Catch Of The Day

by Petr-Johan

25 Apr 2019 2863 readers Score 9.1 (43 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


First-This is only 18 of 40 pages. I'd previously submitted the much longer story which never appeared so I assume it fell without Gay Demon's standards for publication. Two of the issues that may have troubled them were murder and cannibalism. Whether these approach their 'extreme violence' I believe depends on one's point of view; Shooting poachers in South Africa (There was no bag limit) bothered no one from me, the shooter, to the government in Pretoria that allowed, even encouraged this sport. 

As you read these 7,800 words, please notice that I've written them with a light touch, I found it amusing to write and, one hopes, the reader will see that as well. There are elements in this that are based on real court cases surrounding two men going off on some sort of sporting adventure when only one comes back alive did so for he'd killed his buddy or it was an accident. In the several cases I've read, there were varying verdicts going from Murder One to Exonerated. Were a jury to hear all the facts surrounding my tale in the tall timber, a decision might have been reached in half an hour, assuming no one took a bathroom break.

As to the next 22 pages....that's going to lay in you, the reader's hands and also the taste ethics of Gay Demon. IF you want to read the rest and Gay Demon declines, which is certainly their privilege then contacting me and requesting it will get a response.

All of that said, I hope you will enjoy Poker, Bill, Pepper, Rusty, Jack and the other men who populate this tale of what to do with faithless lovers and how to gut fish. (implied, not described,)

Do please remember I wrote this with a light hand to amuse first, myself and, later, my readers. See it that way; This is no who dunnit, who did it is apparent immediately, 

I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as the pleasure it gave me in writing it.

Petr-Johan

CATCH OF THE DAY

I knelt down, dipped my hand in the usually crystal clear stream and...watched it disappear before it even got to my wrist. “Yep, certainly is. Sludge.”

Jack and I stood there looking stupid in chest high waders, carrying our fishing tackle, a cooler that floated and was attached to a strap holding up his wader, poles, bait buckets....everything for a first class day of fly fishing in gin clear, cold, fast rushing water. Not Sludge.

“That shit would rot anything, fuck knows what's in it...you better find a wet wipe and clean your hand before that accidentally becomes the only trophy we fish out of the river” and tried to laugh but it didn't work.

It was the ten day long, plus travel time, yearly, two guys fishing/fucking trip. As sacrosanct a date on the Calendar as the Fourth of July or Christmas and just as unmovable, this was the time, we'd been building to it, tying flies to take, trying out every bit of equipment we had, buying new, all the gadgets, tents, water purifiers......All the crap stowed in it, Jack's new Pick Up looked more like it was two guys off to save a trapped group of settlers crossing the mountains than it did two guys going fishing. But not this year. “Well, fuck.” We stared at each other the question, “What now?” loomed in the air but with no apparent answer so it stayed unasked.

“Maybe, if we wait a day or two....”

“Or until after winter and the snow melt cleans all this muck out. Or two seasons until the fish no longer know it's a great place to die of suffocation in their own element or....”

You have heard about being up a creek?...With a partner?

I started to unhitch my waders which, when not surrounded by chilled water were hot, difficult to move in and, just now, pointless  as a Halloween costume at an Easter Egg Roll. He joined me and shortly, looking just as stupid, we were standing there in our thermal underwear, heavy socks and the sneakers we wore inside the waders.

“Lets get drunk.”

And so we did.

So drunk we couldn’t even fuck each other which was the other main reason for the fishing  trip; As any man knows-well, any man who fucks men-fucking in the great out of doors, filled with the scent of pines, fresh air and, eventually, sperm, is terrific. On more than one occasion to combine the two adventures, we’d fucked each other using a just caught fish. (The wiggle in your ass is unlike the gyrations of a cock plus there’s the chill factor.)

The next morning each of our hangovers was of such epic proportions that dunking our heads in the sludge didn't seem an altogether bad idea, hell, there might have been something curative in it, who knew? Jack's hands shook as he fired up the propane stove on which coffee could be made and, from past sins, we also each had a warm beer, drunk straight down, that helped. A little.

But that still left us with most of nine days to kill; We'd never planned on anything except fishing, more fishing, cleaning the fish, cooking the fish, eating the fish then catching more; Then we'd fuck each other as preparation for a night of the sort of sex we'd found we enjoyed which was rough, fun, without rancor and ended happily with everyone getting what they wanted from the other. Following which we'd take a plunge in the cold water, run back to the over sized tent, dry down and snuggle into our two man sleeping bag. A good time was had by all. But, make no mistake, fishing was the nexus that held all the ancillary activities together and, looking at “our creek”, fishing for anything wasn't an option. Although, from the day before, there had been some slight though perceptible changes; It now looked less a tormented black and brown but had what seemed to be bearing pustules of exploding gas that seemed to sigh as it oozed its way past our great campsite by the beautiful mountains with the bright sun shining down.

