You head down the pier nearly to the end, when you find a lone fisherman on a bench. You sit next to him, partially because you want to enjoy the view and partially because you're tired from your walk and want to give your legs a rest. So the two of you stare out at the sea, you and the fisherman. He's older than you, and he looks like Mickey Rourke's brother who made worse life choices. There's a thick smell of fish and sea about him, and you notice he has scales and fish guts ground into his old jeans. You see through your peripheral vision that his thick fingers have fish slime caked under the nails and around the untamed cuticles, along with dirt and who knows what else.
Slowly, the fisherman turns his head toward you, and whether out of fear or some misguided desire not to seem intrusive, you pretend to not notice. You stare ahead, while your peripheral vision catches his slow turn, the patchy stubble around his mouth and chin making it look as though he kept starting and stopping the morning shave. And he fixes you with his gaze, one eye cold and muddy brown, the other eye rheumy and white, staring at nothing. And slowly, just as slowly as his head turn, he lifts those hands, those disgusting, fish-encrusted hands, and takes your face in them. And now you realize you're frozen. Whether it be fear or some other spell, you can't move of your own free will. And the smell of fish and sweat and dirt overwhelms you as those rough, greasy hands take you on other side of your face and turn your head to face him.
He locks you with his good eye and says nothing, not one word, and you feel his right hand drift down your cheek, until his thumb and forefinger are on either side of your jaw, and he squeezes, forcing your mouth open. You sit there, slack-jawed, mouth agape like a dummy, staring into his good eye, wordless and confused.
He leans in close then, and over the fishy smell of his breath is something danker and worse, like old booze and leather and dirt, and suddenly this sound erupts, from deep inside him, this droning cacophony, this churning, wet, and viscous growl as he pulls from his briny soul and clears his throat in the most ear-shattering way you have ever endured. As his eye stares into yours, he launches the most perfectly gray and yellow brackish phlegm lozenge, like a sardine made of lung butter, straight to the back of your disbelieving throat, and then he forces your mouth shut and laughs and laughs and laughs.