by Les Claypool
With tears in his eyes, Ed clutched his stomach, laughing. “I can’t breathe!”
“Damn, Ed, don’t shit yourself,” piped Donny.
“Oh my God! My stomach hurts,” blurted Ed, still laughing uncontrollably. Both Don and Earl watched Ed as he rolled around in his chair holding his gut. Both men were amused but a bit baffled.
“Jesus, Don, you sure got him,” observed Earl.
“Yeah, nutty bastard is losin’ it,” said Donny warily. “Come on, Ed, now you’re just makin’ yourself look silly.”
“Sorry,” Ed replied, trying his best to regain his composure. He realized that he was caught in the middle of a hallucinogenic laughing fit.
“Jesus. Have another damn beer.”
Ed pulled himself together, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Oh, man. That was good.”
“Anybody up for some grub?” Earl chimed, pulling himself to his feet. He slapped Ed on the knee. “Sandwich?”
“No triangles for me,” responded Ed, followed by another short burst of laughter.
Earl headed toward the bow of the boat. “Okey-doke. Donny, anything for you there, bud?”
“Yeah, bud, grab me a couple of them sandwiches I brung. Grab some for yourself too. She made up a shitload of food.” Donny leaned over to Ed, who was laughing again, to confide, “Better than that store-bought shit.”
Ed laughed even harder.
“Damn, Ed,” Donny announced in disbelief, “I want whatever you’re on.”
“Yeah?” Ed asked, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his big bag of mushrooms. He waved them in front of Donny, giggling.
“Why, you son of a bitch. I knew you was on somethin’.”
“Want some?”
“Shee-it. I don’t know. I ain’t done that shit since high school.”
“These are good ones,” taunted Ed, digging into the mushroom bag.
Meanwhile, Earl opened the cooler at the bow. Bending over, he removed Donny’s big brown sack from the chest and then reached in, pulling out a large Ziploc bag. Earl slowly stood up straight, examining the bag’s contents. He felt a cold tingle run from his outer ribcage to the back of his neck as he stared at several small sandwiches dangling inside. The sandwiches were shaped like cookie-cutter fish with sliced black-olive bits for eyes. Earl pulled a sandwich from the bag and examined it more closely. He heard a buzzing sound, like grasshoppers in summer heat, whirring in his head. A slight tinge of nausea swept over him, and everything in his vision took on a shade of dizzying red. He looked at the sandwich again and then back toward Donny, whose laughter was echoing in his ears. Earl began to vibrate physically. He crushed the sandwich in his hand, dropping it to the deck. He turned abruptly and grabbed the club-handled gaff from the side compartment that ran the length of the cockpit.
Still laughing, Donny held his hand forward and Ed filled his palm with mushrooms. A big grin on his face, Donny looked back at Earl, who had raised his right arm, gaff in hand, into the air. Earl swung downward, catching Donny with a hollow thump across his left temple. Startled, Ed fell back out of the way as Donny collapsed on his cheek to the gunwale of the boat. Earl swung again, striking the back of Donny’s head, blood spurting from his mouth onto the white plastic gel coat just below the rail.
THOCK!
The hollow sound echoed through Ed’s entire body as he watched his brother swing away in a furious but strangely methodical rage.
THOCK!
The hollow sound resonated again, and blood flew through the air, landing on Ed’s arm. He glanced down at the deep color of the blood, watching it sink into his shirt sleeve, then dropped the bag of mushrooms and muttered, “Whoa.” He watched the scene unfold in hazy slow motion, trying to grasp what was happening.
THOCK!
The quick blow resounded like a tennis ball ricocheting off a watermelon, turning the white of Donny’s left eye blood-red.
THOCK!
More and more blood flowed from Donny’s mouth.
“Whoa, Earl,” Ed moaned.
Finally, Earl stopped, looked at Ed and at the club in his hand, and then wiped a clump of fleshy hair off with his foot. He gazed down at Donny, who was slumped over in his chair with his face still pressed against the gunwale of the boat, his hair matted with blood.
“Motherfucker!” shouted Earl, burying the pointed end of the gaff between Donny’s shoulder blades and knocking his body to the floor.
