Season 5 – Episode 11 – (Can I Get A Witness)  

The bell on the deck of the lodge rang three times. Evening mealtime at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters was happening.

With a full camp… new guest arrivals… and the flies cleared from the lodge… Rusty and Cos regrouped by the firepit while Celine dished up dinner and Minister Nev delivered plates with a non-denominational blessing.

“Why are you crossing your fingers, Rusty?” asked Cosmoid.

          “I’m worried about the dinner service. And well, basically, worried about everything,” replied Rusty.

“It’ll be fine,” continued Cos, “we must grant Celine some freedom. Quirky? Yes. But overall, her preparedness and cooking are quite good.”

            “Copy that. Relax and win,” said Rusty.

One hour and thirty minutes later… everything was fine… actually it was excellent. The lemon meringue pies brought rave reviews from the crowd of campers—and Celine declared her success by shouting out the door, “Can I Get A Witness!” in the direction of her co-bosses.

This put Rusty in a great mood, and honestly, still feeling a bit guilty about Mr. Long Ears’ hack medical procedure, he decided to invite him and his wife Eleanor for an evening fish. Early spring still offered a decent northern pike bite in the shallows. Back bay fishing along pencil weeds was a go-to for producing a fish or two.

Long Ears and his bride gratefully accepted and soon the threesome was on the water heading north to fish the fringes of Watermelon Bay. Link had also joined the trio… standing high in the bow… the flappers on his aviator cap whipping in the wind.

When they reached the bay, a more than perfect evening was taking place on Lac des Bois. Winds were light… barely a ripple on the water… and the barometer was dropping as the sun began to descend. Prime time—the much-anticipated cast-a-thon was about to commence.

For fishing equipment… there were options on rods with baitcaster reels and similarly weighted sticks with conventional spinning gear. Politely, Rusty offered both Eleanor and Long Ears their weapon of choice. The former chose spinning… the latter chose baitcasting.

Rusty armed each guest and then remembered one specific lesson that Tawny Bishop had taught him about guiding: “be seated when your guests are casting—stay low—keep your head on a swivel.”

Speaking of keeping your head on a swivel… The troops with Sally Squatsnfishes were pacing inside the great room of Sally’s folks’ house—drapes drawn—lights turned low. On Sally’s orders… she and Hazel Brown, along with Jackie Loonsuckle, had done a thorough canvassing of the area. Their results produced zero intel. No sign of the sniper.

Glenn with two N’s demanded they call the local authorities. Mother Sanda… three martinis deep… chose to hold the olives and the vermouth. And Ron Heimburg? His eyes were the size of softballs… questing why he had chosen to participate in this current tournament of chaos.

Inside the refuge of the home—Sally calmed the seniors in the room while Hazel and Jackie kept their eyes peeled on the lakeside veranda. This was the area where earlier, the bullet had pierced the lemonade pitcher.

“Here’s the deal,” Sally addressed her parents, “there are certain things above and beyond my public career… things that are bigger than outdoor fashion modeling… more important than fishing tournaments… things that are part of my world that I can’t tell you about.”

          “Sally,” said Glenn, “What are you trying to say? What is happening?”

“What I’m trying to say is… there are some—I’ll call them designated assignments—that I have been involved with—during these past few years.”

Sally would not give specifics. The Mangrove Killifish—Gold Rope Ranch Bison—Kraken Down Under—Wendigo at FSFO—these were events she could only reference with a broad brush.  

But what she did explain to her parents was this: “I have another professional career that can be dangerous. Obviously, because of what has happened here this evening, you are now aware of the consequences of my endeavors. But what I can tell you is that we, yes WE, meaning the three guests I’ve brought into your home, are going to Africa to win a fishing tournament.”

          “Can I Get A Witness!” blurted Hazel Brown.

“Ok, honey,” responded Glenn to his daughter, “I find it odd, what you are telling us, but I’ll trust your instincts… and most likely hire professional home protection for Mother and I as soon as you leave.”

Sanda Squatsnfishes attempted to shake the inebriated fog from her head—then downed another martini. Ron Heimburg fluttered his eyeballs in succession—reducing them in size to the circumference of tennis balls.

While Hazel and Jackie continued to keep a watchful eye… two things became clear to Sally. First, their flight to Zimbabwe departed tomorrow morning at 5:30am. This was five hours from the present time. And second, she had just received a text message from an unknown number. The caller explicitly stated, “The Nyami Nyami is waiting for you!”

“These northern pike won’t wait on a bait,” instructed Rusty to his clients. “When they see it, they’re gonna crush it.”

Eleanor reared back and let her spinnerbait sail. Unfortunately, she overshot the runway and landed her bait thirteen yards deep in the thick of the pencil weeds. The only thing living back there was an angry brute of a beaver. Turns out he was unappreciative of being disturbed during an evening soak.

Long Ears’ attempt to cast was better. Or not. His launch flew approximately eight yards from the boat, came down with a violent splash, and left the bulk of the baitcasting reel looking like a swarm of swallows was building a nest the size of a small condo… right there on the spool.

Rusty looked up—scanned the sky—half expecting to see the flock of birds responsible for creating this entanglement from hell.

Link was having none of this. He was so alarmed by the misfire—he scrambled to the rear of the skiff—seeking solace in the arms of his master. Unfortunately, along the route, his hind legs became knotted in the monofilament fishing line, causing him to face-plant like a steer just lassoed by a heeler.

Then he rolled on his back… barked four times at Rusty, saying “I thought this touron told you he could handle a baitcaster. Please notify the proper authorities at PETA.”

Rusty reached for his fillet knife. There was line cutting that needed attention.  

“Here, maybe try this rig,” he offered to Long Ears. Then he handed him a five-foot-long buggy whip rod with a push-button Zebco 202 reel. This combo had been around since someone put water in the lake and was essentially bulletproof. Even for Link, who had four paws.

Then the evening took another turn when Rusty push-poled his skiff into the tules to retrieve Eleanor’s lure. A family of mosquitoes, approximately one million members strong, took offense to the disruption and became violently cannibalistic.  

After intense human bloodletting… The fishing continued.

“Here, just pitch to the edge of the weed line, like this,” Rusty said. Then he let loose by casting Eleanor’s rod and landing the bait within six inches of the weeds. “There, then you let it drop for a split second, before you start…”

And before he could say the word, reeling… ker-bam! Rusty was handing the spinning rod back to Eleanor and she had her clammy hands—wrapped around a 6’10” Fenwick rod that was doubled over with a monster pike hanging onto the end.

“Can I Get A Witness!” screamed Rusty.

–To Be Continued—