(~7 minutes to read)
“Hello. My name’s Gary, and I’m a herring addict.”
The circle of gulls clapped their wings to greet Gary.
“Welcome, Gary,” said the group facilitator, whose name was Glenda. “I’m sure you already know this, but admitting the problem is the first stage in managing and overcoming an addiction.”
The nodding and bobbing of heads proceeded round the circle like a Mexican wave.
“Please… tell us all about your addiction, and how you realized that it was controlling you,” said Glenda, as gently as she could in the language of gulls which, let’s face it, isn’t famous for its ability to convey empathy.
“Well… like… I enjoy… eating… fish,” said Gary self-consciously. “It’s a… a healthy food choice—natural, nutritious, and plentiful. That’s one reason I moved to the coast. But I’m not great at catching them. Landfill food doesn’t run away when you try to eat it. Well, not unless the maggots are particularly protective of their host. But fish; they… they move so fast!”
There were clucks of agreement around the room.
“Then I realized that trawlers can catch fish a lot easier than I can. And the boats are easy to spot—they have dozens of gulls hanging around nearby waiting to catch fish as they escape. And the gulls around one boat
seemed to have everything. Food; friends; a happy outlook on life…
“There was this whole vibe about them… the camaraderie, the laughing and joking and singing; the dating opportunities… It was a chance for me to move up in the world a bit. I mean, Qaitl’nnn—she was my girlfriend back at the landfill—was okay, but compared with east coast gulls… So I started hanging around on the sidelines, hoping they’d invite me in. And they did. I became one of the Stern Wheelers.
A rather rotund gull named Alfie said, “Why do they call themselves ‘The Stern Wheelers’?”
“S’easy,” said Gary. “They hang around the back of the boat, swooping and diving and wheeling. ‘Back Swoopers’ would’ve been a stupid name, so they called themselves the Stern Wheelers.”
“That’s a good name for your friends,” said Glenda encouragingly.
“Good name, good friends,” said Gary. “Life got easier. I was eating more and stressing less, and I started putting on weight. Goodness knows, I needed to, but it got to the stage where I was getting overweight.
“Anyway, most of the fish the trawlers catch is herring, and in case you don’t know, there’s a lot of human herring addicts who’ll pay top price for their fix. I know for a fact they smoke up on herring—I’ve heard them talk about it. And I’m sure it’s illegal, ‘cause they use slang words. They refer to herrings as ‘kippers’.
“Anyway, one day a gang of landfill gulls moved in. They must’ve realized that ten-day-old fast food was poisoning them and were looking for healthier food options.”
He shuddered.
“They’re a nasty, aggressive lot. I used to be a landfill gull myself, but I was the wimpy one that always got beaten up. Anyway, me and The Stern Wheelers were no match for The Gullster Gangstas: they easily pushed us out. But they got too greedy and started attacking the fishing nets to get more herring. Our supplier got spooked, and started getting very protective with his inventory. Well… things quickly escalated, and before we knew it, guns were involved—our supplier started using a shotgun to keep the Gullster Gangstas away. But he didn’t distinguish between the Gangstas and us coasties—he’d do his best to blast us all out of the sky.
“Faced with the prospect of an instant weight gain from the lead shot followed by a plummet into the sea, I left the Stern Wheelers and went searching for a new herring supplier.
“And that’s when I realized I was an addict. The trawlers had got me hooked. I was dependent on herring, which I couldn’t obtain on my own—I needed a supplier. Mackerel just didn’t do it for me—too oily; gives me heartburn—it had to be herring. But every fishing boat I tried was already being overfished by another gang of landfill hoodlums.
“I tried landfill life again for a while, but it was harsh. I’d forgotten all the violence those gulls indulge in as naturally as they poop on clean cars. Plus, the mouldburgers made mackerel seem like manna from heaven by comparison. So I came back to the coast and tried catching my own fish again.
“I lost a third of my body weight in two weeks due to my pathetic fishing skills. And that’s when I realized I couldn’t kick the habit on my own—I needed help. When I saw the advert for ‘Herriholics Anonymous’ I thought I’d give it a try.”
The gathering showed its appreciation for Gary’s candour. After a respectable pause, Glenda spoke.
“Thank you for sharing your story, Gary, and although in many ways it’s a familiar one to all of us here, every person’s story is unique.
“Does anyone have any words of encouragement for Gary?” she continued, surveying the room.
A herring gull with shockingly poor plumage raised its wing.
“Gavin?”
“Gary… dude. How did you ever get hooked on herring? I mean, like… y’know… it’s not like you’re a herring gull.”
“Actually… I am a herring gull,” replied Gary. “It’s probably the accent that threw you. My stepdad’s a kittiwake…”
Gavin changed tack without a hint of a pause. “Look dude, just ‘cause you’re a herring gull doesn’t mean you can only eat herring. See Cynthia over there?” Cynthia nodded and blushed. “She’s a black-backed gull. What d’ya think she should eat? And Percy there—he’s a kittiwake, but just like your stepdad, he doesn’t devote his life to disturbing the sleep of every cat he can find.”
“Well, actually…” began Gary.
Alfie chimed in (if “chime” is an appropriate word for gull-speak.) “We’re called herring gulls because humans see us eating more herring than any other fish. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat other fish. Or shellfish. Or worms. Just be careful of jellyfish, starfish, crabs, lobsters, octopus…”
“STOP!” squawked Gary. “This is exactly my problem! So many things to avoid.”
“Or in my case, so many things to void,” said another gull in the lowest voice he could manage, but which everyone heard anyway.
“It’s simple, dude,” said Gavin. “Stick to fish—y’know, head at one end, tailfin at the other, couple of fins on the sides, one on top… lots of scales. Worms give you gas, and everything else gives you trouble. Just fish for fish.”
Everyone clapped Gavin enthusiastically for his common-sense advice.
“Unfortunately, fish are a lot faster than everything else though,” added Cynthia, “so the key to beating your addiction is improving your fishing skills.”
“Thank you everyone,” said Glenda. “Does anyone have any tips for Gary with his fishing skills?”
“Uhm… Red Bull?” suggested Cynthia. It’d speed up his reactions…”
Glenda interrupted. “While we appreciate the idea, Cynthia, it’s not really helpful to suggest that Gary trade a herring addiction for a caffeine dependency.
“Does anyone else have any suggestions?”
The silence was deafening. A gathering of gulls had never been so quiet. It was as though they’d been told that they’d all be given food if they could keep quiet for thirty seconds.
It was Percy who broke the silence.
“Uhhhmmm… have you tried the chippy?”
“The what?” asked Gary.
“The fish and chip shop on the high street,” said Percy.
Nine pairs of beady eyes stared at Percy.
“I know what the chippy is,” said Gary. “My question was rhetorical; an expression of shocked surprise…”
“You don’t have to eat the fries,” said Percy defensively. “But they fillet their own fish, and their rubbish bin is easy to get into. It’s all fresh; nothing like the landfill crap. It’s my little secret—had it to myself for several weeks now.”
Glenda looked around the circle.
“Does anyone else have anything they want to suggest at this precise moment in time?”
She waited for about three microseconds.
“Good. Motion to adjourn?”
Nobody answered. They were already all on their way to the chippy.
**As the title says, this is the fifth episode in the Gullsville series. The first three episodes were not originally written as episodes, but when the idea for Episode IV presented itself, I decided to turn them all into a saga whose titles parody the Star Wars™ episode names. With episode five, it’s obvious I’m struggling with the title parodies! The “Dump Flyer” is Gary the Gull, whose family lives on a landfill, and his “fight back” can be guessed from the opening line of the story.