Random Story #6
There are many things in this world that make sense: calculus, the Style Network, and the Patriot Act, to name a few. Of course, there are a few instances existing that are completely random…and things really don’t make sense at these times. But, when you come across a situation that completely thwarts all capability for rational thought, you tend to enjoy the ride…this story is one of the aforementioned situations.
Paul enjoyed these days. Nothing allowed for his mind to release all the stress of everyday life more than a secluded ice fishing excursion to the placid reservoir outside of town. His Subaru was filled to the brim with gaunt albacore (the fish have very little to eat in the frigid months) spiked on his trusty gaff. These fish were not necessarily caught for food, as much as they were for show. Paul and his bevy of friends had a covert tournament set up, where the winning person receives a cash prize from a group pooling of cash, not to mention the right to abase the losers. The main flaw of this event was that most tended to...well, let's just say they were jealous of the victor.
There were six participating in the GFC, and Paul was currently trailing Otis by 27 fingerlings, as these fish tended to be quite young. However, with today’s catch, Paul would be irrevocably in the lead. He had caught 59 tuna on this frigid Wednesday morning in northern Minnesota, and was extolled by his friends upon his return to the apartment building, where they all had rooms on two adjacent floors. Paul slid the key into his apartment doorknob, and ventured into his dimly-lit apartment, only to find a message requesting him at a fellow fisher’s abode, named Allan, who was rather pudgy and owned a lot of flora, as he was incredibly struck by the rainforest of Panama after his previous vacation. So, Paul went next door and was immediately complimented for his fishing prowess.
“DUUUUDE! How did you reel in all these suckers?” questioned Allan, his neighbor placed juxtapositionally to his apartment.
“I dunno, man, I just made my way out there at, like, six ‘o’clock, and didn’t really get back until like, fifteen minutes ago…” answered Paul.
“You were out there for seven and a half hours? Man, that’s dedication to the challenge. Otis is gonna be pissed, though.”
Otis, a large man of dark skin, was not exactly a daunting person, but he did care about the annual tournament, which took place from February 1st to the 22nd. These six guys, (Allan, Paul, Otis, Sam, Gerald, and David) had participated in this tournament for seven years now, all the way through college. But, since Sam and David were moving away in the summer, this was the final year, so the pot was especially large- $1000.
“Man, you better get cracking if you’re gonna move out of last place; I don’t think that you want to deal with...whatever it is that we'll do to you.” Said Paul.
To clarify, whoever failed to break out of last place became subject to a rather cruel prank, always involving (you guessed it) fish. On the group outing, deceased fish were chucked at one another, followed by large amounts of punching. This was a rather awful tradition, but the guys sold the fish to vendors, so the GFC was profitable for all. (Sam won five years ago and woke up with twenty fish heads surrounding his pillow) Sam's bed was just one of the jokes; David was the winner 7 years ago, so he was subject to a romp around town in a large suit, which coincidentally looked like a large trout.
“I really hope this finish is an exciting one…” replied Allan.
The day was February 21st, and tension was in the air. Otis had reclaimed the lead from Paul, who now resided in third, thanks to Gerald’s fishing prowess. In accordance with the earlier years, this was the Marathon Day. Paul was followed by Sam, David, and Allan brought up the rear.
“You’re goin’ down, Otis!” bellowed Gerald, as he was incredibly cocky.
“If you beat me, I will spike your head through the ice on the lake, man.”
Sam and David never really said much, so they were always the dark horses in the GFC. They had all packed into Otis’s mahogany colored Suburban, and Allan was becoming increasingly worried about the Punishment, so he had a plan…
“Yo, Paul, who you thinks gonna claim victory this year? Me, right?” shouted Gerald over the radio, which was blasting some of Otis’s favorite salsa music.
“Don’t get your hopes up, dude, I think I might make a run at this. My new GPS system can actually cast a sonar wave and find fish under the ice.” replied Paul.
“Just because you’ve got some technology mumbo-jumbo don’t mean anything, Paul. But I can predict one thing; ALLAN’S GONNA LOOOOOSE!”
“Shut the hell up, man.” muttered Allan from the back seat of the SUV.
The men arrived at Lake Latoka, the final designated ice fishing spot. Paul jumped out of the truck, ready to make a heroic comeback. He and Allan proceeded to the right side of the lake, and set up shop on the undulate shore of the crystalline waters. The barred fish swam back and forth through the reasonably shoal waters, and Paul stared at the cirrus clouds above. It was time to fish like never before. (cue the Eye of the Tiger song)
After two hours, Gerald had overtaken Otis, and Paul trailed The O by only 4 fish. Allan was growing incredibly nervous, as he did not want to be pranked or humiliated.
"Come ON, fish! Bite the f'n hook!" he yelled into the lake.
"Calm down, Al; it's just a fun tournament." said Paul.
"SHUT UP, MAN! I FREAKING HATE ALL OF THIS PRESSURE! GOD!" screamed Allan as he stormed away.
"Holy crap..." muttered Paul.
The tournament had raged on for another 4 1/2 hours, and there had been many dramatic events. Otis, Gerald, and Paul had all switched places varying from first to third. With only thirty minutes left in the history of the Go Fish! Challenge, Paul was in third trailing Gerald by 7 fish, and Gerald himself lacking behind Otis, who was ahead by 4 of the angled prey.
"OH! Ow! What the f*ck!?"
Paul scanned the Latoka to see where the anguished cry had come from. It was Gerald, who had been stung by a large bee. Being that Gerald was allergic to bees, he was taken to the hospital by Sam, who was in fifth, beating Allan by twenty fish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Five minutes left!" bellowed David from across the lake.
Otis and Paul were both tied with little time left in the GFC, and bith were racing to the finish. The field (or lake, as it was) was split into two sections, the west half for Otis, and the Eastern side for Paul.
"You're in trouble, Paulie-boy!" shouted Otis from across the lake.
"Keep dreaming, big man!" replied Paul.
Paul had placed his lucky lure on the fishing hook, and the final face-off began.
*Author's note- To be honest, it is very difficult to show suspense in five minutes worth of fishing; so, we'll just skip ahead to the climactic ending--
"10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...FINISH!" Shouted David.
"No one caught anything...Dang." said Allan.
"Well, that was very anti-climactic. What happened, O?" yelled Paul.
"I dunno, man, I guess we fished out the Lakota this year." Otis proclaimed back.
The 4 remaining competitors met up with Sam and Gerald at Abbot Northwestern Hospital to reveal the results.
"Well, guys, this was a pretty great year. As you all know, we had a tie for first place between Paulie and The Big O, so they will do what they will with the thousand clams." announced Sam.
After a brief yet hearty discussion, Otis and Paul decided to give the money back to the participants of the GFC, as a parting gift. This was a true sign of friendship to many involved.
"Also, just so everyone knows: Allan," said Gerald in his morphine-induced state of hysteria, "we've decided not to humiliate you."
"Wow...thanks guys. You have no idea how much this means to me...I'm gonna go get some water, ok?" gushed Allan.
Bang! A flying bedpan hurled by David (hiding in the hallway) struck Allan in the forehead, causing delight to fall upon his friends. They had been friends throughout, and their story was a nice one.
(Now then, wasn't that rather random?"
