Che is dead.
Obvious, you say? Maybe. If we're talking about the right Che.
Some months ago I posted about Vic's crazy roommate and the chick's infatuation with that dastardly assassin, Che Guevara. Nothing screams ignorance like thinking this sociopath is a mythic hero. There is nothing heroic about him. It's like calling Hitler a noble patron of the medical arts because he sanctioned heinous experiments on human beings.
So who is this Che I am referring to? Aha, he is a fish. Well, was a fish. Now he's fertilizer.
The story begins some weeks ago, when the Missing One decided that after two failed attempts at college roommates, that the safe route would be to have a fish.
Enter Splaish, a suave and debonair betta fish that turned out to have a bit of a domestic violence issue. Consequently, I now own his intended, Splish, who had no intention of ever being in the same tank with him.
Having thoroughly enjoyed the spectator sport of watching and "enjoying" her fish, The Brainiac decided to go to the next level and get a 10 gallon tank, filled with all kinds of lovely and colorful tropical fish. Somehow, this entailed a pilgrimage to Marietta, 20 miles away, because the local fish were apparently too redneck for her. Or sickly looking. Or some other lame ass excuse for needing to travel far and away because, well, she could.
Nevertheless, this is about the fish, so I'll stay focused.
The tank was dutifully filled with a gigantic slug-looking thing that eats the gross detritus at the bottom. Unattractive but useful. Too bad they don't package those for the home.
Then, there was an attractive shark-like thing with a red tail fin that looked like...wait for it...a shark. Then there was a lovely angel fish named Magellan, who was a beautiful golden color and looked, you guessed it, ANGELIC!
And finally, there was Flotsam and Jetsam, silly little hysterical fish that turned out to be assassins.
We woke up one morning to find Magellan drifting along the bottom of the tank. Those bastards had eaten his eyes. Oh! It's still quite disturbing. A memorial service soon followed, where Jonathan, the pallbearer, laid Magellan to rest in a shoebox that they buried. Christy delivered a moving eulogy and Vicky mourned, quite stoically. They had to move fast because things were rotting quickly in the heat wave.
Anyway, those hysterical little fish, having gotten a taste of blood, were eventually on each other and we awoke one morning to find Flotsam, or maybe it was Jetsam, half-eaten and sticking to the gaudy plastic plants in the tank. This burial was done without the fanfare, and generally there was a feeling that he had gotten his just desserts.
That left the remaining assassin, now renamed Che, after Tio Jorge's declaration that he was nothing more than an "uptight assassin." Che was a pariah, rejected by all of us. No one would be found sitting in front of the tank enjoying this murderous fish. The Missing One was even contemplating returning him to the fish store.
She couldn't reduce herself to his level and kill him, so she dutifully packed him up and moved him to his new home in the dorm room.
I received the call in the late afternoon.
"Che is dead." I suspect I heard the soft titter of a maniacal giggle. "Karma."
You have to watch out for that karma train. It'll get you every time.