SEASON 5, EPISODE 21

Season 5 – Episode 21 (RainyDaze & MonDaze)

At 5:02am Rusty lay awake staring at the ceiling. Sunrise was delayed at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters with rain gently falling on the tin roof of the bunkhouse. It was a morning for sleeping, and he could not.

Next to him, closely snuggled, was Ellie Waylayer. She was his high school sweetheart—undercover espionage partner of Sally Squatsnfishes—the first love of his life—site manager of the Gold Rope Ranch—dangerously seductive. And the rain drops started to come down harder.

“I should probably get up and get the day started,” Rusty whispered into Ellie’s ear.

She momentarily rustled and then replied, “RainyDaze & MonDaze—sounds like it’s both—maybe we should stay in bed.”

Rusty could feel her breath on his neck and the warmth of her body pressing firmer against his side. Then he hummed a few bars from that old Carpenters tune—the melody synced with the tapping of the rain.

Lifting herself on one elbow Ellie reached her free hand to Rusty’s face and pinched his chin. This paused the tune momentarily as she moved her lips to his. Then, before contact—a loud BANG BANG BANG. Someone was hammering their fists on the outside of the bunkhouse door.

Meanwhile, on Lake Kariba, it was 12:02pm and Team Eagle along with fishing guide Win Dixie launched their brand spanking new Alu-Freedom 23-foot center console. Normally powered by the Mercury Outboard Company, Ron Heimburg splurged in advance and specially ordered a 200hp Yamaha SHO V-6 motor. Sally S. was a Yammy gal at heart.

“Three days of pre-fishing are allowed, and we’re late getting on the water, no thanks to you Loonsuckle!” Sally barked. There were 200 teams in the famed Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament and Team Eagle was currently the 200th boat to splash from Charara Point. They had been sitting in the parking lot, near the boat access, waiting for Jackie for over four hours.

          “I normally make it a rule not to fish in the rain,” replied Jackie. A steady wave of moisture had come down from the sky and was expected to last throughout the day. “And besides,” he continued, “RainyDaze & MonDaze—that’s normally a beer drinking day for me.”

“Get your cowpoke ass in the boat!” Sally ordered and then clocked him in the back of the head with an open palm as he threw a leg over the gunnel to climb aboard.

          “Ouch,” Jackie winced. “What the hell kind of team captain are you anyways, Squatsnfishes?”

“One that needs you to he a hell-of-a lot more focused. That’s who.”

Oh shit, Sally then said under her breath. It was Sage Golden. She was idling into the dock at the boat ramp. Returning from a large portion of the day already spent on the water.

“Well, looks who’s just getting their day started,” Sage called out from the bow of her boat, as her guide parallel parked along the dock. “Did I keep you out too late last night, Jackie dear?”

Sally’s eyes exploded and then burned a hole directly through Jackie’s skull. You dumb ass, she murmured barely above audible and then turned toward Sage to quickly change the subject.

          “How’s the bite out there, Sage? Hey, that’s a nice rig you’re running. Did you find any big ones?” Sally was rambling—possibly shook—while Win and Hazel stood behind her exchanging glances that said, is it go time, again?!

“Can-it, Squatsndoesit. You can spare me the niceties and move that tin-can so we can pull our boat. We already beat ‘em up today,” replied Sage.

With that, Sally unhitched the stern rope from the boat’s cleat and pushed away from the dock. Win quickly retreated to the center console and reversed the boat. Probably best not to say anything right now, thought Jackie as they idled past his previous night’s encounter. But hot-damn, Sage is lookin’ good.

It was a 35-minute run from the dock to Sanyati Gorge. Win clocked it on her Lowrance GPS and saved the trail in the routes log. Ron Heimburg counted 37 crocodiles enroute, before she cut the throttle.

Prior to their departure, Win pre-rigged four medium-heavy rods with fast action tips for vertical jigging. These were stout sticks, seven feet in length, and built to handle 3-5oz jigs. She preferred braided line versus mono for the low stretch and high sensitivity. But she also tweaked the leader by using 80-pound saltwater mono (making her own 24” leaders) versus a shorter steel line that many competitors operated.