“You bring anything to read?”

“Sure, 'Huckleberry Finn'..are you nuts? 'Course not. You?”

“Uh, no, just asked.” I tied the stems of two dandelions and tried to remember how to make a kazoo from weeds.

Jack got up, headed for the tent to sleep off what was left of his hangover. “Wake me if the Pope drops by to bless the fishing fleet....” and disappeared.

Boredom, if you let it, can swamp you with the sort of ennui that prevents action of any sort, you know there's nothing to do so you give in to doing nothing, save complain about the boredom and there's the leitmotif for what might be days. I'm a restless soul who falls to stall walking in a slow elevator as well as the usual instigator of things to do borne from my fear of being bored. Not infrequently this has led to friends and family saying things such as, “For God's sake Bill, we don't want to play charades, go on a snipe hunt, look for four leaf clovers, play strip anything or go on a walking tour of our own city block. Shut up, sit down or go away and play with yourself.” They meant it kindly if not literally although having been encouraged to “play with myself”, I retreated to someplace private and did so; At least it killed time pleasantly and I wasn't bored.

Knowing the keys were in the truck, I got in, turned it on, did a U turn then headed up the road we'd used coming in; It was the same one we always used, to the same camp we always made. One of the ranchers was kind enough to lease about two hundred yards of stream to us, both sides, which gave us privacy and a good shot at what ever might swim by.

Nothing is more depressing to a fisherman than to be taken to a “secret place” that only your “good buddy's friend knows about” to find everyone's good buddy's friend seems to know about it and, for some dumb reason, there are three hundred guys in a patch of water only somewhat larger than a suburban back yard each trying to “catch a fish”. Need I tell you what they usually caught, and painfully, was each other? I thought not. The rancher did us no favors in terms of price but he did guarantee exclusivity 365, 24/7, even posted it with our initials and some grim wording about what might happen to you if you were found on that piece of property but were not us. The sign was even illustrated with a picture, with remarkable detail, of a man hung from a line which also had fish on it. Also illustrated were the genitals of said person, marked for removal and...whatever happened next. If you didn’t get the idea from the words, the picture should have sealed your decision to turn back; Some things can be seen as ‘gags’, humor, the sort of sign one might by as an amusing gift for anglers; This was in no way one of those.

My thought was to drive up to the ranch house, say “Howdy” and pick the owner’s mind for suggestions. Or anyone who was there and had an idea. Somewhere in the back of my mind my too fertile imagination suddenly focused on a day or two horseback ride to...somewhere, maybe somewhere with fish and no sludge. Given the down pours that had caused the fouling of our creek, and all other running water for miles around, that didn't seem likely but, ever the budding tour director, it was worth asking. ‘Sides, a few days camping, horses, maybe find a pond that didn’t look like Hershey’s syrup….worked for me. Jack...would probably just want to see if it was true about butt fucking a horse…...

Poker Flatz was a retired radio cowboy who, when radio went away, so did he. The name, really Bud Venville, was forgotten but Poker Flatz stuck as a good, memorable handle. As opposed to many “cowboy” stars he came by his country roots honestly and, while he was yodeling for cash, he was buying property,  someone slipped him the name “Haloid” now better known as Xerox. Must have been pushing 80, or more, but was still spry, interested and interesting so my visits to him were anticipated by both of us although Jack saw him as a doddering old fool who remembered the past constantly but didn't know where they were biting, his only interest. He was only too happy to have me go off to visit while he unsnarled leader, made adjustments with a ball peen hammer to a spoon or retied a fly. In his mind, if you were going fishing, you went fishing or did things that related to fishing; end of story. Oh, and of course, fucking me and getting drunk were also a part of “fishing”, sometimes,  when “they” weren't biting, a big part.

Poker, happy as always to see me, invited me in, offered coffee, food, a comfortable chair-he liked to have someone to talk to and as listening audiences go, I was the deluxe model. He looked at me sternly, went to the fridge and got a beer which he opened and handed to me.

“Does it show that badly?”

“Nah, only us old sinners could  spot it. Bet you didn't even get fucked, didcha?”

I peeked out from behind the bottle, signaled that another one would be good, and nodded “no”.