Ed stared down at Donny and then back up at his brother, who seemed remarkably calm. The sudden burst of adrenalin clearing his head, Ed screamed in desperation, “Earl? What the fuck?”
Earl reached forward, grabbed the sandwich baggy, dropped it in Ed’s lap, and muttered once again toward Donny, “Motherfucker.”
Ed fumbled the bag open, peered at the sandwiches, and then whispered: “Tiny tunas?” Suddenly realizing the implication of it all, he groaned, “Fuck. Fuuuuck, man.”
The brothers remained fixed in their respective positions: Earl standing with his hands at his sides, looking out across the horizon; Ed sitting motionless, still uncertain if this was reality or just another phase in his mushroom delusion.
“Ed, your pole!!” Earl exclaimed, interrupting the silence, pointing toward the fishing rod, which was bouncing erratically and nearly flying out the back of the boat. Ed reached awkwardly for the pole, but Earl grabbed it first, straining over the top of the seat as he pulled back and set hook. The pole doubled over and the line peeled off the reel with a ZZZZZING! Suddenly, a massive sturgeon leapt straight out of the water about thirty yards from the stern, smashing back down with such a force that the wake lurched the boat from side to side.
“Holy shit!” yelled Ed, as the line continued to strip from the reel with ferocity.
“He’s gonna jump again!” hollered Earl. Sure enough, the fish breached, dropping back to the water with a deep slap.
“Jeez Louise!! You see the size of it. Don’t give him no slack!”
“Fuck yeah! You beautiful big-ass son of a bitch!” Earl shouted exuberantly. “Get the video camera, bro.” Earl stood, pole doubled over and line peeling away. After a scurried search, Ed emerged with a big Sony VHS camera and started taping.
“Yeee-haaaw!!!” shouted Earl, pumping back hard on the pole and then reeling in as he lowered the tip.
“Work him, bro,” urged Ed from behind the camera.
All at once, the line went slack. “Aw, fuck!” blurted Earl, reeling faster and faster. “Aw, fuck!”
“What? You lose him?!”
“Naw, he’s headin’ straight for us,” said Earl, reeling rapidly to take up the slack. The line went taut again as the pole bent and pointed down, running along the side of the boat. “Shit, he’s headed toward the bow. Unhook the anchor, bro!”
“What?” asked Ed, looking up from the video camera.
“See that float there?” Earl pointed toward the bow.
“Unhook the anchor line from that cleat.” He continued to direct as Ed leapt up into the bow, grabbing for the rope. “Now throw out the float.”
Ed grabbed a handful of rope and the float and then hurled it all out into the water. He then jumped back and grabbed the camera to continue documenting the battle. The fish had moved under the boat and was now off the starboard side, running full steam and taking more and more line as it leapt again out of the water with a monstrous eruption.
“That son of a bitch is huge!” exclaimed Ed, looking back through the camera.
“Shoot ’em good, bro. No one’ll believe this!” said Earl with the same exuberance that Ed remembered fondly from their youth.
Ed watched his brother through the gray window of the old video camera, glancing up occasionally to see the action in living color. He marveled at the intensity of the fight. Earl was a true artist with a spinning rig. He knew to hold the rod tip high as the fish ran away from the boat, and was adept at dipping the pole deep to avoid tangling in the out-drive when it dove under the stern.
“Hey, Earl! Whatcha got going there, bud?” Red’s voice came suddenly over the radio. Even from a distance, he could tell that something was up because Earl had let the anchor loose, allowing the boat to drift freely. The anchor was never let loose unless it was an absolute necessity.
“Ed, grab that mike!” ordered Earl.
Ed reached for the radio and pulled the microphone up to Earl, who snatched it with his left hand.
“I got me a big, bad mama-jama here, Red!”
“Yeah? You need a hand?”
“I’ll let ya know,” chirped Earl, throwing down the mike just as the mighty sturgeon broke the surface again. “EEEE-haw!!” he roared. “C’mon, baby, come to Pappy. Atta boy!”
