It's Fish, methinks, as Hamlet's dead father would say:
"My ghostly torment is great, and the desire for sweet vengeance lingers yet in my soul ... but, Christ, not half so much as the fetid stench of burning fish-shit, which seemeth to engorge the air that moistly sweats from the microwaving witch-box. Is death no respite from this floating miasma of fearful fish-filth? Truly! Come thou on!"