Dead Bait

by Romana Baotic (ed. )

  They followed the narrow path along the river bank, with Bobby in the lead. He crashed through the underbrush like a buck chasing a doe in heat. The goat let out a series of shrill yelps.

  “Hell’s fire!”

  “What?”

  Bobby pointed to a large suck hole along the river’s edge. The goat was sunk in mud and water up to its chin. Long strands of river moss clung to its head and ears.

  Bobby flopped on his ass and skidded down the gravel bank to the water’s edge. “We gotta’ get her outa’ there!”

  The murky water around the goat churned and bubbled. She bleated and kicked silt and roots in a wide arc above her head. The suck hole rolled like a pot of soup on a slow boil.

  Bobby and Taiter waded out to the goat, avoiding its back legs. Shaggy circled around to the front of the suck hole and uncoiled the rope. “Tain’t gonna be no problem Bobby. All’s we gotta’ do is get this rope round her neck and ease her right up outa’ there, slick as snot.”

  They closed in on the goat. The water in the suck hole became more violent as the goat’s breathing turned to shallow gasps and pants. Its head lurched forward, then popped back up. As Taiter eased the rope around her neck, a fat slimy gill broke free of the water and sliced into his forearm, then disappeared under the muddy surface. Taiter rolled backwards in the river. The rope and the goat were gone.

  “Damned nation Shaggy! You see that ugly bastard?”

  “I did for a fact! It took that goat down like it was a minnow!”

  Taiter rose from the water, his eyes wide and wild. Blood trickled from the gash in his arm. “That damned shore ain’t no ordinary flathead! That sumbitch had to be two-hundred

  pounds if it was an ounce!”

  The flathead rolled to the surface, its mouth full of bloody bellowing goat. It circled slowly while tightening its grip. Muffled goat noises leaked from its toothy yellow mouth and echoed down river. Its rubbery brown head thrust back, forcing the helpless goat deeper down its throat. Thick, milky froth oozed from its gills, leaving an oily film on the water.

  “Christmas! Look at the size a’ that thing!”

  Taiter waded to a nearby log. “Let’s get our asses outa’ here and back on dry land!”

  Bobby Dale stood at the edge of the suck hole, his hands on his hips. “That’s it? We ain’t gonna’ try and catch that sucker? That sumbitch took my goat!”

  The flathead broke the surface again, its bulbous yellow eyes glistening in the sun. Torn strips of bloodied goat meat hung from its black lips. A rotting stench like mustard weed and cucumbers rolled out its mouth as its jaws clacked together.

  “Shit Bobby! That sumbitch has takin’ to eatin’ livestock! I ain’t goin’ after it ‘less I got a shotgun full of deer slugs and a two ton winch!”

  Bobby crawled back up the bank next to Shaggy and stared at the swirling suck hole. “I’ll be back you ugly goat eatin’ piece a’ shit! And I’m gonna’ unloose a world of hurt on your overgrown smelly ass!”

  They piled back in the truck and made a bee-line for the Piketon Mello Stop. After two pitchers of beer and a belly full of salt peanuts, Taiter slapped Shaggy’s back and leaned in close. “Shag, I been doin’ some powerful thinkin’ since we ran into that overgrown mudsucker down on the Powder.

  “Thought I smelt somethin’ burnin’,” Bobby chimed in.

  Taiter cuffed him in the side of the head and continued. “I think I mighta’ just come up with the remedy for that little problem ya’ been havin’ at home.”

  Shaggy looked at the empty beer pitcher with a puzzled look on his face. “Whatcha’

  mean.”

  Taiter continued. “How much that goat of yours weigh Bobby?”

  “‘Bout ninety, maybe ninety-five pounds.”

  “Um hum. And Shaggy, how much you figure ‘ol Thelma checks in at?”

  Shaggy scratched his chin and pondered the empty pitcher again. “Maybe a hundred pounds if she’s soakin’ wet.”

  “Exactly.”

  Shaggy let a broad smile drift over his beat up face. “You thinkin’ the same thing I’m thinkin’?”

  “Hell I reckon.”

  Bobby sat at his stool, sipping his beer, dumb as a post.

  “You in Bobby?”

  “In? In to what?

  Taiter stared at Bobby long and hard. “You right sure your mama never dropped you on your head when you was little.”

  “No! Well maybe a time ‘er two, but what’s that got to do with it?”