Ed remembered the time years earlier when Ivan, a neighbor and school teacher who sometimes went fishing with the boys and their father, locked into a big diamondback off the Sisters Islands. Being mostly a trout fisherman and inexperienced with the world of sturgeon, Ivan had fumbled a bit at first but eventually landed the sixty-five-pounder after a forty-five-minute battle that left his right arm numb. Had someone like Ivan hooked into a beast like the one that Earl was now battling, the likelihood of a successful land would have been slim to none. Earl, on the other hand, had been preparing most of his adult life for just this opportunity. He did not attempt to horse the fish but guided it instead, like a plowman with an ox, toward their small vessel. He knew just the right amount of line to let it take and when and how much tension to apply with the drag.
Though his sight was handicapped by the viewfinder of Earl’s somewhat out-of-date video camera, Ed could see a glow of excitement coming off his brother’s face that he had not seen in many years. This was his dream fish.
They battled nearly forty minutes. Although he knew it was unlikely that the sturgeon had exhausted itself completely, Earl didn’t want to take chance of the fish making a long run and him missing an opportunity for a still photo.
“Ed, grab that snare. We’ll pull ’em up alongside and get some good pictures.”
Ed headed to the bow, dropped the video camera, and grabbed the snare out of the side pocket. Looking up, he saw Red’s boat approaching and smiled. He waved the snare toward them, and then turned and noticed the bloody lump of Donny’s body crumpled near the transom. The chill came suddenly.
“Earl! Earl! Cut the line!” shouted Ed. When Earl did not respond, Ed repeated, even louder: “Cut the line! Red’s coming!”
“Yeah, so?”
“Donny!” exclaimed Ed in a harsh, violent whisper.
Earl’s face dropped. He looked at Donny and then stared blankly out at the water where the line from his pole sliced into the murk. It was a long stare.
“Earl!” urged Ed.
Slowly but deliberately, Earl reached toward his belt, grabbed his folding Buck knife, and bent down, cutting the line. Meanwhile, Ed threw his and Earl’s jackets over Donny’s body. The pole went limp. Earl stood silent, staring out toward the horizon as Red’s boat approached. Red throttled down and his bow settled into the water, pushing spray forward with a forceful rush.
“What happened?” hollered Red from about thirty yards off.
Holding his pole in his right hand and raising his left, Earl shrugged his shoulders and responded disconsolately, “Line broke.”
“Asshole, you had your drag too tight. I’ll bet you a hundred, if I bet you a dollar.” Red always had a way with words.
“Maybe,” replied Earl, setting down his rod.
“Damn. I seen him splash. What was it, ’bout sixty pounds?”
“Shee-it! Six hundred pounds, more like it!” Earl barked in defense. “That was the biggest fish I’ve ever seen.”
Red laughed, knowing he’d hit Earl’s button. “Yeah, right. Hey, I thought Donny was going with you today?”
Earl paused, once again shifting his thoughts from the fish to the problem at hand. He responded flatly, “Naw. Ain’t seen him all week.”
“He’s probably buried himself in some snatch.” Red and his fishing buddy both laughed.
“Hey, you remember my brother, don’t ya, Red?” Earl said, pointing to Ed.
“Why, hell yes!” beamed Red. “How you doing there, Eddy? Damn, I ain’t seen you in years. Look at you!”
“Hey, Red, good to see you again.”
“Yes sir, hell, seems like yesterday both you guys were just kids. Shit, I think last time I saw you, Ed, you were puking over the side of Vern Castor’s boat while we were chasing salmon off Duxbury Reef,” Red cackled, and then continued in a stoic voice: “Hey, damn sorry about your pa. He was a good man. Damn good man.”
“Thanks, Red,” said Ed. “That’s good of you to say.” He looked down at the mound on the deck, reckoning whether or not Red and his companion could see anything from that distance and angle. Fortunately, Red had approached them on the port side, which meant that Donny was well hidden by the side gunwale.
After a quiet moment between the boats, Red announced, “Well, we ain’t got shit around here all day. We’re heading up the channel markers. Maybe scare up a striper or two if we can’t get a sturgeon.”
“Yep, that’s probably as good a place as any,” agreed Earl.
“You gonna run up there?” asked Red.
“Naw, we’ll stick it out here,” said Earl, glancing down toward the pile of jackets that covered the body of his best friend.
“Well, give ’em hell. Hey, maybe you’ll get ahold of another one of them 600-pounders.” Red and his buddy laughed again, and then he added, “Shit, maybe you’ll catch a couple!”
