Dear Ralph,
Yes... the fish was looking me straight in the eye when I reached far out over the side and bashed his brains loose with the Samoan war club. He died right at the peak of his last leap: one minute he was bright green and thrashing around in the air with that g-dd**mn spear on his nose trying to kill everything within reach...
And then I smacked him, Ralph. I had no choice. He went limp with the first hit, about two inches behind the same eye he was using to look at me... and in fact my first instinct was to go for the eye itself, but I altered the swing at the last split second, because I knew that kind of hideous mutilation would raise unpleasant questions at the pier" --Hunter Thompson, "Curse of Lono", pg146 (1983)