Hazel was the first to thread a live kapenta on her jig, lip through the nose, and then free-spool the bail letting it freefall into 137-feet. Once it hit bottom she lifted and twitched the bait repeatedly. Nothing—yet.

“I thought we’d be fly fishing,” sneered Jackie. “You know, I got a reputation to uphold.”

          “Exactly,” Sally responded. “And most of that reputation tells people you’re not the sharpest fillet knife in the tackle box. So shut your mouth, bait your hook, and get your line in the water like a good little boy.”

That brought a belly-laugh from the innards of Ron Heimburg, and then he screamed, “I think I’ve got one!”

          “Reel, Ron! Reel!” Win instructed. “Keep your line tight.”

Whatever he had hooked was having its way from the get-go, pulling like a mule and holding tight to the bottom. “My god, how big do these things get?” Ron asked as he held the butt of the rod to his waistline and continued cranking the reel.

          “Most average eight pounds, but I’ve seen ‘em go thirty-plus,” Hazel answered. “Here, tighten the drag.” Then she reached around his mid-section and twisted down on the bar.

Slowly the weight of the catch began to respond to the tension. In what seemed like hours to Ron, which was about six minutes, whatever he had hooked was boatside. And it was not a tiger fish.

“Oh, ugh, that’s no fish!” Hazel declared.

          “No—it’s not,” replied Win as she reached over the gunnel, grabbed Ron’s fishing line with her free hand, and cut the leader.

Ten feet below the surface you could still make out the middle finger that was attached to the hand, that was attached to the arm, that was attached to the shoulder of what used to be a human body. And then it was gone.

“Alright,” said Sally, breaking the morbid silence, “maybe not the best way to start our pre-fishing.”

          “Crocs most likely,” explained Win. “You rarely catch a body part, but I’ve heard of it happening.”

Ron Heimburg was the last to see the dismembered remains disappear below the surface. And then he screamed, “Nyami Nyami!”

It was the fish-headed snake inhaling the remains of his foul-hooked catch. Or was it?

Meanwhile, back at the bunkhouse, Rusty bolted upright, “I’d better get the door,” he told Ellie and jumped from under the sheets.

With the knocking now relentless, he threw on a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt, then raced to the entrance. Pulling on the knob he opened the door in time for Celine to hit him right betwixt the eyes.

“What the hell, bossman?” shouted Celine as she stood overtop Rusty who was laying flat on the floor holding his nose with both hands. “Couldn’t you hear me knocking? We got a Code-3 in Bayview Cabin. Regular slip-slider, and I don’t need anyone latching on to yours truly!”

Rusty sat upright and pinched. Somewhere, sometime, he thought he remembered being told, do not lean your head back when you have a gushing bloody nose.

          “A Code-what?” he asked Celine.

“Flappity-flopper, down on the enameled cast iron. Lizard can’t get himself up.”

          “Celine, English, please,” begged Rusty as he sat and continued to pinch his blood-filled nostrils. “What’s the emergency?”

“Rustomatic, there’s a dude in Bayview—hundred and three if he’s a day—can’t lift himself out of the bathtub—wife can’t help either. She went to the lodge—couldn’t find anyone—ended up in my bunkhouse—thought it was the devil coming for me and Nev—shouda seen that mess—anyway your dutiness calls—I’m not letting some old goat grab my hooters—good luck!”

Guess I should remove my shoes, Rusty thought as he pulled back the shower curtain to reveal the overly exposed Mr. Chester Pruneworth.

“Sorry about this, Flabbers,” said Chester, “but I’m gonna need a bear-hug to get me out of this tank.”

God help me, Rusty mumbled under his breath as he kicked off his shoes, peeled his socks, and hiked his pantlegs to enter the standing water.

