Trom and Fletcher sat fishing on the bank of Indian Creek, in theory anyway. Four hours in and the sun had moved out of the thick line of pine, blasting solar rays down on their straw hats. This was their fifth outing. Flecher liked hanging with the freaky little green dude with a shell on his back. He was the consummate hillbilly: schrewed but trustworth and came with a supply of varying booze.
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