“Sorry about the crick, son, I thought on callin' you but thought, well, shee-it, theys a gonna come on and tellin' em they ain't nothing to catch, well, just didn't seem right. Course, it didn't seem right not tellin' you either....You know, a damned if you do, damned if you don't sitchiation....Hey, that's some rig you drove up in, mind if I take a look....been thinkin' about tradin' in that rickety ol piece a shit I been drivin' forever.....”

In other words, he'd looked forward to a visit and knew he could talk about cars to me as I knew absolutely nothing about them but found his way of describing them endearing which made what he had to say important to hear.

His was a classic 1946 Chevrolet six cylinder pickup that was in cherry condition. Collectors everywhere wanted it, Jay Leno had come all the way just to look at it with an eye to purchase. No sale. Poker's ranch hands had to laugh; He went to bed early and didn't know or care who Leno was just said he thought he needed a chop job on his nose and chin. Nice guy, wondered why he came all this way?

What Leno thought isn't known. What was known was that the truck would be sold only after he was dead and maybe not then cuz he'd said, a few times, he was, “thinkin' on bein' buried in it”. Some might have laughed at that idea but I did not; For all his breezy sometimes foolish seeming ways, he was a country gentleman who did keep his word, was a good guy and did more than most to “hep the other feller out”; Just now I was the other ‘feller’ and I needed ‘hep’.

Perhaps this is a good moment to put in a word for older men and what they supposedly can’t do, fucking being one of them. Poker was nicely equipped and, best of all, I have never known a man who could get it that hard and keep in that way for as long as he could. Not only was he a world class fucker but he never shut up while he took you, just changed the dialogue from whatever was being discussed to his own version of ‘talkin’ dirty to ya”. And it was. Somewhere in him must have been a latent sadistic streak for once he had you down, and I gave in with no fight, his cock turned from a prime piece of man meat to a well honed stiletto with which he fully intended to carve up ‘yer innards an’ have ‘em fer my breakfast”. If you survived, you could have ‘a mess’ of yours, too. Laying under Poker, if that’s how he chose to take you, you forgot this was an old man but rather that you’d wandered into the field where the bull was kept and were now paying the price for not running faster; He was that good and that hung.

As most people in the country are he was something of a snoop, a fact we'd found  out on one of our first visits visit when, on arrival, ten feet out from the bank, there was a large, red hollow bobber apparently attached to the bed of the stream; In it were condoms, lube and a hand written note saying he wished he was a bit younger....there were some parts of show business he did miss. Made it easier for us. If we wanted to lay around naked, screw outside naked, toast our nuts in the campfire naked, we didn't feel we were bothering anyone and, based on a rather professional looking telescope I'd seen on his terrace, might just be providing some voyeuristic entertainment-was there a video camera-with a telephoto lens attached? My not having seen it did not mean it didn’t exist.

\

Jack never knew it but...a couple of times I'd slipped just enough away to not be heard and called Poker on my cell phone. Nothing important, just a suggestion, if he happened to be outside, he might like to check to make sure the lenses were clean....

Poker was fascinated by the ever increasing gadgets that were applied to cars and trucks, he lingered curiously over things he considered to be pointless laughed at the electronic “gimcrackery” and, when we got to the bed, almost bent double at the custom made, drop in metal and paint protector. “Sheeeit. Beds is made to get roughed up, fucked in, hop up, I’ll show ya, thas why they're there. Look at my ol heap, those boards in the back been changed I don't know how many times....thing still runs don't it?” He leaned over the top of the bed, arms folded on the edge and looked straight at me;

“Time to change a lot a things ain't it? He don't  love you, least ways that's how it looks when he comes up here with some dude in a convertible and that dude ain't you.”

“No. No, I guess it isn't..” stumbled into trying to laugh, didn't work,…  “...nice to know Andy puts the top down, never thought he did....Ginger haired? Almost flaming red?”

Poker just nodded his head. “Yeah, well, that's who it’d be.” I turned my back and leaned against the quarter panel.

“You hear me son? It's time to get rid a him before he plum kills you with heart ache. I got someone fer ye but ya gotta get rid a that cheatin’ sonofabitch. Hear Me?” I nodded,  too dumb struck to say anything do, maybe tears were coming. Poker rounded the truck and stood in front of me. “I need to talk to ya but git that ass up on that fancy shit lining bed and see if’n it resists fuckin’”.

I did as asked and wondered if the bed liner was stronger than Poker’s semen?

Of course, taking me was just a time out, he had something on his mind and I was going to hear it.

