The Fisherman
by Brian Rosenberger

In the town of Winterhaven, fishing was a way of life. The first word out of an infant’s mouth was more likely to be bass instead of mama. Most children learned how to bait a hook before they were taught how to tie their shoes. Men spoke not of who would win the Superbowl or the World Series, but of who would win the Bass Master Classic and walk off with the coveted Angler of the Year award. In this town where Bill Dance was regarded as a Saint and the local reverend spoke more of Jonah than Jesus in his sermons, Silas McGee was a fisherman among fisherman. And that’s what caused Lester Wilkes to break more rods and junk more reels than any five men in history.

Lester was a damn good fisherman. He could coax the fish to bite when the other anglers had already left for home. He could seduce them with little more than spit and a paper clip. He was good.

Silas was a legend. And he looked it too. He had more wrinkles than Ronald Reagan’s neck and walked in such a manner one would think he had given birth to a trolling motor recently. His beard didn’t help. It reached to his navel and was the color of a well-used doormat. Sometimes there was even a reminder of Silas’s last meal tangled up in the curls. Ancient as he was, he could be seen everyday with his gallon of shine, his rods and his can of bait fishing to his heart’s content. When the day was done, he left with his jug empty and his stringer full.

Lester had an unhealthy distrust and dislike for Silas. Distrust because Lester distrusted anything older than he was, even though he was almost 27 himself. Lester still partied as hard as did when he was in high school, before they kicked him out. But in a small town like Winterhaven, there wasn’t much else to do. Dislike because Silas was a better fisherman. Not that Lester would ever admit to it. And there was another reason too.

As a little minnow, Lester had caught Silas with his dirty overalls around his ankles, masturbating with a fish. Lester was about 13 and was no stranger to masturbation. He milked the dolphin on almost a daily basis himself. But to see this old hillbilly with a fish on his dick saying, "Bite it, bite it." with his eyes rolled back in his head was something else all together. When Silas realized he was being watched he turned to Lester and said, "Maybe you’d like to give your mouth a try, boy?" Lester lit out of there like a fart from a fat man’s ass.

As an adult Lester had pretty much avoided him except for a few encounters at the bait shop or one of the local bars. Not that Lester complained. Silas always smelled like he had just stepped in dog shit and had made it a point that both shoes got equal amounts. Hygiene was not a priority. Not that it was a high priority with Lester either. If some lady was kind enough, dumb enough, or drunk enough to spread her legs on Lester’s face, he wouldn’t wash for days instead letting the smell sit on his mustache so he could savor his conquest long after the encounter was over.

Lester usually got to see Silas’s mug in the Winterhaven’s Gazette, in its Catch of the Week feature. That damn goon face every week. He was surprised no one complained to the editor. Even if there was someone reported missing, which happened surprisingly often, or someone had gotten caught desecrating one of the two local graveyards, or someone found a ten-inch mushroom, Silas and his lunatic grin always took center stage. Always. And there’s no way in hell that increased sales, Lester swore.

Lester remembered last summer, when he had nailed a fifteen-pound large mouth. Damned if he wasn’t excited. He figured on being a lock for the Catch of the Week. No telling what kind of pussy he’d get being a celebrity. Damned if he didn’t imagine it, signing tits with his tongue. He brought the fish in and the first thing the photographer said was "That's the biggest fish I've seen all week except for the one Silas brought in this morning. Now that was a whopper!" Lester shook his head, muttered something about carp fucker and smacked the photographer in the head with the bass. It was enough to make a man take up knitting.

The last time their paths had crossed had been two weeks ago. Lester had taken the boat out, hoping to try a few holes to prepare for the upcoming walleye tournament. He had hoped to try a different kind of hole the night before without any luck and was hungover as hell. The lake was anything but calm, causing Lester to heave his morning breakfast of Doritos, cold pizza, and the remainder of last night's beer into the water before he hit the first cove. And who should be there, but Silas with his 5.99 orange lifejacket and that rusted piece of shit he called a boat.

Lester steered well clear of the old man and started casting. To pass the time, he thought about all the pussy he didn't get last night. That started him thinking about all the beaver he hadn't tongued, fingered and out-and-out fucked over the years, which was a lot. Getting depressed, he imagined Silas was a modern day Noah but instead of gathering animals, he collected turds. Big turds, small turds, corn filled, stinky feces of all imaginable geometric shapes. He imagined Silas's boat full of shit and still seeking more poop. Even when the boat begins sinking, his quest for dung continued. Each turd sinks the boat a little more. Finally Silas notices and panics. There's too
much shit. Lester imagined himself sliding his boat up against Silas's, yanking his pants down and taking the crap of a lifetime, a gorilla shit, we're talking poop measured in pounds, right on to the steamy mound that is Silas's boat, sending that fish sodomizing bastard into whatever watery hell would have him.

