BY ZEBULON CORK

One day, little Tommy Borderstack was out fishing with his old man, when he felt his little miniature fishing line tremble.

Tommy grabbed onto the rod, holding on for dear life, as he imagined what kind of glorious fish had nibbled on his hook.  Could it be a great white shark?  A mighty orca?  Perhaps a blue whale, the mightiest creature to ever swim the deep blue sea?

“Wow!” Tommy’s dad said, once he’d noticed his son had gotten a bite, “you’ve got a bite, Tommy!  Why don’t you reel ‘er in!”

And so Tommy did.  His pudgy little hands worked that rod, doing their best to reel his massive catch in.  But the fish was just too strong for him.  Whatever sort of marine monster had gotten a hold of his hook, it was a fighter, and it wasn’t letting go.

All of a sudden, the fish yanked so hard on the line that little Tommy fell flat on his face, flat on the deck of he and daddy’s little boat.

“Tommy!” his father said, leaping down and grabbing Tommy by the waist, “don’t worry, I’ve got you, son!”

As soon as his father started helping him, they were able to reel the fish in.  Tommy’s pop reeled that fish in more easily than the UCP won the 2023 Alberta provincial election; very soon, the line was reeled in, and the fish that had given little Tommy such trouble was revealed.

It was a minnow.

Tommy’s dad stared in disbelief at the tiny little fish dangling from the line.

“Tommy…” Tommy’s dad sputtered, his lips moving soundlessly, searching desperately for the right words to convey his bottomless disappointment, “I knew you were a weak little lad…but you weren’t even able to hold your own against a puny, pathetic little minnow?”

Tommy’s lower lip trembled.  “I’m sorry, dad…I’m sorry…”

“No, no,” his father said, wagging a finger at him, looking down on him with the most wretched look of disapproval a father has ever given a son, his hands shaking, foam accumulating at the corners of his mouth, “you’re a weak little boy.  A pathetic little boy.  I can’t believe I played a part in creating such a worthless piece of scum as you.”

Now Tommy was crying.  “I’m sorry, dad…please forgive my weakness.  Please forgive the shame I’ve brought upon our family name.”

Tommy’s father sighed.  “There can be no forgiveness,” he said, “I told you that already.  There can only be consequences.”

Tommy backed away as his father loomed over him.  “Punishment,” Tommy’s father said, “is an unpleasant but necessary part of being a parent.  You know what kids who don’t get punished grow up to be?”

Tommy shook.  He knew the answer to this.  It was a word his father had taught him to hate and fear with every fibre of his being.  “S…s…snowflakes?”

“SNOWFLAKES!” his father roared, “LITTLE, WEAK, PATHETIC SNOWFLAKES!”  His father stopped, collected himself, dusted off his jacket, then continued: “well, I’m not going to let my Tommy grow up to be a snowflake.  No, today I’m toughening you up.  And I know just the way to do it.”

Tommy watched, horrified, as his father picked up a gigantic, oversized fishing rod, a rod so huge that it stuck out of the boat, and even Tommy’s father, who’d won the award for toughest, manliest man this side of the town of Baton Rouge, could barely lift it.

“Now,” Tommy’s father said, “I want you to climb onto the end of the fishing rod.”

Sobbing, Tommy did just as his father asked.

“Now, I want you to hook yourself to the end of the line.”

Once again, Tommy obeyed his father’s command.

“Now, I want you to be a good little boy and now cry like a pathetic little snowflake as I use you as bait to hunt the mighty Great White.”

Tommy closed his eyes.  He was too overwhelmed now to cry.  He was too overwhelmed to really do anything.

Then, he felt himself get lifted, felt himself dangle over the deep blue sea as his mighty father lifted the mighty line, preparing to cast it out into the ocean, preparing to cast it out into the deep blue, that mighty line, that gargantuan line, with his own son as bait.

And then, Tommy was cast out into the sea: he flew through the air, and then crashed down into the salty ocean water, felt it sting his eyes, felt it chill him to the bone, felt it slowly drain his pride, felt it slowly suck out his hope…

And then, just moments later, his father got just what he wanted.  A mighty great white spotted him, and made a quick snack out of him that day.

Later that day, Tommy’s father sat at a picnic table, eating some grilled shark meat.  Sure, he was a little sad he’d lost his son…but he had 7 other sons he was much prouder of.  And this shark meat…oh, man, this shark meat was to die for!  More than tasty enough to justify the sacrifice of his son.

And so Tommy’s father ate that shark meat, already letting the memory of his wimpy snowflake son Tommy fade into eternity.