Chapter Two: Ole Billy, Fish Schools, and Questionable Fuel Decisions

The sound of forks scraping against metal plates filled the cabin as the two compatriots tried scraping up the last bit of gravy for their final biscuits.

Soppin’ up gravy with biscuits was a time-honored tradition.

Especially in this cabin.

Mark watched Gator lick the last of the gravy from his webbed fingers.

“Gator, I got me a question.”

Gator held up one paw, requesting silence while important business was being completed.

He swallowed.

Took a sip of coffee.

Regretted it.

Recovered.

Then looked at Mark.

“What?”

Mark grinned.

“When you lick your fingers like that… does it taste kinda fishy?”

Silence.

Real silence.

Gator slowly looked at his own hand.

Then back at Mark.

“First of all…”

He pointed a claw.

“Dat may be the most disrespectful question you ever asked me.”

Mark started grinnin’.

“You sittin’ over there askin’ if my fingers taste fishy.”

He held his hand up.

“Do your fingers taste people-y?”

“People-y?”

“Yeah.”

Gator folded his arms.

“I ain’t never looked at you and said…”

He put on a thoughtful expression.

“Mark… when you lick your fingers after gravy does it taste faintly like tax forms and cholesterol medicine?”

Mark nearly spit coffee across the table.

Gator tried staying serious.

Failed.

“…for the record though…”

Long pause.

“…little bit catfishy today.”

Mark stood and tossed dishes into the sink, filled it with water, then turned off the faucet.

The pipes shuddered one last time.

He picked up the coffee pot and tipped it over his cup.

A black goo stretched out like molasses and reluctantly fell into the cup.

Plop.

Gator stared.

“…Mark.”

Pause.

“…I don’t believe dat poured.”

Long pause.

“I think dat gave up.”

Mark ignored him.

“Well Gator, breakfast appears over.”

“No coffee, no breakfast.”

“So Mr. Gator sir, whatcha think about we head over to them old cypress knees and catch ole Billy?”

“We nearly had him last week before he jumped outta the moss and spit the bait back into your eye.”

Gator sat straight up.

“Ole Billy?”

“The fish with one eye?”

“The fish dat stole my red bobber?”

“The fish dat spit a worm back into my face?”

He stood dramatically.

“Mark… dat ain’t no fish.”

He pointed toward the lake.

“Dat’s a criminal.”

The two friends walked down the old wooden steps toward the boat beside the dock.

It swayed back and forth like it might surrender to the lake at any moment.

Mark stepped in and took his place by the motor.

There wasn’t any top on it, so he wrapped the rope around the spool.

Starting attempts were always counted.

Even numbers meant good luck.

Gator climbed in.

The boat dipped.

“Careful now Gator,” Mark laughed.

“You full of biscuits and gravy and da boat ain’t gettin’ no lighter.”

Gator looked down and spotted an old thermos.

He picked it up and shook it.

Thump.

Silence.

Thump.

“…Mark.”

Pause.

“…I don’t wanna alarm nobody…”

“…but I think we accidentally created life.”

Mark wrapped the rope.

Pulled.

WHRRRR… cough…

“One!”

Another pull.

WHRRRR… sputter…

“Two!”

Gator’s eyes lit up.

“Even number!”

Pull.

Pull.

Pull.

“Five!”

Mark grinned.

“Next one gonna do it.”

“Six!”

He yanked.

The motor coughed and sputtered and sounded exactly like Aunt Gertruda during her bout with the whoopin’ cough.

Then it started.

Both threw their hands in the air.

“WHOO-HOO!”

Then Mark suddenly slapped his hands over his mouth.

“Oh shoot!”

“We gotta be quiet!”

“Ole Billy don’t need no warning!”

“We sneak up like fishin’ ninjas!”

Gator looked around.

“Mark…”

“We in a boat dat sounds like pots and pans in a tornado.”

“If Billy got ears he already filed a travel itinerary on us.”

Soon the cypress knees appeared through the fog.

Mark eased back the throttle.

The motor refused cooperation.

Wheezing.

Popping.

Then:

POOOOM.

Dead.

“Well there goes our ninja approach.”

Then Mark scratched his head.

“Can fish laugh?”

“If they can, I bet Billy cacklin’ from here.”

Gator listened.

Blub.

Glub.

He froze.

“Mark…”

Whisper.

“…I think I hear laughter.”

Suddenly—

“CAW! CAW! CAW!”

A crow exploded from the trees.

Silence.

“…Billy hired security.”

“Pppphhhh!” Mark yelled.

“He hired security my speckled bohonkas!”

Then he thought.

“Though if there’s just a smiggle of truth in dat…”

They baited hooks.

Or tried to.

Mark tossed his old dried-up worm into the water.

Fish exploded around it.

Splashing and feeding wildly.

Then he looked around.

“Uh… Gator?”

“Pass me some worms.”

Silence.

Both stared at each other.

Long and hard.

“No bait.”

Long pause.

Then both bent over laughing.

Deep.

Lung-emptying laughter.

While laughing, Gator looked down beside the boat.

The water swirled.

Ripples moved slowly.

Two eyes surfaced.

Ole Billy.

Huge.

Calm.

Watching.

Gator motioned Mark over.

Both stared.

Billy rose a little higher.

And there…

Still hanging from his mouth…

Was Gator’s red bobber.

Billy slowly opened his mouth.

A rusty hook dropped into the boat.

Plink.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then Billy…

Smiled.

And laughed.

The biggest laugh Gator swore he’d ever heard.

Birds exploded from trees.

Snakes slid off logs.

Then Ole Billy slowly sank beneath the water.

The only thing left was Gator’s red bobber disappearing into the murky depths.

Long silence.

Gator folded his arms.

“…Mark.”

Pause.

“…I don’t think we was fishin’.”

Long pause.

“…I think we attended a meetin’.”

Mark sighed.

“I think we need to head back to da cabin and ruminate on this here fo’ sho.”

“I’m pretty sure we still got some crappie in the freezer.”

Mark wrapped the rope around the motor again.

Pull.

Pull.

Pull.

Thirteen tries later he picked up the gas can and shook it.

Nothing.

He slowly looked at Gator.

“Well buddy…”

“Bait ain’t the only thing we ain’t got.”

Both face-planted into the boat.

After a moment Mark looked down and picked up the old coffee thermos.

He rubbed his chin.

“…I just wonder.”

He held it up.

“What do you think buddy?”

Gator stared at it.

Long pause.

“…Mark.”

Another pause.

“…if your question is…”

“Hey buddy, think we oughta drink this?”

“No.”

“Hell no.”

“Legendary no.”

He pointed dramatically.

“We crossed many lines together.”

“We made coffee with a hammer.”

“We ate mystery freezer fish.”

“We attempted ninja fishin’ in a lawn mower with flotation.”

“We witnessed a fish commit psychological warfare.”

He leaned closer.

“But I REFUSE…”

Long pause.

“…I REFUSE to pour thermos coffee of unknown origins into dis boat.”

Silence.

He looked at the motor.

Looked at the thermos.

Looked back at Mark.

Very quietly:

“…how much we got left?”