One.
I caught the biggest damn walleye you’ve ever seen in your life. After a two-hour tussle, I lugged the massive bastard onto the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat. Had to beat him to death ‘cause he was floppin’ around like an epileptic on a trampoline. I clubbed him with an oar—a makeshift model that was extra-God-damn-OARdinary. It had a machete hammered through the broad end of the wood. Oh…MAMA, how the sparks flew on the old work bench the night my machete, hammer, and oar had a mana ja three-way.
I swung like a Chinese immigrant at a railroad spike and clobbered him square in the gills. But the beast was tougher than I thought. He started flopping around like his scales was made of Flubber—and I’m talkin’ 'bout the top-shelf type of Flubber, not the generic kind. I can’t remember how many times I retaliated against that flagrant act of not dying—umpteen sounds about right—but eventually I forced his spirit into the Grim Reaper’s fishing net.
In the process of killing the walleye, though, I punctured roughly umpteen holes in the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat—more than enough holes to sink my treasured vessel. I lugged the beast all the way back to shore, one hand leadin’ the backstroke while the other dug in and palmed the beast’s softball-sized eye. It was a four mile swim. That’s the longest any feller in Lawn Dart County has ever swum with a machete stuck through an oar clenched between his teeth. My kill outweighed me by 25 lbs. Most people in this town will tell you that makes me one helluva fisherman. Others’ll tell you lies and say I’m just bulimic. Bunch of jealous muckrakers, they are.
My victory over the walleye was tainted slightly by the loss of my eighteen-hundred boat, but I’ll betcha my boat didn’t mind getting killed by another thing that its master loves. Plus, that walleye provided a pretty decent meal—only decent because although I’m a great fisherman, I’m not much for guttin’ and cleanin’ the scaly bastards. Don’t have the steady hands for it. On accident I discarded much of the edible parts and salvaged and cooked some of the parts that belonged in Mother Nature’s dumpster…What I did cram down my gullet, though, was downright…tolerable.
God, I miss that eighteen-hundred-dollar boat.
***
To read more about the redneck adventures of Russel, order a copy of "There Will be Blog" by me, Nick Olig.
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html
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