A few questions in prelude to the butchering

The captives found themselves in a pearly white sink, thrown in a heap from the yellow bucket, which had suddenly gone dry.

Did they contemplate their unspeakable fate as they gasped for oxygen?

Did they regret attacking and eating lesser fish as they suffered helplessly?

Were they filled with visions of the spawning grounds from which they emerged as tiny, delicate fry?

Who the hell knows? All I can say for sure is that it took me about an hour to clean this batch. By the end, my techniques with the killing stick and fillet knife had become increasingly refined.

You don't want to read about the particulars on those matters, do you?