed over countless overtime shifts and international assignments. He wore upon his face, messy black hair, a small two-part-pyramidal mustache, and a goatee on the end of his chin. Instead of his usual white lab coat, he wore a dark grey fleece jacket, as to not get stares from the locals.

He hummed a calming tune to himself, The black tackle box he was holding rattled slightly as he swung his arm in tempo. He slung an elegant fishing rod vertically against his shoulder, as he held its polished wooden handle gently, in the palm of his hand. The pole had the insignia of the SCP Foundation printed on it, with the words, "PROPERTY OF THE FISHING COUNCIL" just below it.

The Foundation had allotted Cole Thereven a three-day vacation to hone his fishing skills, for an upcoming project. He was given the choice of where to take the vacation, and he of course chose his own home state. Cole stopped at the end of the pier, and set the tackle box down beside him. He placed his hands on his hips, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in. This would be his first break in- He contemplated.

I…Don't even know how long.

With a struggle, he sat down on the edge of the pier, making sure to cuff his khakis before slipping his feet off the edge, and into the cold, sense-sharpening water below. He pulled the metal tackle box closer to himself.

One by one he flipped the sliver latches on the front of the container open with a soft:

Click!

The interior of the tackle box was severely rusted with the waters of several fishing trips past- some of which took place even when not in Cole's possession. On the top of the box's contents sat a small handbook labeled: "A FISHER'S HAND GUIDE: YOUR ROD AND BAIT".

Thereven took the handbook from the box, and flipped its cover open.

Hello! If you're reading this, you most likely have been asked to improve upon your fishing skills. Welcome to the Fishing Council.

Cole rolled his eyes at reading this. He had been on the Fishing Council for a little while now.

Let us begin with your fishing rod. This is a rod, specially designed and engineered by our members to deal with aquatic creatures that are- stronger than normal. Now, there should be an activation point on the rod, just below the property label. Go ahead and access it.

He scoffed. There was little that Thereven despised more than being told the obvious. He picked up his rod that was sitting next to him, and looked underneath the label on the handle. The polished wood shifted to show a small screen over an even smaller camera. Speech came out from the rod in a monotone voice and said:

"STAY STILL. IDENTIFICATION WILL BEGIN IMMEDIATELY."

The camera shot out a bright, red light. Taking Cole by surprise, he cursed and fumbled with the rod, almost dropping it into the water below.

"IDENTIFIED. WELCOME, COLE THEREVEN."

He took a moment to catch his breath, then he returned to the book.

Activated your rod? Wonderful! Now on to try your first bait. One that comes highly recommended by most of our members: the Nälkän (Sarkic) miniature squid. This is a bait originally used by members of Nälkän villages in Asia in order to capture enough fish to feed their village. Early variants were made from the flesh of the Nälkän people, but we produce them artificially in a lab, as to prevent unnecessary pain. Which will sound highly ironic given this next piece of information.

Cole raised his eyebrows.

The setback of this bait is that: It is required to be in a constant cycle of pain to be this productive. Open bait container #3 to see for yourself.

"Shit." Cole muttered to himself.

Setting the book down, he rummaged through the tacklebox, until he met a black, opaque plastic container with a label reading "#3" on it. He gulped.

Whatever is in that box is bound to be in horrible pain.

He opened the plastic latch at the end of the box, and he saw three small squids, about half the size of his palm. Using his thumb and his pointer finger, he carefully pinched one of the squids up. It had a cone-shaped head, and four outward curled tentacles. When closely inspected, Cole could see small stitching lines, porous skin texture, and needles arbitrarily puncturing sections of the squid's flesh. Each one of the squids was shaking, and letting out blood-curdling shrieks of pain.

Thereven panicked, and emptied box number three into the water, leaving the other two to the murky depths. Cole then grimly thought:

Best to put them out of their misery.

He turned his head back to the other one, still pinched between his fingers. Watching it, he felt around next to him to pick up the rod. Reaching under the dangling line of the fishing rod, he went to hook the squid on the fishing pole. But to his surprise, he saw no hook.

Instead, he felt a slight pull at the end of the fishing line, as if it was also holding on to the bait. As soon as he released the squid, it was dangling in mid-air, underneath the line.

"That's a…neat gimmick." He said, slightly taken aback.

He pulled the rod back behind his head, with both arms, and swung it forward with force, sending the end of the line far out into the water. The bait on the end of the rod skipped a couple of times in the opaque water before finally sinking, and leaving Cole with a tinge of guilt.

For a few moments, Cole looked out into the water and nervously gripped the handle of the fishing rod. The sun was just beginning to set, and in turn, began to create a crisp orange hue that lit the nature around him. As he was just starting to drink in and enjoy the end of a fine Wisconsin day, he felt a slight tug on the opposite end of the line.

Cole's whole body tensed up as he watched the water ripple around the bobber. He thought, excitedly-

Will I finally hook something?

Just then, the end of the fishing line thrust forward, almost pulling Cole into the water. As he was beginning to give in, a velvet cloud burst from where the end of his line was sitting. With a curious expression etched on his face, he reeled the line towards the pier and himself.

When the line reached the end of the pier, Cole braced himself, and then ripped the catch with all of his strength and separated it from the water. The catch breached the surface of the water, and created a sizeable splash that drenched the doctor's clothes.

A dark object dropped downwards to Cole's arms, which caused him to let go of the fishing pole, sending it clattering on the unpolished wood. Cole flinched, closed his eyes, opened his arms, and yet again braced for impact. The preparation was ill-suited though, as the heavy, water-logged fish bounced off his chest. Cole barely managed to grab hold of his newly caught fish as he plummeted backwards onto the pier below.

As Cole made his way back up to a standing position, he opened his eyes and saw:

In his arms was melted cheese, varying from artisan cheeses to cheese curds, dotted with squashed cherries. And hung over all ingredients like a veil, was the coveted, familiar stench of-

"Door County mead." Cole whispered.

And it was all in the shape of a catfish. Cole smiled tiredly at his catch. He had succeeded in what he came here for.

And he'd be taking those two last days off, to rest.