Something Fishy

Chapter 13: Magenta Trout and Ice Cream Trucks

     As I approached the entrance to the Annual Troutface Trout-Catching Tournament, I was once again reminded why I had skipped it every year. A gust of wind delivered the malodorous scent of fish into my face and I shuddered. Taking a deep breath (through my mouth), I straightened my shoulders and stepped through the gate.

       Inside, chaos had ensued. Mud-splattered children ran (and crawled) about like pigs. A group of teenagers were playing pin-the-actual-fish-tail on the actual trout. Across from them, more people were playing darts with one, with its eye as the bull’s-eye.

      I caught a glimpse of something with black and white fur peeking out from behind a corner of a stand selling trout kebabs. It was Myrtle. Had The Boss sent her to make sure that I did my job?

       Now that I looked closely, I realized that there were lots of cats here, sitting on top of stalls and booths and underneath signs. And almost all of them seemed to be looking at me.

      Shivering involuntarily, I quickened my pace. I was almost to the river now. The official Trout-Catching Tournament started in six minutes; I was running out of time.

       As much as I hated to admit it, my inner eco-warrior was actually kind of excited about getting to sabotage this. After all, I would be saving the lives of hundreds of innocent fish, right?

       “Stop right there, lad.”

       Naturally, I kept walking.

      “Hey! You! Stop right there!”

      They couldn’t be talking to me, could they? I glanced quickly over my shoulder. The two stern-looking policemen beckoned me over. Groaning quietly to myself, I slogged back through the mud to where they were standing. What did they want? Did they know about my plan somehow?

      “What do you think you’re doing walking around –”

      I had a miniature heart attack.

     “–without a trout kebab?” said the taller of the two. “You can’t possibly expect to get the full Annual Troutface Trout-Catching Tournament experience without one of these scrumptiously delectable creations to snack on. Here, have one.” He held it out to me as though it possessed the secrets of the universe.

     “Er, thank you,” I said. I was holding it more like it was a grenade that could detonate at any second. “I’ll, uh, go eat it over there.” I began a hasty escape.

     “Oh, you have to eat it now!” said the policeman eagerly, wringing his hands together.

      “Yes, yes,” agreed the second. “Partake in the wonders!”

     “Uh…” I stared down at the greasy lumps of greyish meat impaled on a splintered wooden stick. I opened my hand and it fell to the ground. “Oops. Sorry. I’ll get one later for sure.”

      The policeman gaped at me as though I had done something extremely offensive, which, I guess, I had. “You despicable child,” he whispered to himself, his hand over his heart.

     “Despicable,” echoed the other, shaking his head.

     I decided that now was as good a time as ever to make an exit. Unfortunately, the forces of the universe seemed to have other plans, for not sooner had I turned and began speed-walking away when I collided, face-first, with a trout.

     This was odd for two reasons. One, as short as I was, I was definitely taller than your average freshwater fish. Two, this particular specimen happened to be a rather startling shade of magenta.