Bubba Says

Dear John Malkovich,

Pardon me fer takin’ time off from sendin ya great movie-plot ideas, but I had ta start makin’ some dough. What with the economy tankin’, things has been ROUGH here lately in Dunnellon, Florida. Me an’ Cletus an’ some o’ the boys got ta talkin’ ’bout it, an’ we decided we needed ta git some REAL jobs goin’ here.

We figgered them jokers at the Chamber o’ Commerce wasn’t gonna be much help, ’cause all they’s good at is thinkin’ o’ SLOGANS ta git people ta come here. Fer a while there, it was “Dunnellon, Florida: The Bassfishing Capitol of the World!”, but too many serious fishermen was sayin’ things like, “Say WHAT??”.

Cletus said maybe we oughta try stickin’ ta the TRUTH fer a change, an’ we kicked that-un around fer awhile, but all we could come up with was stuff like “Dunnellon, Florida: It’s NOT Actually Right Up INSIDE the Asshole of the Universe!” or maybe “Dunnellon, Florida: A Great Place To Go If There’s Paper Out On You In Another State”.

Now, I UNNERSTAND that them Chamber People has GOT ta maybe bend the truth jist a lil’ teeny-weeny smidge from time ta time. Most of ‘em is de-velopers, an’ most of ‘em is rich, an’ most of ‘em GOT rich jist by renamin’ stuff. Right close hereabouts, we got “The Cinnamon Patch at Stickingham Ridge”—which USED ta be 1500 acres o’ logged-over turpentine pines till they slapped up 3,000 salmon-colored Tudor cottages—an’ we got “The Landings at Misty River” (which us locals used ta jist call Hellhole Swamp).

(An’ God knows we bin PATIENT with all them Paxil-gobblin’ zombies that came down here an’ BOUGHT them shacks.)

Anyhow, I finally come up with a plan. “Boys,” I told ‘em, “we gotta git that fishin’-tourism thang goin’ again, AN’ we gotta git us some MANUFACTURIN’-type jobs goin’ at the same time.”

They was kinda skeptical when I told ‘em our new slogan was gonna be “Dunnellon, Florida: The Tackle Manufacturin’ Capitol O’ The World”, but I laid it all out for ‘em.

“Lotta Yankees are still comin’ down here ta fish, right?” Lots o’ nods. “An’ they wanna catch BIG fish, right?” Uh-huh. “HUGE fish!” OH-yeah. “An’ they AIN’T gonna catch no MONSTER fish unless they’s got the RIGHT lure.” Hmmmmm. “Wellsir, we gonna SELL ‘em lures. We gonna sell more lures than all them other lure companies put together!”

Time I ‘splained it all to ‘em, ever-damned-body was ITCHIN’ ta git started doin’ his or her part—an’ nobody complained about me an’ Cletus gittin’ the best jobs, ’cause we thought it up.

Now, there’s a lil’ cove on the Withlacoochee River, an’ that sumbitch is dayud. D-E-A-D–DAYUD! If ya go inta it, ya kin tell right away that somethin’ ain’t right, ya jist cain’t put yer finger on it at first. It’s dirty, in the same kinda way that the sidewalks in a big city gits dirty—I guess the word I’m lookin’ for is GRIMY. They ain’t no obvious source o’ pollution, but I ain’t never had a single nibble in there, an’ neither has anybody else I know. The main river’s thick with waterbirds and turtles. Ain’t never seen one o’ THEM in there, neither. An’ NOBODY—local, anyway—fishes it.

Me an’ Cletus figgered it was PERFECT.

Come first light, we was settin’ right inside the wide mouth o’ that ol’ turdpool in Cletus’ johnboat. Had us a coupla ol’ Zebcos an’ a thermos o’ Dark Roast, an’ we was settin’ there smokin’ cigarettes and waitin’ ta catch the new world’s record largemouth bass.

Now, that may not sound like much of a plan ta ya’ll, but we’d done gone an’ cheated jist a little bit, ’cause we already HAD the new world’s record largemouth bass—all 28 pounds o’ that sumbitch—wrapped up in a blanket an’ stuffed under Cletus’s seat.

Wellsir, I prob’ly oughta tell ya that we wasn’t expectin’ the new world’s record largemouth bass ta put up THAT much of a fight, bein’ made outa rubber an’ mylar an’ that e-poxy stuff an’ all, but we WAS gonna be doin’ all the work makin’ her LOOK like she was a-kickin’ an’ a-floppin’ an’ a-slinging water all over us when we lipped her an’ yanked ‘er inta the boat.

Now, I’ll grant ya that that puppy wouldn’t fool Stevie Wonder from anything much under a hunnert feet, but from where them boats’d be goin’ by in the main channel, she woulda fooled God Hisownself. We figgered He’d prob’ly set this-un out.

