Please enjoy the next post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.
Merry Christmas and happy reading.
“Flummoxed eh?” The Curmudgeon chuckled merrily, effortlessly channeling the Universe’s monologue.
He held his most recently caught trout against his forearm. Brett noticed a series of safety pins in the fabric of The Curmudgeon’s sleeve. He compared the fish’s length to a pin, mumbled something to himself, tossed the trout back in the water, and made a quick entry in the notebook. He stowed it in a pocket before Brett could peek and began slathering up in Purell for the next cast.
A light-bulb went off in Brett’s head. The pins were roughly an inch apart. The Curmudgeon was measuring fish!
“How accurate are your measurements?” He teased, hoping The Curmudgeon might explain further.
“Fishermen lie, gentlemen never tell, scientists record, and college students remain clueless.” The Curmudgeon intoned. “How watch this,” he grinned. He took a deep breath and yelled at the water “subsidized Teslas!” The froth in the water reduced somewhat, the Curmudgeon cast, immediately landed another fish, and got busy measuring it. It was smaller than the ones he’d already caught. “Huh. Teslas don’t do it.” He grunted to himself.
Brett’s mouth dropped. The whole situation was intolerable. “Stupidity is not a waterborne contagion!” He shouted. “Fish don’t have political opinions!”
“Well they’re dumb, that’s an observable fact. I haven’t yet developed the correlation with bad judgment into a mechanism of causality.” The Curmudgeon lectured. “Honestly, I thought electric cars would set them off but it didn’t.” He shook his head slowly. “Clearly I don’t understand the full depth of stupid in play.”
Brett seethed. It’s not an easy thing to see your entire world view subverted by a jerk with M&Ms.
Cindy had melted into the background and was covertly videoing the situation. If a hick beat Brett senseless she wanted it on video. Random violence and a trans-species raptor would make the most popular documentary since the History Channel switched to Aliens!
The Curmudgeon sighed at Brett’s discomfort. It was annoying as hell. The Curmudgeon witnessed breakdowns due to cognitive dissonance with alarming regularity. They just seemed to happen wherever he went. It was such a hassle.
“OK fine”, he hissed, “fish don’t eat M&Ms, they don’t have opinions about Marxist economic theory, and the University doesn’t send stupid downstream from it’s source to this location.”
Brett calmed. The guy was seeing things his way.
Brett glanced at Cindy who had the camera out. She gave him a thumbs up. He’d won the argument, though he couldn’t say how.
Meanwhile, the Curmudgeon had yet another of his patented thoughts. “Yo Cindy, why don’t you play some music for the fish?”
This set Brett off yet again. “What the hell are you…”
“If Boy George brought in a trans-species raptor, what music will set off these fish?” The Curmudgeon wondered.
Brett looked at the churning water. He wasn’t sure “set off” would be a good thing.
“Of course, they’re just normal trout, as you’ve established.” The Curmudgeon needled.
Apparently pleased with his fishing success, The Curmudgeon strode from the streambank, produced two lawn chairs from his truck, and made himself comfortable. He clearly intended to watch a show. He waved for Cindy to occupy the empty chair, which she did with relish.
When Brett asked if there was a third chair, The Curmudgeon only leered and tossed a bag of M&Ms to Cindy. Brett wound up leaning on the van’s bumper. Cindy cycled through her MP3 list and blared dozens of snippets through the PA system without a noticeable result. The Curmudgeon flipped through his notebook, frowning as if the conversion from political slogans to hook filled songs from the point of view of a stupid trout was possible. Brett scanned the skies in case his raptor might return.
“Try Space Oddity,” The Curmudgeon coaxed. “I don’t know if Bowie was gay or just a spaz but it seems on the spectrum.”
“Ground Control to Major Tom…” the PA warbled. Unfortunately, Bowie’s story of detachment and isolation did nothing.
The Curmudgeon was deep in thought. “Too cerebral.” He concluded. “Bowie was a freak but a pretty good lyricist. We need him singing something dumb. How about Let’s Dance?”
Cindy complied and soon their pleasant natural scenery was awash with Bowie’s talk of wearing red shoes to dance the blues. They all saw the hint of a change in the swirling water. The Curmudgeon watched the water with intensity. Brett and Cindy leaned forward. The trout were responding!
