That’s why I ate them, you know, especially the fierce little ones that tried to bite my fingers off; I ate them because I wanted that wild ferocity inside of me, mingling with my DNA, billowing my lungs like the pedals on an old Anglican church organ. I wanted the fuel of fierceness, the wild and insane fight of a pike in my belly. I ate a lot of pike the first twenty years of my life. It’s probably one reason why I live in the steady grip of a spirit of rebellion; Northern pike, the fish of my younger years.