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.
“Aw shit!” The Curmudgeon griped. “Always saving the damn world…” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. Instead he shoved his hands into leather gloves and waded purposefully into the water. Unlike Brett and the hawk, The Curmudgeon kept his footing. Cindy continued recording.
The Curmudgeon stuck his hand into the spinning whirlwind of fish/bird/missing college student and grabbed something solid. With a grunt he yanked out Brett. Brett was battered; helpless and floppy. The Curmudgeon was an old hand at manhandling clueless livestock and his skills worked fine on the limp college student. With one hand he held the cuff of Brett’s shirt and with the other he brushed off the more or less toothless fish that were gnawing on him.
Brett coughed weakly. Cindy was both relieved and disappointed to know Brett was still alive.
Having removed most of the fish, The Curmudgeon tossed Brett up onto the shore. He landed like an overeducated bale of hay.
Without pausing, The Curmudgeon reached deeper into the mess. This time his hand emerged with the Hawk, grasped by one talon, upside down and flapping. Three trout were hanging on the half plucked bird. The Curmudgeon shook violently and the fish fell away.
“Fly asshole!” The Curmudgeon ordered and he hurled the bird as high as he could.
The Hawk came to its senses and flew away in a wet sloppy retreat.
Cindy recorded the retreating bird’s errant flight before turning the camera toward a battered and lacerated Brett. Brett lay there gasping for breath.
Just then the song ended. The madness at the stream died down as fast as it had started. Cindy ran for the MP3 player to avoid letting it play another song.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” The Curmudgeon grumped. He’d emerged from the stream and was removing a few errant fish that still had teeth locked onto his clothes. Two came off his left arm and he tossed them away gently. One was attached to his pantleg. He kicked it back into the water with a dismissive motion. He made a quick inventory of his condition; checking fingers and toes. Only after assuring himself that nothing was missing, did he take the opportunity to glare at Brett. Nearly killed by stupidfish! What a wimp!