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. After their first outing, Trom absconded with their entire haul - four carp between them and one gigged catfish - hopping with great agility off into the trees.Their second expedition, Fletcher extracted a promise from Trom to split the fish 50/50. Trom had since lived up to his word even gutting a carp, with one filet going to each. Kappa were bound to their word with poeple.
But the prospect of spliting zero fish and the Mad Dog 20/20 nearing empty, frustrated mounted in the water troll.
You never step into the same river twice. played like a broken record in the creature’s head.
Trom like wrestling. And, though he would deny it, he like drowing people and horses. These days he laid off on the folk and only the occasional horse when a matter of self-defense or instinct. He grabbed Fletcher from behind, a varsity Line Backer from behind, and the two fell down the bank into the swimming hole. Trom held him under for only a few seconds, enough for the thrill of a flayling farm-boy to set in. Then he let go and they climbed the bank together.
“What the fuck man?”
Trom grabbed him around the waist in the front and with powerful legs pulled him into the water again, not holding him alone.
Back on the grass, Trom explained, with a nervous laugh, “You can never drown in the same creek twice boy.”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
Trom promised to never do it again. The following week Flecher came to their spot on Saturday morning, carrying fishing gear and a case of Natty Light. Trom showed him the secrets of gigging for catfish.