“No, son, you didn't hear me, I said, get rid of him, not let him turn you in on a newer model, you're too fine a stallion for that.” I looked at him and tried to catch what he was throwing...but...it wasn't quite there. I had all the words but the meaning....”You got to dispose of him, kill him, thas what I mean when I say git rid a him. Permanent, so's you won't run into him every damn time you turn a corner. Come on back in the house, Ol Poker has a story to tell you...bout a time  years ago when we wasn't just broke, we was poorly broke. Stumps had more'n we did and my brother and I used to play like we's  a sittin' down to a big meal, all the good things, like double  Christmas but weren't nothin but the wind, the dust and one almost dried up farm pond that was only good if you was fishin fer mud.” We went in the house, he pushed me down and told me a story.

Four hours later driving back to our camp I HAD learned a lot, had a lot to think about and not too much time to get done what Poker told me to do. At one point during the story he was telling me he'd noticed that I'd drifted away and, to prove I wasn't listening or paying attention, got up slapped me, hard, open hand, across my face. “Thas what I'm a tellin you, fergit him, now....” Stung but realizing he was telling me the truth I concentrated and, before long, was cheered up quite a bit. Poker did have a story and it was one with contemporary application.

Jack was sitting on a cooler, naked, drinking a beer and, based on the empties, it wasn't is second or, for that, his sixth. (We brought it by the case-several of them- with the water to chill it, always had a cold one available. The code for wanting a fresh one was to holler out, “Hey, fucker, go an catch me one of those brown eyed label holders.”) This time putting the bottles in the water wasn't a good idea so, for several hours, Jack had been making do with what was still cold and in the cooler. Knowing that I'd got some ice from Poker, the sight of which cheered him. A little.

The up side was that Jack wasn't in what might called a resistant mood to my suggestions. Without his realizing it, although he was the structured one, I more than contributed by thinking of things to do when we weren't fishing, fucking or sleeping. As much as we enjoyed it, standing in the cold water all day, getting a good sun burn could become, for that day, more than you wanted to do. He even seemed glad to have me back and had assumed where I'd gone.

“Well, how is the old fart? Dead yet? You get the story of his life from ages three and a half to four and three quarters, Jesus, he's so full of shit, I don't know how you can stand him....”

“Ah, he's a nice old guy, and he had an idea I think we can use. Seems he and some of the other ranchers own a lake about twenty miles from here that's sheltered from any crap in it 'cause it's fed by a spring and, this is what I think is neat, there's a kinda notch where there's a hot spring, can't get too close but you can slide in and relax plus they stock the lake. Like Poker, most of 'em are old guys so they don't go up much...he reckons there must be some in there, ten, twelve pounds...”

“Of what?...”

“Fish.”

“What kind of fish? I doubt if we're going to waste our time going up to this place looking for Flipper or the Loch Ness Monster. Shit head, what sort of fish do they stock it with?”

“Trout”, I blurted out...

“Okay, that's a start, what kind of trout? Cut throat? Rainbow? Brown.....?”

“How the hell  would I know, Poker said Trout and I didn't ask him for the menu. Jeez...Anyway, he's sending up one of his hands to make sure it's clear, no one using it and he said tomorrow, unless we heard otherwise, just go on up. He's gonna have a stake with a flag driven in the road so we'll know where to turn off the road to find the hot spring...”

“Off the road? The truck isn't even paid for and you want me to rip it up so you can go dip your nuts in a hot tub? You can do that at home.”

“He also let me borrow  wet suits so we can swim out in the lake and do some skin diving with spear guns...”

He looked at me as if I'd lost it.

“Wet suits? In a lake to go snorkeling? What's really in that pond, Jaws?”

I was already mad but this torqued me. “Look, we can't fish here, we can go there and try it. So have some more beer, shut up about it and try and enjoy what was meant to please by an old man doing a favor, Okay?' And slammed into the tent,  regretting there was no door for impact, with every intention of taking a nap.

From the outside. “Okay...but if this doesn't pan out....”

“Go fuck yourself”.

It was not a happy evening. Since we'd planned on a primarily fish diet, the other edibles we'd brought were side dishes or vegetables. Dinner was baked potatoes, corn, some sort of ready to cook corn bread plus plastic wrapped snacks for desert that looked almost less appetizing than the stream.

We slept back to back.

The stream almost made moving mandatory; Around four we both woke up on the verge of retching from the stench. A quick look with the flash lights revealed  a dead skunk, the loser in a battle with some larger animal,  on the other side but in it's death throes had shot every bit of defensive spray it had which was now lingering over our campsite. Without even discussing it and by common consent we pulled on some clothes and started packing up. Given Jacks love of “stuff” this took some little while so that  by the time we could seal ourselves in the truck and allow twenty first century air conditioning filtering to salve our lungs, the sun was well up.

