Episode 4, Part 2

YOU CAN TUNA FISH BUT YOU CAN’T SKIN A FINGERNAIL

OR

HERE FISHY FISHY FISHY

 

     “Now Bobby Shaw, just what is it that’s wrong with you?” asked the driver of the purple and yellow truck they called “The Viking.”

“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me you stupid ass,” replied Bobby. But, there was plenty wrong with him, and they all knew it.

“Why didn’t you get any beer then you stupid ass?” asked the driver of the purple and yellow truck they called “The Viking.”

“Because you stupid ass, they don’t sell beer or liquor there at this time of day,” Bobby answered.

“Good Lord Bobby, this is goddamn Wuss-con-sin, the liquor department ain’t never closed!” said the driver of the yellow and purple truck they (but only they) called “The Viking.”

“Yeah Bobby, this is Wuss-con-sin, the liquor store is like your momma’s legs–always open!” This made no sense as they shared the same mother but Hooper cackled at his own joke anyway, made from the second seat of the truck, the small one behind the front passenger’s side, the one usually reserved for children. As Hooper wheezed he said, “Ain’t that right Brody?” Hooper stuck his clenched hand out over the seat separating him from the front riders, wanting Brody to fist bump him. Brody, who was facing the opposite direction, and driving, could not safely turn around to deliver the fist bump. Ignoring safety, he did it anyway.

“Woo!” Yelled Brody, bumping fists.

“Suck it Wuss-con-sin!” yelled Hooper.

“Yeah, suck it Wuss-con-sin!” added Brody, thoughtfully.

“We still got this guys,” said Bobby Shaw, wanting desperately to get in on the fist bumping. He held up a bottle of Arctic Snow vodka. It was 80 proof and sold for $4.99 a bottle, which was about four dollars more than it was worth.

“Woo yeah!” declared Brody, the chief of police of one of the northern suburbs of the Twin Cities metropolitan area. Taking the bottle from Bobby Shaw he kept one eye on the twisting, winding, tree lined road, and used the other one for the Arctic Snow. Tilting it up against his lips he drew the vodka down his gullet, held it there, and then in anticipation of what was to come, girded his head and swallowed.

Fire descended into Chief Brody’s throat and stomach and soul and burned for seconds of an eternity. As his eyes watered and his throat started seizing, he waved his right hand frantically, gesturing for something. Understanding completely, Bobby handed him a can of Orangina soda. Exchanging the can for the bottle, Brody slammed down the entire contents of the Orangina soda can. As the liquid flooded his throat, coated his stomach, Brody felt the vodka volcano settle back down into itself and he now felt it safe to yell, “Woo!”

And Bobby Shaw got his fist bump.

“Suck it Wuss-con-sin!” yelled Bobby.

His eye watering, Brody flung the driver’s wheel to the left, avoiding the six foot ditch on his right. Over correcting himself, he slung the wheel back to the right and then just as quickly had to bring it back around to the left. This did wonders for the cheap vodka in his stomach. “Uff da!” he cried, the battle cry of a sad state.

“Okay, well we gots our Arctic Snow, but we ain’t got no beers Bobby! What are we gonna do about that?” asked Hooper, who was leaning up against the back of the front seat, like a little kid. He had on his ‘sailor’s cap’ and had not shaved for two weeks in anticipation of this fishing trip. He wanted to look like a real fisherman.

“We still got right beers guys,” said Bobby, “and that jerk in the Safe Haven said he was gonna let these guys at the bait shop he sent us to know that we’re coming. He’ll probably tell them to put some champagne on ice for us too bro’!” Saying this, Bobby slapped the seat next to him and laughed hysterically.

“Champagne on ice!” Hooper joined in, laughing too.

“Champagne on ice Wuss-con-sin!” shouted Chief Brody, his arms slinging the driver’s wheel left and right and now left again. He tried to calm the yellow and purple truck they called “The Viking” down a little as Hooper and Bobby Shaw took turns swigging the abominable Arctic Snow vodka down their gullets. His stomach now feeling either settled or anesthetized from the 80 proof alcohol, Chief Brody called out, “Gimme a snuff!”

“That’s a big ten four Chief,” answered Hooper from the back. He swiftly dug the round tin of chewing tobacco out of his back pocket, where years of tin holding, had left a worn ring–a mark of masculinity as far as these men were concerned. Hooper opened it and took a sizable wad out for himself and stuck it in between his cheek and gum.

Now Brody exchanged the empty Orangina soda can for the tin of chewing tobacco. Hooper, a model of recycling efficiency, used the bright orange can as a spittoon, his brown tobacco juices sloshing down against the Orangina aluminum.

Setting the opened tin on his lap, Brody swiftly looked down, his left hand still spinning the driver’s wheel back and forth, trying to keep up with the tree lined curves of the Wisconsin lake country back roads, made a pinch with his right hand and dug out his own healthy quantity of chaw. Looking back up from the tin, with Bobby Shaw nearly screaming in panic, Chief Brody spun the driver’s wheel in just the right direction at just the last moment and was able to avoid tumbling the purple and yellow truck they call “The Viking” into a thirty foot ditch abutting a grazing pasture which had suddenly materialized out of nowhere (this being Wisconsin). As the vehicle veered sharply back into the center of the road and headed back into the safety of the woods surrounding the lakes, Brody plunged the tobacco down under his lip and the three Minnesotans roared, “Suck it Wuss-con-sin!”