          “Ok, on-three, Mr. Pruneworth,” and with his knees bent he wrapped his arms around the massively shriveled nakedness and hoisted toward the ceiling.

“Well, that was awkward,” replied Mr. P, now standing safely at attention.

Rusty on the other hand, believing he had felt something move, jumped from the water like Shamu from SeaWorld. “No worries, Mr. P, I’ll see you at breakfast,” he replied—full on knowing he would NEVER unsee what had just transpired.

I may never hug Ellie the same, he thought, retreating to his bunkhouse and officially starting the day.

–To Be Continued—

SEPTEMBER 20TH

Hey Sportsfans, 

Fall is arriving, and you can feel the season changing out on the water. The pelicans are heading south, while the seagulls continue to follow the launches, hoping for their own catch of the day—a nice shiner churned up by the prop wash.

We’re finding crappies, bass, and perch where we’re fishing for walleye, making it a triple whammy out here. Why wouldn’t you make the trip?

With each passing northwesterly front, the big Traverse schools are being pushed closer to the gap. As Captain Tim says, “It’s the best time of the year.”

We have truly hit the fall fishing part of the season—emphasis on the fishing part. The bite isn’t terrible, but it’s also not great. Patience is key!

Weather and wind patterns have forced us to take a few river days, but that’s all part of fall fishing. As the season continues and water temperatures start to drop, the fish are beginning to move into more traditional fall locations.

We’re starting to see fish relate more closely to structure—especially island points, rock reefs, shallow rock, and areas with current.

As fall continues to intensify, we expect the bite to get better every day. Hold on tight—the bite is coming in hot!

SET THE HOOK!

SEASON 5, EPISODE 20

Season 5 – Episode20 (Cleared For Landing)

Under direct orders from Hazel Brown… the short layover between Harare (HRE) and the next 45-minute hop to Kariba (KAB) was filled with Winifred Dixie explaining to the entirety of Team Eagle the hazards that lie ahead. Sage Golden was now on everyone’s radar… along with Nyami Nyami.

Ron Heimburg was the first to break silence when Win finished her eye-opening declaration. “One million dollars spent and I’ve got myself in a lethal jackpot. I suppose it’s too late to cancel out and retain my entry fee—maybe not get killed in Africa.”

          “Ron, you need to calm down and trust me,” responded Sally. “As far as Sage goes… I can phone HQ if we need more assistance—but odds are highly unlikely we will need it. And the whole snake-headed dragon-monster thing? Never a believer in Peter Pan.”

I wouldn’t take those odds to Vegas, thought Win as she sat and reflected out the window of the plane. Sally could easily be wrong on both counts.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have been Cleared For Landing. Please buckle in as we descend into (KAB), was the message from the cockpit. We hope you have found our services comforting, and best of luck with the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament.

“Ha! Luck is for losers,” stated an overly confident Jackie Loonsuckle. “What is it again… what do we have to do to win this fishing derby?”

          “Well, for one… it’s definitely not a derby, Jackie,” corrected Win as she turned to face the overly confident Montana fly-bum. “This is the highest profile fishing contest in the Eastern Hemisphere. Please treat it as such.”

“Thanks for clarification, Win. And while we’re talking about the fishing tournament, why don’t you enlighten us with some details,” encouraged Sally.

          “Well, I think you guys know the basics… three-day tourney… 6:00am shotgun start…”

“Please, do we have to reference guns?” Ron interrupted. “It seems to be a general theme with this group I’ve attached myself to.”

          “Ok, sure,” replied Win. “Blast-off.”

Then she continued: The KITFT (Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament) is anchored on the eastern shore of Lake Kariba, just east of Kariba Town. This is within the Charara Safari Area. Each morning to start the contest a flare is fired from Charara Point to signal takeoff.

We have four team members, obviously. Plus, myself as the guide, and driver of the boat. Also—watch for crocodiles in the harbor area—the departure site. And just so everyone is aware, the lake itself has fifteen to twenty thousand of the toothy critters roaming about.