Splashing woke Lester from his daydream. Maybe Silas's damn boat had sprung a
leak. No such luck. Silas had caught another fish, about his seventh in the last hour. He put it on the stringer, took another hit from his jug, scratched his crotch, and rebaited the hook. Lester, using a big fat night crawler, had caught nothing except for five pounds of moss and a cold.

Super pissed, Leather yelled out, "Whatcha using for bait, Silas?"

Silas lowered the jug, sneered, and replied, "Taint none of your damn business, boy.'

With that, the fisherman reeled in his line, gunned the mercury outboard and took off across the lake, muttering as he went. After landing three more pounds of moss and the remains of a tennis shoe, Lester returned to town to see if he could find out where the damned fish were biting and what on. He was greeted with the best news of the day.

Apparently, Jerome Hickey had finally gotten tired of his fat wife and his six fat kids and left them. No one had seen or heard from Jerome in the past ten days. Of course, he was known to go on a bender every now and then. Marriage and kids will do that to a person. But those usually only lasted two days, three tops.

Lester thought Jerome was about as useful as a bleeding hemorrhoid. He was the type of guy who would smell his fingers after wiping his ass. Lester had knocked his front teeth out a few years ago in a heated argument over which color of Roostertail, white or yellow, was more effective for trout. Lester hadn't finished there either. He had fucked Jerome's 22-year-old wife Martha too. On more than on occasion. Lester had a preference for younger women, the sweet meat. Meat was the word for Martha, all 240 pounds of her. For a cow, she sure did have a tight pussy. She had a little Hitler Mustache on her snatch. Lester always gave her a Sieg Heil salute when she dropped her drawers. And could she suck peter. With such force, it would make your asshole pucker. Lester would have to go over and comfort her when he had time.

Jerome had been one of the odds on favorite to win the walleye tournament and the five hundred dollars that went along with it. With him out of the picture, Lester was thinking of ways to spend the prize money. Maybe treat Martha to a meal at Big Don's All Barbecue Buffet. That should be worth at least a couple of hummers.

Days passed. There was still no sign of Jerome. With the tournament a few days away, Lester was talking to P.J., his best friend and beer-drinking buddy. The first time they had met in grade school, P.J. was charging people a dollar to smell his finger. There was quite a line. P.J. said he had fingered Rosie Lee Marshall, every male fifth grader's jerk off fantasy, at last night's school carnival and had yet to wash his hand. Lester was skeptical but stink was still stink. Opportunities like this didn't arrive every day. Sure enough, there was a distinctive odor. A few months later in detention hall, P.J. revealed that he had stuck his finger in a can of tuna before arriving at school. He had cleared almost thirty bucks.

They were at P.J.'s combo junkyard and used car lot plenty drunk, and talking about the usual, fishing, fucking, and fighting, when Lester mentioned his meeting on the lake with Silas.

"Don't surprise me none. That Lester is a sneaky bastard" said P.J.

"Nobody knows what the senile goat uses for bait, but it sure 'n hell works. Ain't never seen nobody as good as old Silas."

"Yeah, for a man who looks as if he's older than Methuselah he sure as hell has brought in some biggin's. Surprised he ain't had a stroke yet, bringing some of them in," replied Lester.

"That Silas, he's a living breakfast. Flakes, fruits, and nuts all in one bowl." snickered P.J.

At that both men broke out laughing. Wiping tears from his eyes, P.J. said, "Yeah I sure as hell wish I knew what the old geezer was using for bait."

"So do I," agreed Lester, his face mapped with questions.

Later that evening, after being rejected by Martha, the blond clerk at the gas station, and two teenagers walking home and after doing a few more beers and the five knuckle shuffle while watching an episode of Baywatch, Lester decided to find out.

Camouflaged by the night, Lester drove his pick-up to Silas' shack in the woods. Not wanting to take any chances, he parked a ways off and staggered the rest of the way, stopping to answer nature's call once as he went.

Silas wasn't poor, but you couldn't tell that by how he lived. His home was a log cabin that looked more like a log pile. In his yard were the remains of five cars that looked as if someone had been at them at them with a sledgehammer more than once. An outhouse stood near the shack. Judging from the sounds coming from within, the king is on his throne, thought Lester. With that bit of information and drunk on courage and cheap beer, he headed for the shack. The door already opened, he entered.

