Gone Fishin' (Fiction)

By Gonz Blinko

 

BlindChristian had lent his best hideouts to Mickey Bald until his lawyers could work through the bullshit lawsuit brought on by Leland Burr and the Freeman Scientologists.  The FS gang really seems to have changed after Waffle House acquired them.  I had thought Leland preferred Bob Evans but the Waffle House cheese grits probably made the deal.

 

I had always thought that low rent redneck food and access technology would go well together and I expect Sy. T. Greenbacks to make an announcement that he’s thrown in with either Denny’s or Cracker Barrel any day now.

 

BC and his wife stayed at my condo up on Joey Ramone Place since we all headed up to the city after hiding out in the keys during CSUN.  Sy T. Greenbacks had helped the Freeman Scientologists in their pursuit of hegemony over the use of the word they insisted was their’s and their’s alone.  Sick of all of the AT politics, our little gang headed off to a quiet fishing village along Florida’s Nature Coast.

 

As our jet landed in Gainesville and the crew saw that a bunch of blinks with dogs and a few sighties were all getting off together, almost all of them singing “Bobby McGee” and trying to growl like Janice, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…”

 

“I wonder if the Scientologists will try to sue Joplin after death.”

 

“Kristopherson wrote the song, he’s still alive and easier to sue.”

 

“Do you think they’ll sue the guide dog school?”

 

“Nope,” said Samhara, “I think the PR cost them too much in the last legal battle.  Puppies are so damn cute that going for a guide dog school would put tears in the eyes of every sightie with a warm heart in America.”

 

We headed out into two rented limos and drove west.  “I’m sick of all of the legal stuff,” confided BlindChristian.

 

“I’m sick of finding hiding places for you and your AT friends.  Why can’t you get into something that will piss fewer people off?

 

“I don’t know…”

 

“Then why don’t you just learn to shut your fucking mouth,” I added.

 

“Bradley Punkrock has known me longer than you and he thinks I have some kind of troublemaker gene.  That I can’t stop stirring the pot and sometimes the soup comes out good, other times it sucks but I just keep stirring.”

 

“Do you think Joyce James will be safe up in Minnesota?”  I asked.

 

“She has her dog, her boy and her Glock, she’ll be fine.”

 

“Why don’t you ever attend the summer shows?”

 

“Because I’d rather celebrate my birthday fishing.”

 

Our little motorcade arrived at our little bed and breakfast resort.  The Labradors tried to pull us straight into the beach but we got everyone sorted out and checked in.  We gathered in BC’s suite and did a few bong hits before grabbing the G. Loomis gear and heading for the beach.

 

I put a set of doggles on the X-Dude; BC did the same for his dog.  The dogs don’t like them much but when around blind people with fish hooks, one needs to take precautions.

 

The dogs, taken out of their harness and put on long tethers ran splashing into the salt water.  We followed slowly and realized that we had no good way of keeping the dogs behind us and didn’t know which way to cast.  At that moment, as if on cue, we heard the thumping engine of a big Harley and knew that El Negro would soon sort things out.

 

The motor stopped and we heard laughter getting louder as it approached.  “Do I need to save your blind white asses every year?”

 

“Well…”

 

“No excuses assholes, you white boys need me to help you do everything,” he said as he gathered the dogs behind us and tied their tethers to poles on the oyster shell beach.

 

“Do you need me to bait your hooks too?”  He needled.

 

“Fuck you, it’s my birthday party and I’ll whine if I want to,” inserted BC.

 

“Yeah,” laughed the large black biker, “I hear Labradors make great shark bait, maybe I’ll toss him into the channel and see if a nice steak sized bonnet head will hit.”

 

“Well, I’ve heard that fat negro ass makes great shark bait too and I’m thinking we might go trolling over some deep cuts in the morning and, as you’re the only owner of a fully qualified fat negro ass, we’ll have to hook you to the downrigger.”

 

Our wade fishing banter about canincidal and homicidal thoughts turned to talk of fishing, El Negro and BC hooked into a pair of big breeder redfish at once and we had a bit of a Chinese fire drill.  I caught the only keeper, a nice sized cobia and we walked back to the inn to barbecue my quarry.

 

We’d be fishing from sun up the next day so we headed back for our rooms.  Most of still had “Bobby McGee” stuck in our heads but the blackened cobia tasted great and the gang was mostly reassembled for some fun.

 

-- End