“TWENTY THOUSAND!” burst Ron Heimburg while he swallowed hard and blinked profusely with a tear running down his cheek. Then Win continued—but she was not the only one talking.

Back at FSFO, Celine was in the pantry talking to no one in particular (possibly her own demons), spinning in circles, and chasing down ingredients for the camp’s evening dinner. Tonight’s mystery feature was going to be smoked groundhog ribs.

Earlier in the week, Minister Nev had live-trapped an entire family of grizzled varmints at the local parish in Jackfish. They had burrowed their way to China when three petite Sunday School children accidentally disappeared into their entrance. For safety concerns it was deemed necessary to relocate the critters before more children were endangered, and the entirety of the church foundation destroyed.

Next… Neville… being the stout Christian that he was… refused to sentence the excavating buggers to death. Instead, he opted to relocate them to the wilds of Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.  

Ultimately, it was Celine who took advantage of the opportunity. Three days after their arrival on the island, on a looming overcast day, she nonchalantly caught the clan inspecting her garden. This prompted her to chase down each individual member—whack them over the head with a shiny spade—send them to their promised land of rodents—and finally to her boiling stock pot on top of the kitchen stove.

“Paprika? No, that’s not it. I need Cayenne… oh what the hell, let’s do both,” Celine said aloud. “Now, where’s that Mugwort I brought from home? Something to give those devilish tourists some psychic vision. Oh… there it is… right next to the Nutmeg. Hmmmm… too much? I think not! Nutmeg and Mugwort—get their heartbeats up and their dreams floating.”

          “Hey, Celine, is that you back there?” It was Rusty Flathers entering the kitchen in search of his witchy chef. When she did not immediately respond he asked, “Hey, are you suitably dressed?” Too many weirdly indecent exposures had him gun-shy and asking for permission to enter a room where meals were regularly prepped.

“Yes! Sir Rustabaga! I’m back here—fully clothed—unfortunately! He-he-he-he-he.” Then she met Rusty in the utility area of the kitchen she asked, “What’s up, boss man?”

          “Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking Ellie out fishing for a couple of hours. So, if you’re…”

“Fishing? HA!” she replied. “Is that what we’re calling it now. C’mon Rust-Bucket, you can do better than that!”

          “I’m serious, Celine.” Rusty said with a firmed-up tone.

“Me too. How do you think my Aunt Marie-Claire ended up with twins? It certainly wasn’t caused by the three-hook nightcrawler harness she and her boyfriend were pulling round Lake Saint Virgin—no sirree. Why just the other day I was telling Minister Nev, during one of our confessionary moments, that maybe he and I should be doing more fishing. You know the Disciples—Peter, Andrew, James, John—they were good fishermen. So Russickle, if you want to go out there and cast your net, I say go for it!”

          “Celine, I gotta go,” said Rusty as he began backtracking out of the kitchen.

“Ok, but wait, I need to you test the braising liquid in this pot—please—before you go.”

          “Sure,” Rusty responded, grabbing a wooden ladle from a quart jar sitting on the shelve above the stove. “What are you boiling up?” he asked before inhaling a mouthful.

“Oh, it’s a non-GMO delicacy. Something I came up with, combing the rock piles near the countryside of Quebec City. The technical name is Marmota monax.”

          “Well, whatever it is, it’s fantastic,” replied Rusty as he took another overly large gulp, dropped the spoon in the sink, and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Marmota monax, Rusty said to himself as he skipped down the dock, Marmota monax.

In the harbor… Ellie waited in the boat.  On shore… Link declined the invitation to fish and stewed under a shade tree. Rusty continued happily down the length of the dock wondering, Is Marmota monax French?

“Hey, Ellie—have you ever heard of Marmota monax? Celine is up there working on a crazy-delicious blend for tonight’s entre’.”

          “Um… yeah, Rusty… that’s the Latin phase for GROUNDHOG. Like the ones that dig huge holes in the ground,” she replied.