  “Ain’t no way in hell ya’ could be that damned dumb. Listen close shit bird, an’ I’ll fill you in.”

  Taiter laid out the whole plan from beginning to end while they drank another pitcher. He laid it out slippery smooth and simple. They agreed once Shaggy’s little domestic problem was taken care of, they could set about catching the biggest, meanest flathead the Powder River had ever belched up.

  Taiter and Bobby Dale stood on Shaggy’s front porch waiting for Thelma to answer the door. Bobby shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. The smell of something long dead and rotting leaked through the porch planks and assaulted their noses.

  “Jeez Bobby! You shit your pants?”

  “Not today.”

  “Knock again will ya’?”

  “I ain’t knockin’. You knock.”

  “Shit Bobby do I gotta’ do every...”

  The door swung open revealing the bony frame of Thelma Meekes. “What you two sorry sacks a’shit want?”

  Taiter and Bobby waited for each other to speak.

  “Come on. Out with it! Ain’t got all day ta’ stand here waitin’ for you two dip shits ta’ string two sentences together.”

  Taiter cleared his throat and spit off the porch. “Shag says for you to get down ta’ the Powder River right quick like.”

  “Screw Shag! Why’n hell would I wanna’ go traipsin’ through the brush to see him? ‘Smatter, he run out a’ that pop skull whiskey y’all suck on day an’ night?”

  “Naw, ain’t that.”

  “What then? I just barely give a shit that he’s alive, let alone him needin’ me for anything.”

  Taiter looked Thelma dead in the eye, trying to ignore the cobbled twist of paper clips holding her glasses together. “That’s just it. Ain’t sure how much longer he’ll be alive. Got hisself in a terrible mess he does. Says he wants ta’ make things right between you an’ him before he goes to the great beyond.”

  “Still don’t see how that means a shit ta’ me. Ain’t worth spit ta’ me livin’ and breathin’

  my good air. Don’t see how him dyin’ is gonna’ make a great lotta’ difference.”

  Taiter swiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve and glanced at Bobby. “Told us he had some belongin’s he wanted to see to it you got. Didn’t want ‘em goin’ ta’ some stranger.”

  “Any money involved?”

  “Possible. He said somethin’ about a will though. Right Bobby?”

  “He did for a fact.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Hard to explain. Be best if ya’ just come see for yourself. Made a real mess of himself.”

  Thelma walked out on the porch and pulled a tobacco plug from her bra. “Best get to it. I ain’t got all day.” She bit off a golf ball sized chew, packed it in her jaw and returned the plug.

  Twenty minutes later they parked the truck under a stand of oak trees and led Thelma to the suck hole. On the way, Bobby told her they’d come to the river to noodle. He left out the details about the goat, the suck hole, and the monster inside it.

  “Alright. We’s here, now where in hell is that worthless no-nut?”

  “Taiter inched close to the river bank, drawing Thelma in. “He’s right down there.”

  She scrunched up her face and squinted. “Don’t see nothin’. You peckerwoods sure you got the right place?”

  Bobby eased up behind her. “This is the place alright. I marked the spot with this here oak limb ‘fore we went ta’ fetch ya’.”


  Taiter leaned out over the bank, sending roots and rocks splashing into the river below. “Ya’ gotta’ lean out more. He’s right down there, clingin’ to a rotted out stump.”

  Thelma wiped the spit from her chin and poked her head over the edge. “Y’all is crazy! Only thing down there is an old muddy suck hole. Damned sure looks deep though.”

  Bobby Dale held fast to the tree limb, slapping it in his opened palm. “Damned nation! You reckon he rolled into that water hole?”

  Thelma bit off a fresh plug and pushed it into her mouth. “If he fell in there, he’s one dead asshole. Sumbitch never did have no sense.”

  Bobby Dale cocked the oak limb over his shoulder like a ball bat. “Damned shame if he drowned. Said he had a whole shitload a’ quart jars buried somewhere an’ he wanted you ta’ have ‘em if he didn’t pull through.

  “What’s in’em?”

  Taiter rubbed the back of his sweaty neck with a dirty hand. “Didn’t say. Must be valuable though, else he wouldn’ta buried ‘em.”

  Thelma eased closer to the edge and peered down into the water. A small cluster of bubbles rolled to the surface of the suck hole.