As Poker had said, it was about a twenty mile drive, entirely scenic but, for once, I abandoned my jolly tour guide mode and kept my thoughts to myself. Jack was hungover-again-or, maybe, still so I drove. Normally he liked to be the Captain of his own ship but in his precarious condition he yielded the helm to his second in command, indulged Commander's privilege by undoing his pants, took his dick in hand and indulged in another of his favorite off road activities, the long, slow, jack off. I'd known him to go to sleep mid stroke which was what happened this morning.

Helpful as a Christmas Elf, I'd made masks for us but pointed out he could drink beer through the fabric which would cut the smell of the skunk which he'd done.

The road was decent enough better than one might expect but to spare Jack's sacred truck, I turned on the cruise control to as low as it would go allowing me time to think and steer without much effort. My visit with Poker had been an eye opening experience on many levels. Beyond just finding I was now the former boyfriend, his insistence that the insult required no less than the death penalty seemed a bit too much until I thought it over. Why not shoot the sonofabitch? In fifteen years he'd not been much to me and, increasingly, apart from some sport fucking, not even part of my life. I saw him infrequently, we had our big deal fishing trip, we fucked even less and beyond that....nothing. The word “love” had never crept in and, now, wasn't likely to. I said I supposed I wasn't bright enough to guess there was another man but Poker had another view on that.

“Yer too good a man,  you’d a know’d . Fuck, even after he'd dumped you he'd probably still call to ask you to do errands for him, he's a user and it's time he got used.” There was a pause while he diddled something into his cell phone. “Hey, Pepper? We got any of that sausage left? Whomp up a mess a  sausage gravy and biscuits for our young friend here.” He turned back to me. “Can't have puny looking murderers now can we, cause that's what you're going to do; Murder him.”

Oddly this was arousing and, I was a bit embarrassed, to let Poker see how turned on by the idea I was. He liked that I was getting off on it. “Take it out, shuck it down, hell, let ol Poker suck it off, an after I git done, Pepper’ll be next, taught that boy about suckin’ myself. I knew you  had it in ya to do this. And when you get 'er done, you'll be a new man, I promise.” With that, he took out his dentures and gave me an A number one suck job. A man with no teeth but soft gums and an artful tongue should be a national treasure. When he finished I was so completely relaxed, I just crumpled against the pillows on the couch. With a smile that couldn't come off. Poker just gave me a shit eating grin and said, “Good thing we're on the same side, that's a high powered flavor you shot, makes me a wonder what the rest of you might be like....” I wondered if he’d run quality control and make Pepper give him a taste of what, if anything, he could pull from me. Oh, yeah, Pepper….followed orders perfectly; It was like being edged but by two people. Even after the last shot, I lay there wondering if I could drive back to our camp.

 Getting that quality of blow jobs took it out of a man. Two different ways.

I guess the guy who showed up was, again, Pepper as he had a steaming plate covered with biscuits and sausage gravy. It was the sort of smell that had so much power it reached up to you, insinuated itself into your nose, you knew it would be the best you ever had. And it was. The food was such that I wondered if Pepper was up for round three? Dump some gravy on my cock and eat that.

With gravy dripping down my chin I finally could stop long enough to ask where he'd got the sausage and was told it was made right here on the ranch. There was a pause while a strange smile came across his face. “You really like it, huh?” I nodded as much as I could without having gravy drip from my mouth to the floor. “Well that's good 'cause in a day or maybe two, that's what yer buddy is going to be, sausage.”

I didn't even put down my spoon-using a fork would have allowed gravy to drip through the tines. “No shit? Wow, best he will have ever tasted.  I wasn’t quite putting two and two together.  Where'd you get the meat?”
He paused, thoughtful, “Hey, Pepper, where'd that batch a sausage come from? I fergit.”

Pepper, an affable young man with a good rangy cowboy build, happy blue eyes and an attractive selection of deep dimples, thought a bit himself. “Seems like that was the poacher we caught about a week ago? That sound about right? Yeah, cuz, that jerk that came to see about clear cutting a swathe was before him-member? We did him in a pine bough smoker?”

I looked up. “This sausage is made from a man? I'm eating a man?” With three quarters of the plate empty, I hadn't thrown up and...it tasted great.

“Right. So you like man meat? Enough to harvest your own?”

“You mean if it's Jack?”