Immediately, Rusty’s eyes bulged and his face turned ghostly white.  Then his saliva glands ran like a roaring river. It took several minutes for the projectile vomiting to cease, and he was certain there would be bruises on his ab muscles leaning over the side of the gunnel. Link remained on his back, under the shaded tree nearest the lodge, his belly bursting with laughter.

Of no laughing matter where the number of crocodiles inhabiting Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe. Pre-fishing for Team Eagle was scheduled to start at 0-dark-thirty tomorrow morning, and other than Winifred Dixie (allegedly) no one in the party had ever boated a tiger fish in their entire angling careers. Our fearless leader Sally Squatsnfishes, after being briefed on her peer Sage Golden and Nyami Nyami, was far less concerned about killing fish.

“Hey, Team,” Sally said as the plane landed and she stood to prepare for exit. “Let’s be careful out there.” Then the main cabin door opened to the outside world and briefly everyone on board heard a low moaning grumble, just before the ground vibrated and shook the feet of the plane. Then Sally panned the eyes of her mates… only Hazel refused to make eye contact.

–To Be Continued—

SEASON 5, EPISODE 19

Season 5 – Episode 19 (Northern Lights)

“What is happening?” questioned Rusty

“Just sit still,” replied Ellie. “I’m almost finished.”

Overnight, the burns that torched Rusty’s eyebrows had scabbed over enough so that Ellie could apply one band-aid per brow. Underneath, she subbed out Celine’s homemade ointment concoction and replaced it with some Dr. Maggie Skin Care she had found in the boat house. This was the recommended treatment for wounds on dogs—close enough in Ellie’s estimation.

Then, she painted on some eyebrows before Rusty exposed himself to the camp clientele. This proved a tad bit trickier, but as luck would have it, Ellie scored big in the boat house and located a used king-sized permanent marker. This would suffice to paint on some stylish eyebrows… albeit the color was a rich-deep royal blue.

“No,” said Rusty. “I’m not talking about the band-aids or whatever it is you’re doing—I’m talking about what’s going on between you and me.”

“Well, I’m certainly not interested in a friend with benefits sort of relationship, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ellie. “I’ve already told you—I’m willing to see where things go. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, honestly?”

“Ok,” countered Rusty, “but what about…” And before he could finish Link came prancing into the bunkhouse. Normally, being British, he was quite polite and accommodating. But today was different. Today the casualness of Ellie, taking over Sally’s space, had pushed his Labrador buttons. Link was going to have a Dog Day Morning.

Speaking of mornings, flight exhaustion had officially set in with Team Eagle; each member of the party had been in the air so long they no longer knew if it was day or night. That being said, they slept.

Except for Hazel. She was keen on finding out what the insignia on Win’s ankle read. So, with minutes remaining before they touched down in Harare (HRE) she made her move.

Win did not appear to be getting REM sleep. No one can get that comfortable while flying, even on a private charter. But the fact that she had not twitched her reclined head in more than thirty minutes was enough of a green light for Hazel to go.

First, she stood from her seat and then quickly and quietly glided over and knelt in the aisle close enough to smell Win’s fragrance. It was a pungent—but oddly—romantically luring perfume.

Damn, not sexy like the beach, thought Hazel as she sniffed. It’s more like a heavily stained reservoir filled with algae, but seductive. Nice.

 Win’s legs were crossed at the ankles which made for a nearly impossible viewing. Hazel’s option was to gently reach out, clasp behind the calf of one leg with her left hand and hoist the forefront of the ankle with her right. She lifted ever so slightly to successfully unhinge the locked legs. Or so she thought…

Eight seconds after hiking the pant leg she heard a click that released the safety on a Glock 19, and then the coolness of a barrel rested very near her temple. Regardless of being busted, it made no difference—the insignia was unidentifiable. Possibly some sort of tribal dialect, but Hazel now had a fight or flight train of thought.

“Hello,” whispered an awakened Win with a grim voice. And then mechanically—cool as a cucumber with the steadiness of the firearm— “Is there something I might help you with down there, Hazel Brown?”