  “He mighta’ pulled hisself up close to the bank—maybe hung onto some roots ya’ know—ta’ get outa’ the water.”

  Thelma cupped her hands around her tobacco stained mouth. “Shaggy!” Nothing. “How come he don’t answer, if he’s down there?”

  Bobby tightened the grip on the limb. “Mighta’ passed out.”

  “That’s possible. He’s spent most of’ his worthless life passed out. Wouldn’t be no great surprise.”

  Another cluster of muddy brown bubbles gurgled to the surface and floated over the water filled suck hole. Thelma whipped a straight razor from under her dress and held it tight to Bobby Dale’s crotch. His zipper reflected off the gleaming steel blade. “You idgits ain’t play actin’ with me are ya’? I find out y’all is wastin’ my time, I’ll cut yer peckers off and toss ‘em in a burlap tow sack!”

  Taiter looked Thelma dead in the eyes, then gazed back out over the edge. “Why’d we do that.”

  “Just the kinda’ hair brained bullshit you three would dream up.” She clicked the razor shut and tucked it back in her dress. “Just don’t be tryin’ nothin funny!”

  The water in the suck hole rolled to life, stirring up mud and roots.

  “See there. That water is churnin’ like a fry pan full of hot lard and frog legs. I say ‘ol dumb shit is smack dab at the bottom of that suck hole, holdin’ his breath. Only damned thing he ever was good at.”

  Taiter leaned out over the edge again. “I don’t see nothin’. Water’s just smooth as ice.”

  Bobby moved in closer, cat quiet and oily smooth. He cocked the limb tight behind his head.

  “Bullshit! Look where I’m ‘a pointin’!”

  Taiter watched the bubbles roll, trying to draw Thelma closer to the edge. Root clumps and muddy gravel tumbled down the bank, hitting the water with noisy plops. The oak limb slammed into the base of Taiter’s neck with a sickening crack. Jets of blood shot from his ears as he tumbled into the water. The flathead clamped its slippery jaws around Taiter’s head and took him to the bottom of the suck hole. The water continued to churn for a full ten minutes, then turned smooth as plate glass.

  Thelma cackled like a guinea hen. “Dumb sumbitch never knew what hit him.”

  “Shore didn’t. How long you been feedin’ that damned flathead anyhow?”

  “Nye on six months. Ain’t much for worms and such, but that ugly sumbitch sure does like my soup beans and biscuits.”

  Bobby chuckled till snot ran out his nose. “Seems ta’ be a might partial ta’ Shaggy and Taiter too, don’t he?”

  “He does for a fact Bobby! He does for a fact! Numb nuts manage ta’ tell ya’ where he buried all them quart jars?”

  “Not right off. I had ta’ double back an’ do a little pursuadin’ while Taiter fetched the truck ta’ come and get you.”

  “And?”

  “Near as I can figure, most of ‘em is right behind the shed in your back yard.”

  “Hell fire! Guess ‘Ol shit-fer-brains was smarter’n I give him credit for. Let’s go get a shovel”

  “Fine by me.” Bobby Dale cocked the oak limb over his shoulder again and drove it into the back of Thelma’s head. The muddy water in the suck hole rolled back to life.

  Grim Adaptations

  By

  Aaron A. Polson

  On a late Sunday afternoon, Scab Hullinger caught an abomination in the Republican River about forty yards downstream from the old wrought-iron bridge south of Springdale. Glistening wet, heaving, and gray as a dislodged lung, the thing flopped and writhed in a cooler filled with murky river water. Three boys on the fringe of manhood, one thin like a twist of wire, one wide and solid like a bulldog, and Scab somewhere between—slender but athletic—stood on the muddy bank, staring at the thing.

  “Damn Scab, that’s big. Nibbled like crazy on my fingers.”

  “Did it get any of them?” Joel asked with a chuckle while rubbing his grubby hands across the front of his jeans.

  “Naw. Just sandpaper gums like most bottom feeders.” Allen, a skittish rail of a boy with brown-black eyes bulging from his thin face, squatted next to the cooler. “I’ve never seen a channel cat that color.”

  “Can’t be a channel cat,” Joel said.

  “Like hell.” Allen spat in the mud. “Has to be. It’s got the flat head, whiskers and pretty grim looking spines on the sides.”

  “Sure does. Cut myself on one of them.” Scab held the meaty part of his left palm, squeezing just hard enough to produce a thin stream of blood from a jagged gash.