“Yeah, him first and then ole Poker will teach you how to fend for yourself, should always have a man around that needs cooking and, as you look around, yer gonna find theys a lot of them. All the boys up here with me, well, we wouldn't touch a beef steak anymore, man meat or nothing. Right Pepper?” Pepper had a beatific smile that agreed with more than words.

We then, the three of us had a conversation that was generally about catching and cooking men and specifically about cooking Jack; Poker and Pepper considered him pretty much caught. From there it was details, working out a schedule, picking up the equipment and some other arrangements. I would have stayed longer but I knew eventually Jack would want his truck back-I was just a free accessory-so we finished up knowing who would be where and when.

On my way out the door I promised to have my teeth pulled and come back to show my appreciation. For everything. Poker almost bent double laughing.

Driving back, apart from some flavorful burps, I laughed all the way. Apart from what Poker lined out, visions of Jack being strung up, on the rack, burned at the stake, meeting the guillotine….But mainly, even though I had been a chump, emancipation was at hand and I was about to gain a new title, “Premeditated Murderer”. Laughed so hard I almost took Jack’s truck….well the truck that belonged to the soon to be late Jack into a ditch.

Jack actually liked the look of the lake, the little cove with the tongue of the lake that came in and was steaming in one spot. After the sludge of the past few days, this was more inviting than something in a travel agency pamphlet, so much so that I stripped off my clothes and ran in...right up to my nuts.

Ever notice that the water doesn't really get cold until it hits your balls? Well, at first contact I reversed course and headed for the hot spring being careful to stay away from the steaming,  hissing part. Jesus did it feel good. The water in it actually felt soft, as if you were wrapped in swaddling clothes, I yelled for Jack to come on and give it a try. Which he didn't. He had his laugh watching me zoom out of the lake and now was on to the serious business of checking to make sure his truck hadn't been damaged while I was driving it. Also, he felt only he could properly set up camp so I let him.

Comfortable, warm, full of ideas, I lay there with just my head out of the water and, taking a suggestion from Poker, wore my sun glasses so I could watch what Jack was doing and where he put things. The only glitch in the plan was a large bag of diving stuff I'd collected and which was to stay under my control. That had been explained to Jack and since it was of no interest to him, he didn't even look in it.

You can get too warm so I hauled myself out, had another quick dip in the deep freeze, dried off then got into my thermal underwear, my waders, picked up a pole, a hat with tied flies on it and waded in to about my waist. No doubt about it, this was fresh, cold water. I could feel my nuts pull up in my body along with my dick but at last I was fishing. First cast out, a good long one, must have gone thirty yards, I saw something flash out of the water and just missed the fly. Jack, standing on the bank, saw it too and ran to suit up; Now we were really fishing. However before he could get too involved in that, I got back out and suggested he try the wet suit over his thermals. According to Poker the really big ones were almost impossible to catch by  line and bait, you needed to be in the water with them, your spear gun and some of them could and would  fight. That was right up his alley. We got him in, thermals and all, booties, fins, and a spear gun and he shoved off from the bank. Not five minutes later I heard him calling, “Holy shit, I just saw a walleye the size of a sixty pound cat, this is going to be great.” I found I  could but agree.

Back at the campsite I looked around the trees where I'd been told to go and found a grill on legs about a foot tall. It came in sections to accommodate the length of the thing to be grilled. Pepper and his partner Rusty had made a camp several hundred yards from ours near the helicopter and the parking area-neither of which I’d mentioned, to my fishing buddy. They had other supplies for me and, to avoid being seen-although by now Jack was deeply engrossed in Water World and wouldn't have noticed if I'd put up a Ferris Wheel-we were a bit cautious; Jack had a suspicious streak along with his other lacks of character. Just to be on the safe side, Rusty gave me his gun and said if anything went wrong and they couldn't get there quick enough, shoot to kill. I was pretty much set up now all that I had to do was start the game so that I could also finish it-I hoped I could be as good a winner as Jack was going to be a good loser.

Jack came in a time or two to show me what he'd caught and I suggested that, as it was getting late, he pick one to cook and throw the others back, they'd be there tomorrow.

Worked for him and off he went to get...whatever. I started the fire under the grill, got a pot of coffee going, started baking potatoes in the embers, had some succotash Pepper brought, garlic toast, all that lacked was the main event which arrived on schedule. Great seven pound brown trout. I congratulated my fisher friend, suggested he get out of his wet suit and thermals, take a plunge in the hot spring and I'd get dinner ready.

I'm a whizz at scaling, gutting and deboning fish so within twenty minutes I had it on the grill over a slow fire ready to be pushed toward the hotter spots when Jack was ready to eat. He, too, found the hot spot to be a great place and, when he got out to come and eat, suggested we go back there after dinner just to relax.....