At that point Hazel’s only option was to look up and shrug her shoulders. Then a voice from the past—her mother’s—spoke to her: Honesty is always the best policy. And then being the rebel that she was, Hazel lied through her perfectly polished teeth.

“Um, yeah—I think my contact popped out of my eye while I was sleeping. I thought it may have landed somewhere back here,” stated Hazel.

“Weird,” replied Win with a doubtful sideways glance. “Three rows back and across the aisle. That’s quite a launch.” Then she placed her handgun back in its shoulder holster under her sweater vest and oddly apologized for drawing on Hazel.

“Sorry, you know I’m not used to having someone massage my feet, if that’s what you intended,” she said with a sarcastic chuckle. “And I’m also sorry for the jerk reaction with the gun. Just trained reflex, I guess. But if it’s the tattoo you’re interested in, it would have been easier to ask me about it.”

“Ok, I will—what gives with the insignia?” asked Hazel. “I get the part with the river dragon, but what’s with the writing?”

“His flesh is ours,” replied Win in a serious tone. “A sacred belief from the region in which I was raised.”

“So, all this about the Nyami Nyami—the Zambezi River God—you’re a believer?”

“As I told Eagle One,” said Win, “you must be willing to do anything if I am to be your fishing guide. And then we will have a chance to win this tournament.”

“Well, for me, winning’s not always everything,” countered Hazel.

“But dying is… Just ask Sage Golden.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” asked Hazel.

“I’m talking about an individual who is on a top-secret list that is known by very few. Did you know she comes from the darkest streets of Sicily? Or that her real name is actually Carmela Riptide Pescatore? That’s right, Hazel… she is THE daughter of mobster Biggy The Boat Pescatore. A name that I’m quite certain will resonate with Sally Squatsnfishes.”

“Win, why are you telling me this? Are you really talking about winning a fishing tournament, or are you threatening that someone on Team Eagle is going to die?”

Speaking of death… our camp mascot Link was currently showing his crooked teeth and producing his best version of a guttural growl, that a less than a year-old puppy could muster. Ellie had moved in on sacred territory… Sally was no longer sitting next to Rusty on his bed… and Link was not having it.

After his fourth bark, followed by a continuous growl, Rusty stood from the bed and pointed a stern index finger in the dog’s direction. “Ok… that’s quite enough, young man… you need to go outside,” instructed the master to his student.

But instead… Link misunderstood the command and took the physical gesture and the voice as a direct admission to proceed and attack Ellie at her bedside location.

The paws came up first… all four… and before you could say Celine don’t mix that muskrat meat in the chocolate pudding… he was imposing his doggy will by jumping up on the chest of Ms. Waylayer.

“Link, what the heck has gotten into you?” hissed Rusty. “Get down, right now,” and he grabbed Link’s collar with enough force to twist him to the floor. Unfortunately, Rusty went with him.

As the two tumbled to the turf… the fur flew… the band-aids were pushed to the temples… and somehow in the mix Link came out on top of the true to life doggy pile. Rusty then called uncle and returned Link’s aviators cap which had somehow inadvertently ended up spun backwards on his head.

“Now I remember why I faked that twisted ankle to get out of junior high wrestling,” Rusty muttered to himself while pulling up off the floor.

Then, with more bark than bite Link bolted for the door. “It’s ok, Rusty. Really, I get it. Let him go,” said Ellie. “I’m certainly walking a tight rope by being here. Unless like Link… you’d rather I be Sally.”

–To Be Continued–

          Stop squirming, sir. This is a salve my Great Aunt Tootie conjured using tree sap from a jack pine. I didn’t have the mix of rhubarb root to go with the sap—you wouldn’t transplant a patch to the island like I asked—which again I’m telling you would grow exceptionally well on the northwest side of the bath house—so I dug through the fish guts from today’s cleanings and sorted out thirteen walleye livers—each the size of a small plum. Which also explains why your eyes might be burning—I quite possibly or mistakenly—however you arrive at the summation—may have gotten some bile from a few gallbladders in the mix—now, is it easing the pain of the burn—or are you just blithering like a baby?

