Season Four—Episode 12 (EAT, SLEEP, FISH)
Before Cos could finish explaining how he and Clarence Bishop had become separated during their search at Moose Island… Rusty collapsed to the floor. Out cold—tournament over—anxiety forced breakdown.
“Run and get a damp washcloth Celine,” instructed Cos as he lifted Rusty’s head off the floor and placed a throw rug between the hardwood and his noggin.
“I can’t… Without power from the generator there’s no running water at the faucet.” She responded.
“To the lakeshore then,” countered Cos. “Grab a pale and a cloth from the kitchen and go scoop some lake water.”
“Should I continue to hold dinner for everyone?”
“Celine, go, please go—now!” And as she departed the room, he let out an exasperated sigh and included “Thank you.”
“Sally, what are we going to do?” asked Cosmoid. “I came into this business partnership looking for part time retirement. I feel as though my vision for an Eat, Sleep, Fish lifestyle is quickly becoming a mirage.”
And for the first time… Possibly ever… Sally had no response. She stood by the entryway, motionless, not quite believing what she was experiencing here on the island. This alleged Canadian fishing camp (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) was quickly becoming a place where everything that could possibly go wrong—will go wrong.
Her left arm remained in a sling, where she had previously taken a bullet (OK, maybe that wasn’t Rusty’s fault). And now her right shoulder, to the best of her knowledge, had just been dislocated when they piled onto the beach with a not so spectacular boat landing.
“What are we going to do?” she thought to herself… “What the hell am I going to do? Better yet, what am I even doing here in the first place?”
“Cos… This whole mess in a colossal gong show. You have two guests missing and now your TopGunSniper fishing guide has also disappeared. I gotta tell ya…” And before she could finish her thought, the cell phone in her front right jean pocket started buzz-buzz-buzzing.
“Cos,” she asked, “Can you come here and grab my phone out of my pocket? It might be Clarence, although I can’t believe he’d be getting any reception on the lake.”
“Here, let me help,” he offered. Then, removing the cellular device from her jeans pocket, he recognized the name that was flashing on the caller ID: Ben T. Hook. “Do you want me to answer it?”
“Who is it?” Sally countered.
“It’s your Outdoor Modeling Agent.” The only guy that Cos could ever remember meeting, that did not appear capable of dressing himself.
“Just let it go to voicemail,” responded Sally. Then immediately thought, “Thank god, a lifeline!” Ben was incredibly faithful to her—almost to a fault. Just the thought of him leaving a message gave her hope—while at the same time placed a remorseful pit in her stomach.
Just then Celine burst back into the lodge, “Look who I found! It’s the Ministry man!”
“Um, excuse me,” said a strange gentleman entering the lodge on the heels of one overly excited camp chef. “I’m actually Minister Neville Thorne—local religious official—most folks in lake country call me Minister Nev.”
“And here we go again,” said Sally—mistakenly aloud for all to hear. It was Celine’s radio call, now bringing even more chaos to the island. “Somehow, she was talking to the Ministry Officer, and now we have a Pastor in our presence. God knows we could use a Hail Mary. Maybe you have some Catholic powers up your sleeve.”
“Ma’am… I’m simply responding to what I overheard as a call for a Minister… You might be…” And then Minister Nev was interrupted by an abrupt pounding on the main lodge door.
“Good gravy,” perked Celine. “I hope it’s not another dinner guest. I fear we will be short on elk medallions.”
“Evening everyone,” said a man dressed from head to toe in forest green. “I am Minister of Natural Resources Officer, Marlin Salty. Which of you might be responsible for the crisis call on Channel-16 of the marine band radio?”
“Sir,” began Professor Cosmoid Scale, “I believe I can be of assistance in making sense of this whole mish-mash.”
“Good! Because right now I see wrecked boats in your harbor, a camp filled with silence—telling me your generator is down, our local Minister holding a wet squirrel, and in case you’re all missing it—a body laying here on the hardwood!”
Immediately the stakes had been amped up by the presence of the MNR Officer. The only person not on edge was Rusty Flathers. He was still horizontal with no signs of coming out of this fainting spell anytime soon.
“So, Nev… Let’s start with you,” continued Marlin Salty. “Why are you here? Some sort of wildlife blessing?”
“That’s hardly the case,” rebuked Nev. Although petting the head of a wet squirrel may have been interpreted as some form of habitat baptism. Then he continued by saying, “Maybe it is you that is here, in need of a confession appointment!”
“What is this—religion versus government?” Sally muttered to no one in particular. And then as tensions continued to escalate between Thorne and Salty… The comatose camp co-owner on the floor (Rusty) twitched mid-argument and began to slowly wake up.
“Minister Thorne,” Salty continued with pressure, “That squirrel is a protected animal you are handling… I might add, without a license.
“Protected?” questioned Minister Nev Thorne. “This auburn-colored creature of God found me, my good Officer. I consider him a member of my congregation!”
“He’s no worshipper! He’s wildlife! And a gangly rodent at that!”
Nev now holds the squirrel overhead and inspects him as if he’s Simba from The Lion King. “This squirrel is under my spiritual guidance. You have no jurisdiction here.”
From the floor… Barely conscious… Rusty opens one eye and blurts out, “Are we baptizing Links squirrel buddies today?”
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 