It was actually a good dinner. Food was all fresh, plenty of it, the light from the embers merged with the late dusk, the moon came up and was reflected in the almost still surface of the lake. Every so often a fish would jump and Jack would almost jump with it. “Jesus, did you see that? Must have been a twenty pounder...”. He was finally happy, in his element, seduced by what he wanted to do, unwary, willing to do what came along. We finally turned in and, as he mounted me-he was really hard- he even thanked me for finding this place;  I dozed off before he even came.

   

After his workout in the lake plus the energy he expended screwing me, he was almost immediately asleep when I slid out of the tent and met Pepper and Rusty for a few more “touches” plus refining what we were going to do. There was only one thing that was left slightly to chance but, knowing Jack and his aggressive competitiveness, I didn't think we had much to worry about. Apparently I was part of their group now as it was made clear that I'd move up to the bunk house with the other hands after we got the business here taken care of-After all, however much a good idea this seemed, I still ended up a murderer and murderers, too, need a place to lay their head. And get laid. (Poker was of the Code-of-the-West theory that bumping off Jack wasn’t murder, just a chore that needed doing. He did, however, feel that after the deed was done, my presence in polite society was better if it didn’t exist.)

Remembering an event of a day or so past, I suggested to Rusty that Pepper and I recreate a scene from our recent past,  fuck me, while Rusty did an old fashioned edging. I almost suggested that, as asleep as he was, we all slip in and fuck my soon to be cooked partner….well, it seemed a good idea, besides, this might be his last outing. Whether he knew it or not.


Pepper even said that I looked like I might taste real good....I took it as a compliment. Started to think of myself, as did the other guys around Poker, as fresh meat to be used if ever needed; Part of the deal of living there was that in a pinch you were the pot roast…. It was implicit that in the eventuality that there was no meat in the cupboard, we’d all draw straws and short straw got to be ‘it’.

Back in the tent I finally dropped off and got a excellent night’s sleep during which I could see Jack, all in one piece, in a butcher’s display case, offered up as so fresh it still had the ‘oink’. Can you laugh in your sleep? Apparently I did as Pepper mentioned he thought he heard me during the night…..

It was all I could do to keep Jack out of the lake before the sun rose. He didn't even want a beer, just, as quick as I could get it done, some coffee, oatmeal,  whatever, he just wanted protein in him when he swam out to take on in him whatever he was going to take on in the lake. I managed to slow his departure by series of annoying events that only depth charged his early morning plans. Such as I boiled the coffee pot and then found I'd failed to add the coffee. Start over. He had several sets of thermals-we'd learned from hard experience that they didn't dry overnight and really needed sun to get the job done.

Off he went, leaving me to clean up, start the grill- and to meet Pepper and Rusty to help them set up the cameras. Poker always had some sort of something to photograph his prizes and now I'd have mine. In color and live action, my first kill; It was like memorializing your first fuck, something you’ll always remember.

I let him fool around in the lake for an hour until he came toward me and I threw an apple at him, calling for him to bob for it! He did, enjoyed the game, threw it back to me and I tossed it out again. After the next round he pretended to be a seal catching a fish and put it in his mouth, brought it to the shore and dropped it at my feet, pretending to slap his flippers and go “Arf”. This time I patted his head said “Good Boy, Go Fetch! And gave it a real heave. Just like a water Spaniel he reeled about and headed for it.

One more time and I had a suggestion....how about if I were the fisherman and he were the fish. I'd cast out with a piece of wood, something that would sink and he'd go after it. It was an instant hit. For the next two hours using ever larger things and heavier line I cast out and he'd dive down, grab it and, eventually, began to act more the fish and fight with me as I tried to reel him in. Loved it, he said, great sport. But....he wanted to make it more real. I hadn't planned on that but it was great from my standpoint so I looked the suit over and said...what if we taped your biceps to your sides? He'd have those gigantic swim fins, was a strong swimmer himself....I could see him think it over. As he pointed out, fish had pectoral fins and if his arms were marginally tied down....easy. We'd just tape them down at the elbow and.. how would he feel about having his legs taped at his knees? That seemed okay and the last swim of the day had him newly restrained, figuring out how to make it work.