Inside he saw a couch that had seen better days, what resembled a chair that had seen much better days and a broken television with an axe firmly embedded in the screen that would never see the light of day again. Trophies of fish decorated the walls. Bass, catfish, walleye, bluegill, the place looked like a mounted aquarium. The place smelled of moonshine, fish, urine, and something Lester couldn't quite place.

He moved into what passed for the kitchen. More fish decorated the walls. On the stove were some fresh bluegill and another type of meat. His stomach growling, Lester sampled it. The fish was delicious and the meat even better. Kind of like chicken but sweeter. Was that a fucking hair sticking out of that piece? It was. More than one. Didn't affect the taste though.

Lester opened the refrigerator and found it empty, except for what looked like potato salad gone bad, a jar of pickles and some baloney. He wondered what Silas did with all of his catch. Surely it had to be here somewhere. Worrying that Silas would return, he moved to the window to check on the aging Angler and tripped on something. He looked down and saw the entrance to the cellar.

Descending, Lester looked around and saw poles, reels, and tackle boxes galore. On a small worktable, among the knives, saws, and hammers were lures by the hundreds, poppers, jigs, spoons, spinners, crankbaits, and buzzbaits. Odd the lures looked as if they had not been used in quite some time. Rust covered the once glistening hooks. Pondering this, Lester saw an icebox in the corner of the cellar.

"So that's where the old man keeps his catch. He wouldn't mind if I borrowed some, would he. No sir, "Lester said, answering his own question.

Lester opened the freezer, inside among the packs of frozen fish and the other meats were what remained of Jerome Hickey. His left arm was filleted to the bone. His right hand was missing three fingers.

Bile rising, Lester turned to puke. He looked into the worm eaten, maggot infested face of Wally "Whiskers" Malone who had disappeared for months earlier. Scanning the room he saw bones and parts and pieces that caused him to vomit and soil his pants at the same time. Screaming "Oh God, he can't, he can't!", Lester rushed upstairs and into Silas' murderous glare.

Instead of holding his jug or fishing pole, Silas was holding an axe. So ya done gone and discovered my secret, did ya. Too bad, ya won't live to tell anyone. Usually, I like to use eight-pound Trilene monofilament to choke 'em. Sneak up all quiet like and snap. Just like crappie on a jig. But for sneaky mothafuckers like you, Betsy will do."

With the grace of a fly fisherman trying to catch a stubborn trout, Silas lifted the axe, lunged forward and fell down, gasping for breath.

Clutching his chest, Silas looked up into Lester's saucer wide eyes and whispered, "Shiiiit." That was the chance Lester needed. He kicked the fallen fisherman in the head once, twice, three times because it felt so good.

Lester, quickly regaining his composure, left as fast as his drunk ass legs could carry him. Lester reported his findings to the sheriff who wrote him up on a public intoxication charge and put his ass in jail. The following morning, a hung over as hell Lester explained what had happened. Skeptical at first, the sheriff agreed to check things out. An investigation was conducted. The coroner concluded that Silas really could've used a bath and that he died of heart failure. Four corpses, sixteen skeletons, and an assortment of parts were found on Silas' s property.

In wake of the grisly findings, Winterhaven's tourist population flourished. P.J. sold authentic fishhooks from the insane killer very own tackle box made of human flesh. At least, he said they were authentic. Needless to say, he made a killing.

Widow Martha and her fatherless children became media darlings. In fact, Roseanne was rumored to play Martha in the TV movie of the week. The walleye tournament was postponed and Silas made the front page for the last time. For once, Lester stole the spotlight from the old man. But, after all, everybody loves a hero. Although his sex life didn't improve much, Lester did receive a free Roland Martin signature series rod and reel courtesy of the local bait and tackle store, a free membership to B.A.S.S. (Bass Angler Sportsman Society), ten spin-n-glow triple teasers and a photo from Baywatch. It was addressed to "Our Hero" and signed by the cast. It even had some nipple shots.

Lester graced the cover of the Winterhaven Gazette several more times that year for winning four fishing tournaments and for breaking two state fishing records. A lot of people commented on the pictures, saying he looked fat. Lester shrugged it off, saying the camera always adds at least fifteen pounds. He didn't care. He was famous. In fact, his breaking the state record for striped bass even eclipsed the disappearance of little Amanda Southern and little Ricky Jameson for the headline in that week's paper.

© Brian Rosenberger

January 2000 HofP