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Tongue Fish

I went fishing last night, not with the rod and string, but with my bare hands. I was following around  a fish all night, a sierra brown one, the colour of the Sierra Madres. I drew a picture of them once, with that colour predominating, and had to eat the picture, I could not resist. Just like today, at work, I saw an old man (a war veteran) wearing a raisin purple shirt. I had no choice to run after him with my mouth flapping and teeth gnashing. 

I saw the fish swimming (as they do) and wagging it's tail, like a dog, but as opposed to a dog, the wagging propelled the fish, which is amazing.

Mary-May was there, but we were both belly deep in water.

"I am here to catch the catfish," she said.

"Mary-May," I said, "There are no catfish in these parts!"

Poor woman, confusing the southern flowing waters with the western ones.

"Where do you think we are? In the Dogbone river?!" And I laughed. "We're here catching Tongue fish."

"Heavens to Betsy!" She cried. "They're poisonous!"

It's true, if any part of their tongue touches you, that's it, you're a goner. But that was a risk we were willing to take, wasn't it Mary-May, for a little piece of the Sierra Madres. I asked this more to myself, which at that point were orange clouds floating not too far away. It was a beautiful evening. The sun was setting. The water was warm, and tickling my privates.

"Are the waters tickling your privates, Mary-May?"

She looked at me, rather confusedly or as though in concentration. After a normal pause, and her with still no answer, but with the same stare, I chuckled nervously to myself and commented on the weather. But not even a weather comment would stop the stare. 

I would have to disregard Mary-May, though, and use all ounces of my strength, cunning and mind power to capture the tongue fish, for it was getting dark, and darkness is like chocolate to the tongue fish, and everyone loves chocolate, except for maybe diabetics, and dogs, and maybe certain breeds of possum.

And for no apparent reason, while summoning up my faculties, I had the image of an old woman explaining rimming on t.v. while numerous rednecks sat round with their rifles and drinks laugh laughing. It could be no other than the mind greeting of the tongue fish.

And what was that sliding past my leg? A severed arm? Used toilet paper? But that was impossible, we were, after all, in the sparkling clean waters of the Leg River. No, it could be nothing other than the tongue fish -- stroking my leg to incite my arousal, as though a way of saying goodbye. 

All I had to do was ready my hands, like claws. LIKE CLAWS! and ready my eyes, to catch the wee gremlin with sight. And there she was, Lilith, I named her, a whoor, I could tell, a smile playing upon her lips.

"Your tongue will not have it's way with me, Lilith!" I shouted.

The cry had managed to snap Mary-May from her stare, who, up until that point, had been eyeing me, and thinking of the alps, and of our sojourn there in the 70's, when I wore my big sunglasses and tight pants, tight pink ski suit and big fluffy ear muffs.  

But now was no time for reminiscing.

"Snap out of it, Mary-May. Soon we will be feasting on the lusciousness that is tongue fish. Can you feel the energy? Can you feel the horror?!" And the whites of my eyes were all that could be seen in the dying light. Her silhouette gave a start, and she clenched a small teddy bear to her chest, which she had previously found in the river. 

The tongue fish eyes were dreamy as though she was in love or trying to seduce me. And my heart tuned to the feeling...  Her eyes like pendants mesmerizing me into complete and utter submission.

What's that, Lilith? Closer? O.k. Whatever you say.

And here comes the Indian love music used to charm cobras. And here comes the tongue, much like a snake, but more like a cactus and kind of like an ear plug, the reusable kind you string around your neck.

  The highest of highs! How I drew my love stare from the mermaid tongue fish, I know not.... Maybe it was Mary-May throwing rocks at my head, or maybe it was the approaching storm blowing up trees not 200 feet from us, whatever it was, for whatever reason, I managed to pull myself from the stare, and more importantly, the tongue, just in time to save my life. It was heading for my ear, the tongue was. It knew no limits. It wanted my brain, my pituitary gland.

Later, driving home from the escapade, me in the passengers seat exhausted, and Mary-May in the drivers seat casting worried glances in my direction, I told her I was sorry, and that to compensate we would go to Disneyland. But she wanted none of it. All she wanted was some steak and beer.

That would be no problem, for I owned several cows, and a brewery.

She laughed. I laughed. And the stars spelled our names in the sky.

The end.


JMH said...

It's a whole story, and so many words in it, and so many of my favorite ones, like "whoore" (which I spell "whoor"), and "mesmerizing" and "possum," which I would arrange as "mesmerizing possum whoor." I envy that.

John Dantzer said...

The mesmerizing possum whoor is an alluring yet filthy beast.