After all his exertion I gave him a beer, told him to go sit in the thermal pool and, lacking a fish, I'd come up with something for dinner. An hour later I proudly served him sausage gravy and biscuits, telling him Poker had given me that gravy and I'd forgot I'd put it in the lake to chill and keep the meat fresh. He slurped down two big platefuls  and I could see was contemplating a third but held off saying he hoped there was enough for breakfast....Another beer, we spent an hour in the warm water, I jacked him off and he kissed my forehead in thanks. Pleading exhaustion, he left me behind and entered the tent. Within moments he was snoring which was the cue for Pepper and Rusty to join me. Quietly laughing, they said they couldn't wait for me to see the tape of him leaping like a seal in the water catching things and bringing them to me. Rusty said it would only get funnier tomorrow;  I thought I agreed with them.

Jack slept in. During the night he'd barely moved, I don't think he realized what a strenuous workout I'd put him through and particularly at the end where he'd had to use more muscle to produce less effect. Just for the hell of it I fucked him; He never noticed.

Morning and, again, he begged to be almost  restrained; He was into this game and, I realized, he was beginning to see this as  real contest between me, the fisherman, and him, as the fish; Suddenly it was serious for him, typical, Jack could never just play, it always turned to competition. On about his second trip in he suggested I tie something to a line with a sinker and then cast it out. Fine, just what I had in mind. We tried several things none of which gave his teeth the purchase to fight with me when “hooked”. We tried an apple but he ate half of it. Chain, I told him, could damage his teeth but...what if the chain was attached to a rubber ball? It would sink, slowly, pulled down by the chain,  he could get his mouth around it and the fight would be on. Worked just like a charm with him never wondering where I got a rubber ball. All morning I cast further and further out and he, gaining ability with his restrictions, got more ambitious at how deep he'd dive and how far out he'd swim.

Short lunch, long nap. I insisted he strip, get in the hot pool, then rest if not nap. Of course he was asleep immediately and stayed that way for two hours. His only comment when he finally made an appearance was to ask why the grill was so long to which I pointed out that, fun as the game was, if he didn't catch something dinner was going to be noticeably bland. Also, I wanted to smoke some of the catch. He walked on. To get him rigged up took a good thirty minutes and he laughingly said that sausage must be putting the pounds on him as the suit felt tight. Then down to the edge, the fisherman and his catch to be. The red ball with the weight dangling and he was after it. I had on my waders and, what he didn't see, was that Pepper hot footed it out from the tree line, attached a solid rope to me so that I couldn't be pulled in. Or, if things went wrong, Rusty was in a tree with a high powered rifle and a scope; He’d float until we could get to him and haul him to shore, one of the advantages of the wet suit was it had some buoyancy, even if Rusty didn’t get a kill shot, he’d float and we could haul him in. In some ways, that wasn’t what I wanted, what we planned….was far more interesting and far more instructive to my soon to be grilled former boy friend.

The third cast was made with a new pole, heavy line and a new red ball with the chain weights. For maximum distance in casting I swung from the side and back handed; The line must have gone, following the weight, almost three hundred feet and sank fast. He was after it. He dove for it and I felt in the line he had it in his mouth. All it took was one good, strong tug and the triple bladed Marlin hook that I'd sank in the new rubber ball stuck in his jaw. This time there was a fight and it was for the life of the fish. With every pull back I set the hook deeper forcing him up to breath before trying to hide under the water. Why? Why does any fish try to run after being hooked?

He knew not to get too near me and yet...he still thought this might be a game, maybe some sort of accident. The hook must have hurt like thunder and wouldn't allow him to close his mouth. On the bank every time I gave it another strong yank, it tore into his gums then impaled itself in his jaw bone more sharply. Rattled by pain and confusion he tried to reach the offending implement with his hands but in this suit-we'd switched while he was sleeping-the arms were sewn down and then to conceal that, covered with the tape we'd previously used. Just as in a real contest with a real fish, he fought, but was coming closer; for every three feet he ran away, I pulled him in four and finally he was ten feet out, the fight gone all that was left to do was wade out, gaff him in his suit, pull him to shore and begin his conversion from man to man meat.

He tried to struggle, the blood from his mouth was oozing and, because of the spikes he couldn't speak, just stare at me. Wondering. Pepper and Rusty came out of the bushes and helped me cut away the suit, strip him,  get him cuffed and then, just for the look of it, we slung him from a pole and marched him to the grill where he was temporarily hung between two stakes. He continued to stare at me, wanting to know, wondering if this was still a game. When I took pliers and further pulled the Marlin hook into his jaw and mouth he figured it out. As with any good fish, preparation means scaling which is what I did next which also removed all of the hair from his body-the stink of burning hair adds nothing to any occasion, even a murder. He could see the smoke and the white hot embers waiting under the long grill. I hadn’t lied to him, I was going to smoke and grill my catch of the day. 

by Petr-Johan

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