Still cackling away, Red throttled up. He waved in a comical manner that resembled a half-assed salute. The boat leapt up out of the hole and onto a plane. The two brothers watched as Red’s boat thundered off into the distance.
Chapter 26
DEEP SHIT
Earl powered up his boat and headed back toward the Pumphouse to retrieve the anchor they had abandoned at the onset of the sturgeon battle. After locating the float and pulling up the anchor line, the two brothers tied off and sat down in the back of the boat. They stared blankly at the crumpled pile in the corner. Ed spoke first.
“Bro, we’re in some deep shit here. I mean DEEP SHIT!”
Earl remained silent, continuing to stare at Donny’s covered body, until the words finally began to well out of him, uncontrollably. “Fuck that asshole. I can’t believe that son of a bitch. You heard him. Braggin’. And Denise, that cunt, that slut bitch!” He paused after his initial outburst and then added flatly, “Motherfucker made me lose my fish.”
“What are you talking about, Earl? You think him and Denise—?”
“Are you kiddin’ me?!” Earl cut him off. “You seen ’em.”
Ed looked confused.
“The tiny tunas!” Earl bellowed.
“The tiny tunas? You think because he had some sandwiches shaped like fish, that means he was assfucking your old lady last night?”
Earl’s mind began to race as he recalled the things Donny had said. He was growing more and more angry. “YES!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Yes, I do! That MOTHERFUCKER!”
Earl lunged forward and jerked a beer out of the ice chest, slamming the lid shut. He cracked the beer and chugged it down. Ed watched him, still trying to get a grip on the reality of the situation. He felt the chill of panic rushing down the back of his neck, but he tried his best to pull himself together, realizing that this was not the place or the time for panic.
“Let me see if I understand what just happened here, bro,” Ed reasoned further. “You just realized that Don has been fucking around with Denise, so you smashed his head with the side of the gaff there?” He pointed toward the club-gaff that was still embedded between Donny’s shoulder blades.
Earl said nothing. He continued to stare forward, wincing when Ed mentioned Denise.
“Then we hooked into the biggest sturgeon that either one of us has ever seen. Right?”
Earl remained silent.
>
“I mean, that was one big-ass fish, right? I didn’t imagine that shit, right? That fucker was HUGE!”
Earl looked around the boat and saw the mushrooms spilled all around the deck. He turned back to Ed.
“That was a big-ass fucking fish,” Ed insisted with a nervous laugh.
“You gonna help me out here, aren’t ya, bro?” asked Earl.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what I mean, bro.” Earl pointed toward Donny’s body.
“Fuuck …” Ed muttered, his expression changing as he looked down at Donny.
“You gonna help me out, bro?” Earl repeated.
“Oh man, this is bad.” Ed could feel the panic rising again.
Sensing his brother’s reaction, Earl put his hand on Ed’s shoulder and calmly yet sternly addressed him: “Ed, by the looks of ya, I’m gonna assume you ate some of them mushrooms I see scattered round the deck. Now I know that you’re probably a bit out there right now, but I need to know if you’re gonna help me here.”
Ed looked his brother in the eye and pulled himself together to the best of his ability. “I’ll help you, bro. I’ll tell them you were out of your mind. You flipped out. I can attest to that.”
“You don’t have to attest to anything, Ed,” Earl stated.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d rather not go to jail, bro,” Earl said, staring Ed in the eye. “I say let’s dump this mess over the side and play it cool.”
Ed was baffled by his brother’s response. “Oh man, I don’t know, Earl. We’re talking about murder one here. You turn yourself in and it’s manslaughter at worst. We dump a body and that’s big-time hardball, bro.”
“C’mon, Ed, look,” Earl responded. “We already got Red to say Donny wasn’t on the boat. We dump him in the bay and no one’s the wiser.” He stopped and leaned in closely toward his brother. “We’re talkin’ about Don Vowdy. Nobody’ll miss him. He has no family to speak of. I was his only regular friend. People will think he disappeared, ran off. Or better yet, they’ll think he got taken out in some shady crank deal. You should see some of the pieces of shit he hangs out with. Scary fuckers. Hell, he got stabbed in the belly last Christmas cuz he stole this guy’s CD player for some crank.”