  Joel kicked the cooler with one muddy boot. The fish flopped slightly in the cramped enclosure, showing a wide, flat eye of green-gray. “You ever seen a channel with eyes like that?”

  The three were silent for a moment.

  “I’m gonna call Barry. He’s home this weekend.” Scab said, fumbling in his jeans for a cell phone.

  Joel scratched his black hair. “Your brother?”

  “Yeah, he’s studying fish and wildlife at college, right?”

  *

  Allen paced behind his garage while Joel cleaned the rest of the afternoon’s catch.

  “You could help out, you pansy.” Joel wiped the filet knife on a rag. “It’s your house, your freezer, your fish.”

  “You’re doing fine all by yourself.” Allen flipped open his cell phone. “Where the hell are they, anyway?”

  “Hell if I know.” Joel rubbed his hands under the backyard spigot. He was shaking them off when Scab’s car pulled into the alley.

  “Hey Scab,” Joel called. “Hey Barry.”

  Barry Hullinger smiled as they climbed out of Scab’s Honda. Scab managed a cursory grin while cradling his wounded hand.

  Gavin Hullinger earned the unfortunate nickname “Scab” in middle school when Cori Hamilton, still the prettiest girl in Springdale, caught him chewing on a bit of loose skin from his elbow in seventh grade PE. He grew out of his awkward, boney frame in the five years since and became starting linebacker for the Springdale Saints’ district championship squad. He was even the frontrunner for class valedictorian, but the name held on, as stubborn things will in small towns. His brother, Barry, had been one of the finest scholar-athletes to graduate from Springdale High School.

  “Where’s the fish?” Barry asked.

  The four young men stood around the stained cooler in Allen’s garage. The grayish fish-thing thrashed about, splashing a little water over the edge each time someone disturbed its temporary home, but otherwise floated motionless in the muck.

  Joel picked mud from under his fingernails with a pocketknife. “So, channel cat or not.”

  “If it is, it sure isn’t healthy,” Barry said, squatting next to the cooler. “This color…isn’t right. Those eyes…I think it might be dead.”

  “Dead?” Allen asked. His voic
e shot up an extra octave.

  “Well, it looks dead. Smell’s dead, too. I don’t know what’s keeping it going.”

  “So what do we do? Fillet the thing, have a fry up with some beers?” Joel chuckled and then shook his head.

  “I’m not eating that shit,” Allen squeaked.

  “No,” Barry said as he stood. “We aren’t going to fucking eat it. Are you really as dumb as Gavin says?”

  Allen frowned.

  “I’m going to call one of my professors.”

  “Your professor?” Joel flicked the knife shut on his pant leg. “What the hell for?”

  Barry shook his head slowly and scratched his chin. “I don’t know. But something’s not right.” He glanced at his brother who was leaning against the side of the garage. “Look, I better get Gavin home”

  *

  “You sure we should be doing this?” Allen asked as Joel steered his truck over the rough gravel roads in Greenwillow Cemetery.

  Joel shrugged. “Look, do you want to keep that freak-o-fish at your place this weekend?”

  Allen squirmed in his seat. “Hell no. But what if Barry wants to see it again—”

  “I don’t give a shit. The college-boy can fish it out of the pond.” Joel squinted into the gathering twilight ahead of the truck. “’sides, if it is a good sized channel—even a mutant one, it can take out some of the nasty little bullhead up there in Potter’s Pond. Maybe make the fishing worthwhile.”

  “Yeah, I ‘spose so. But what if it is sick. Diseased or whatever Barry said?”

  Joel smiled. “Well, it’ll clear up Potter’s Pond either way.”

  Just beyond the city limit of Springdale, Kansas, in the woods beyond the boundary fence of Greenwillow Cemetery rested an abandoned farm pond. Years of disuse allowed the trees and brush—mostly crooked spruce trees, sickly cottonwoods, and gnarled redbuds—to encroach on the shores of Potter’s Pond. The name spun from the pauper’s graves, Potter’s Fields, of old. The boys understood little of the Potter’s Pond legend, only vague myths about the poor of Springdale being tossed to its green depths when they couldn’t pay for a decent funeral. That’s what the old men at Jenson’s Hardware joked about every time the boys bought a few dozen worms for bait so they could spend a Sunday afternoon catching tiny bullhead when they were younger. The pond teemed with those small members of the catfish family.