Season Two – EpisodeONE – “At least it’s not raining.”
The rain on the motel room windowpane woke Rusty Flathers from a foggy slumber. It was too early in the spring for rain, mid-March, and this would change ice fishing conditions quickly for avid anglers chasing golden tiger perch late in the season.
In his next breath he froze to the mattress… Palms of his hands pressed firmly down on the pad… Covered by a layer of silk sheets…
Now, staring at the ceiling in the early morning darkness, he quickly rotated his eyes to the right (once-twice-thrice) and the haze in his mind began to lift. The phrase “OH BOY” ran across the teleprompter in his brain.
The previous day on the lake had been a whirlwind and the evening’s events surrounding said activity had escalated even more quickly. Sally Squatsnfishes (accompanied by Rusty and Professor Cosmoid Scale) had iced the mammoth Mangrove Killifish. Kudos to Sally with her high hook setting ability, relentless strength (winching a thousand-pound amphibious fish), and raw beauty that glowed like a Greek goddess throughout the entire battle.
Damn straight there will be MORE fanfare… MORE endorsements… MORE challenges… After all, she is THE SALLY SQUATSNFISHES! A world-renowned outdoor fashion model, with an enthusiastic taste for the out-of-doors, all the while toting a pedigree of social prominence (generational wealth).
As Rusty’s heart rate steadily climbed… He forced himself to breathe in normal cadence… There was a morning hangover rising, creating pressure on his temples. Suddenly… There was also an untimely urge to pass gas.
This was the result of over carbonated keg beer, and too much hoppy barley for Rusty’s delicate stomach. He was fully aware of his slight grain allergy, but the previous day had been celebratory.
And now… By throwing caution to the wind… He lay frozen in bed ready to break it (wind).
When news that the great fish had been “iced” local euphoria erupted throughout the tiny tourist town. Main street was blocked off and beer trucks rolled in from across the upper northwest region. The Thirsty Trout Tavern busted from the seams spilling into the streets. Logging trucks dropped flatbed haulers full of poplar where a huge bonfire (inferno) was lit in the town square.
AND then… Once every able man, woman, and child gathered… The Mangrove Killifish was hoisted by Rod Gills, owner of Gilly’s Tow Service. The massive fish hung by its tale from a steel cable secured at the end of a boom for all to see!
Rusty didn’t know if he should fart or flight. Inches to the starboard side of his motel bed lay Sally Squatsnfishes. Her stunning brunette hair was curled at the tips near his pillow… A seamlessly chiseled nose hummed soft melodies that could charm a rattlesnake. And under the covers… Her pure and voluptuous nakedidity whirred with voltage.
Yes, the previous day had been one for the record books. Sally had successfully iced the Mangrove Killifish and post party they found themselves consummating their friendship with an unplanned and somewhat reckless roll in the proverbial hay.
Most likely it was inevitable… Between the beer, the adrenaline riddled relief of the successful showdown with the fish, and the unwinding celebration of the day… There ensued a fishermen’s wild nor’easter that rolled white capping waves under the silk sheets.
With Sally facing the opposite in bed… Rusty held his breath and slid from under the covers. Then in total darkness he inched his way across the motel room in the direction of the bathroom. Along the way, there were unidentifiable piles of clothing spew about the floor from every conceivable direction, as he tiptoed and sidestepped.
The steady rain continued outside…
Three paces from the bathroom he clipped a set of metal ice guard cleats that had come from the bottoms of Sally’s snowpack boots. Instantly he felt the sharp biting edges of steel points scorch the arch of his left barefoot limb.
Biting his lip in pure agony he lunged forward to release the pain and crashed headfirst into the bathroom doorknob. Bull in a China closet quickly breezed through his ears.
As he flailed toward the floor, like a fish slipping from the hands of a would-be angler prior to taking a catch and release photo, there was an eruptive expulsion of gas that came deep from within the bowels of his stomach lining. The conversion in his mind was that of stale air about to be set free from an overblow balloon.
Possibly the rain would act as a suppressor… Capturing and muzzling the sheer magnitude of the blast.
Fortunately for Rusty, as his head ricocheted off the doorknob, he was unconscious before his head hit the floor. He never heard the detonation go off.
Those in nearby rooms of the inn would later say he missed out on hearing what was vigorously described as “the fart of the decade”. An absolute banger!
Incredibly, the noise took its own life form reverberating down halls bouncing merrily against closed doors and windows. Some overnighters elaborated about mirrors rattling on walls and box spring mattresses shaking feverishly within their metal frames.
Sally lay on her side of the bed motionless… Facing opposite Rusty.
For the better part of two hours, prior to the disenchanting eruption, her eyes had been wide open… Like a hoot owl perched in the crest of a Norway pine.
Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just staring into the oblivion of darkness.
Sobering thoughts were pouring into her carefree night of frosty overflowing mugs of beer. “There’s a right time to do things… There’s a wrong time… And then there’s a time that hinges somewhere in-between,” she was rationalizing to herself.
For her… Having this late-night evening of passionate romance with Rusty was leaning toward the latter. She listened as the winter rain continued to pour against the window, over-riddled by tomorrow’s choices, and then brought back from her time warp with a roaring CRACK of thunder (Rusty’s fart).
“At least it’s not raining,” she sarcastically stated to herself.
– To be continued –