“Gimme another pull of that Arctic Snow Bobby,” said the Chief. “I wanna make sure I get enough just in case there ain’t no beer at the bait shop we’re supposedly finding out here in the boonies!”

One to always follow orders, Bobby Shaw gave the Chief the bottle. The Chief took another impressive pull of the vodka gasoline and slunk it down his throat. Waving his hand frantically once more, his left hand veering this way and that with the steering wheel, Chief Brody stuck the vodka bottle into the waiting palm of Bobby Shaw and then all but snatched the Orangina can out of the hand of Hooper’s. Taking a big gulp from the can, the chief sensed, in slow motion, too late to stop, something was not…quite…right. As his mouth and tongue and throat and taste buds relayed the information to his brain, Chief Brody’s eyes left the road and scanned down at the tobacco spit strewn upon the edges, top, and insides of the Orangina can and realized this was what was in his mouth, on his lips, entering his stomach! He could vaguely hear Hooper and Bobby Shaw taking turns both yelling and laughing as the Chief swallowed a very healthy portion of Hooper’s chew spit.

The reaction of the actual Orangina soda, the Arctic Snow vodka, and the tobacco spit was not as surprising as it was sudden.

A great eruption of bright orange and dark brown slosh came forth from the Chief’s mouth. A second stream came shooting out his nostrils. His eyes shut reflexively as he vomited, his hands clenching the steering wheel in a frenzy, the Chief frothily gurgled out protestations and swear words as Hooper and Bobby screamed realizing the unbelievably hilarious sequence of events was quickly turning incredibly dangerous.

With all three men shouting, and with Chief Brody’s stomach still pumping out spurt after spurt of money shot vomit, Hooper reached over the seat grabbing for the wheel, Bobby Shaw’s left foot searched in mad panic for the brake, and with a dynamic lurch the yellow and purple truck they call “The Viking,” came to a wheeling stop. Each man slammed up against something, this one a seat, this one a glove compartment and the Viking ship’s engine died.

Moments passed in an eternity, silence broken by the night.

“How many times have I told you Hooper? If you’re gonna chew tobacco, you need to learn how to swallow!” yelled the Chief. But suddenly, Bobby Shaw was laughing his stuttering laugh. “What’s so funny Bobby?” asked the Chief, covered in brown and orange and vodka and soda and Hooper’s saliva.

“It’s just, it’s just…” And Bobby could barely speak from laughing so hard. “It’s just I always heard Hooper was real good at….(and he laughed the hardest now) swallowing!”

Despite themselves, Hooper and the Chief started laughing now too, homophobes all. Turning the key to the truck, the Chief was relieved to hear the engine pop on. They started moving again, a little bit slower now, the Chief’s arms sticky with spit and vomit, clinging to his sides, his hands clinging to the wheel.

Driving in silence and making their way down one final turn, the men found themselves somewhat magically in something like a town. There were some houses lined in what you could call a row, a softball field (which was impossibly immaculate!) and a lake to their right, the northwest, furthermost point of…Siren Lake!

“Hey wait!” yelled Bobby Shaw, pointing behind them. “I think I see a light on back there–back at that place that looked like an old drive-in restaurant!”

Craning his head around, Bobby said, “I see it too! It’s the bait shop! And its beer sign is lit up!” he shouted with the joy of the forgiven sinner.

Whipping the truck around, Brody pulled along side of it. The three men peered into the shop, which, as far as they could tell, had some, but not all of its lights on. But it was true, one neon light said “Open” and the other said “Cold Beer Here!” Really, for the three men from Minnesota, nothing else mattered.

In silence they stared at this oasis of hope, this bastion of bait and beer, their mouths agape. When suddenly a finger the size of a kielbasa tapped the half rolled down window of the orange and brown Chief, scaring them all.

A man was standing there, hitting his finger hard against the glass, right where the Chief’s face was. The man stared at the Chief, stared at him with lifeless, black, doll’s eyes. In his other hand, he was holding the butt of the rifle which was shouldered on his right side. Wearing the straw hat of a country boy, his skin was unbelievably white, the color of the moon on the horizon. His black eyes were matched by his black brows, his black bangs, his black fingernails. His silvery white skin was matched by…silvery white teeth. Displaying them, he grunted, “What you mud ducks want?”

The man patted his rifle, bade them to mind their response. And when no response was forthcoming, he pointed the gun at the chief’s head and cocked it. “Said, ‘What you mud ducks want!’”

“Whoah. Whoah. Whoah,” said the Chief, coolly. He held up both his hands, gesticulating with panic, “I’m a policeman!” he yelped, peeing himself a little. “I’m a policeman, a policeman, I’m the chief of police of Coon Rapids, Minnesota!” he spewed, peeing himself more.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah mister!” both Hooper and Bobby Shaw protested. “He’s the chief! He’s the chief! The chief! The chief!”

“Is that right?” said the man, still pointing the gun at the chief’s head. “Well he looks like a bright orange and dark brown piece of fishing bait if you ask me…mud ducks. And you smell like a cross between tobacco, puke, and moonshine,” said the man.

“What’d you say Bruce?” called a voice from inside the shop.

“Said this fella smells like yo’ momma,’” said Bruce White. This made no sense, for they shared the same mother. “Get out,” said Bruce White, motioning his gun. The three men, sweating vodka, did as told.

And, the fish caught, now became the bait.

 

NEXT: YOU AND ME GOING FISHIN’ IN THE DARK!     (I am hilarious!)