Rusty’s long, bushy brown eyebrows were gone. The fishing contest had blazed to a halt some thirty minutes ago… and was ultimately canceled.

Side by side competing against Celine for honors of Best Wednesday Night Walleye Fish Fryer, Rusty was going fillet for fillet with the chef from Quebec City until conditions went awry. YES, Rusty’s portion of the campfire was overheating his legs, and the occasional rocketing ember was piercing through the chest of his shirt. NO, with Elly Waylayer rooting for him from the site of the judge’s panel, he was not going to back away.

The first crack of lightning dispersed the crowd of camp guests from the fire pit area. They scampered toward the covered portion of the deck on the lodge and continued viewing. Then Minister Nev, counting aloud, the contest is tied at twenty-three fillets cooked per contestant, made the sign of the cross on his chest.

When the second bolt unleashed from the skies and lit up the woods across the harbor, Ellie suggested a postponement, but her suggestion fell on deaf ears. Mainly, Rusty’s.

“At least it’s not raining,” said Rusty… about three seconds before the first raindrop hit the frying pan. “No need to panic—we can finish.”

          “I’m taking my fillets and heading for the lodge, Rustacean,” said Celine, as she pulled four more crispy fillets from the pan and added them to her existing stack. “Not that I’m conceding, but where I come from mixing rainwater and hot frying oil is like lining up a row of your cousins and licking their eyebrows.”

Rusty did not ask for an explanation for her analogy. He was occupied with a steady rain, with the needle pointing toward a downpour. Holding his mesh truckers cap with the FSFO logo over the pan did little to deter the explosion. Even Ellie bailed on him at this point in the game.

As the inferno made its way past the heights of the island treetops, Rusty’s eyebrows passed with it along the way. Two inches closer to the fire and he would have been Kojak.

Days later, locals on mainland near the town of Jackfish would say there was a volcanic eruption on one of the nearby islands of Lac des Bois. Others who witnessed the blazing ball claimed it was Northern Lights.

Back on the plane that was headed towards Harare there was a light that blinked three times on Sally’s burner phone. The message she had been waiting for read, “WD cleared for landing Eagle ONE. She is part of your flock. Copy? Over.”

Sally thought… and then responded to the text message, “HQ, copy. WD under my wing.”

Just then the door to the cockpit opened and Winifred Dixie entered the main cabin wearing a world-series poker face. She made her way toward Team Eagle and asked if anything was needed…

Hazel said she was good. Ron felt it was close to happy hour—somewhere—and asked for a highball. Jackie, with Sage still on his mind, quizzed Win about the prospects of dating the Sicilian fashion model.

Then Sally said, “Hey, Win… this team of misfits still needs to acquire a guide for the tournament. Any chance you’d join us?”

Without response Win walked toward Sally and took the nearest available seat. With folded arms she remained silent and stared into Sally’s eyes.  

“Look,” said Sally, “I know I didn’t take your word at face value… but the way things have been going sideways—even before I left The States… I needed to know for sure that you were truly an Eagle. And now it’s been confirmed with HQ.”

          “It has?” questioned Win. And then quickly, “Yes, I’m sure it has.”

Pausing for a second, Sally continued, “We need to get locked in for this fishing contest. Anglers from around the world are gunning to win. Can I count on you as our team’s guide?”

          “I’m ready to pull the trigger,” responded Win. “As soon as we arrive.”

“Perfect,” replied Sally. “I’m willing to do whatever we have to, to take first place.”

          “Anything? Including the possibility of facing the Nyami Nyami?”

“Absolutely, YES, anything,” guaranteed Sally.

Across the aisle… immediately to her left… Hazel stared at an inscription on the inside of Win’s ankle. It was printed just below a tattoo of the infamous river dragon.

–To Be Continued–