‘Long about sunup, the walkie-talkie started cracklin’, an’ it was Leroy, an’ he’d got hisself ALL excited. He’d been hidin’ in the bushes up by the city boat ramp, pickin’ ‘em out future customers fer us in advance.

“They’s a coupla jokers jist pulled out, an’ they got Minnesota tags an’ one o’ them high-sider walleye boats them Yankees seem ta go fer,” he whispered. “I swear ta God, Bubba, they’s dressed up like a coupla goddamn Canadian bonefish guides, got them shirts with the little pegged-down capes on the back an’ them blowholes under the armpits, an’ they’s got rods ya could fight a MARLIN with!”

Me an’ Cletus was up in a flash. He turned us ’round fer the perfect angle, I slipped a hook inta a ring we’d put under the off-side gunnel an’ got ready ta rear back an’ commence ta screamin’. An’ when them jokers hove inta view, I let loose a howl an’ bent that K-mart rod double-an’-then-some.

“Jesus H. Rubberneckin’ Christ on a goddamned pogo stick, Cletus!” I shrieked. “I got me a by-God MONSTER!” An’ we commenced ta hoppin’ around that boat like a coupla meth heads, an’ even through all that clatterin’, we could hear them jokers throttle down ta nuthin’. I cut a glance an’ they was pointin’ an’ jabberin’, but when Cletus lipped ol’ Big Mama an’ pulled her up an’ she commenced ta floppin’, I thought that both o’ them ol’ boys was gonna have one o’ them epiplec….. eplipect…..one o’ them foamin’-at-the-mouth fits.

Me an’ Cletus jammed up hip-ta-hip with our backs to ‘em an’ got Big Mama tucked away in her blanket, then started high-fivin’ each other an’ carryin’ on like a coupla drunk cheerleaders. Shore nuff, them ol’ boys come motorin’ up, all friendly-like but damned near stretchin’ their necks off tryin’ ta look down inta our boat.

“My God, buddy,” the older o’ the two said, “that was the biggest bass I’ve ever seen in my life! You might have a RECORD there! Uh…..could we see it?”

Cletus an’ me got us that all-flusterpated look. “Well, HELL, mister,” I told him, “ones THAT size, we jist put ‘em BACK.” Then we give each other that Yankees-they-must-git-their-brains-sucked-out-at-the-state-line look. “Maybe YOU fellers kin come down here an’ fish fer FUN, but we’s lookin’ fer somethin’ big ‘nough fer DINNER.”

Then comes the cast. A slow side-arm.

“Hell, any danged FOOL kin catch ‘em THAT size—’SPECIALLY in THIS place. Ya jist gotta have THE RIGHT LURE.”

Let it sit. Let it sit!

“Er, what kind of lure would that be?”

Twitch it now, just a little.

“Green Chunker.”

Twitch-twitch.

“Oh. Er, I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one. Who makes it?”

Reel up that slack, now—sloooooooooow.

“Well, HELL, mister. Green Chunkers is FAMOUS. Ol’ Harley makes ‘em. Sells ‘em up at that tackle shop back there by the bridge.” I reach down real casual-like an’ flip open the lid o’ that rusty ol’ two-tray Western Auto tackle box. I don’t keep nothin’ in there BUT Green Chunkers, every size from two-inch ta six-inch, a pair o’ gleamin’ trebles danglin’ from every one o’ them beauties. I grab the biggest one and hold it up for ‘em. “Them littlest ones is OK fer up ta maybe five pounders, but the JUMBO here’s what WE usually toss. Hell, they ain’t but fiftern-ninety-five.”

Lot’s of sputterin’ an’ snortin’ noises. “But…..but, that looks like a piece of GARDEN HOSE with HOOKS on it!”

BAM!

That condescendin’-but-friendly grin o’ mine slams straight over inta that you-ruint-muh-daughter-an’-they’re-about-ta-put-us-in-the-same-cell “smile”. Da-da-ding-ding-ding-ding-DING-ding-diiiiiiing…..

“Well. Reckon we’s too DUMB ta make them FANCY bass lures down here, right, Cletus?”

Cletus is up, his right hand shoved down in the front pocket o’ them baggy ol’ khakis, an’ his voice is like ice.

“Yeah. Dumb. Thank God we git fellers like these comin’ down here. Showin’ us ignorant hillbillies what ta use fer BIG ‘uns.” His cold eyes never leavin’ ‘em.

“Fire that Johnson up, Bubba. We gotta git ta one o’ them BIG CITY tackle shops an’ git us some o’ them FANCY-assed FACTORY-made lures—’fore we git SKUNKED.”

We motor off aways, givin’ ‘em icy lookbacks ’til they go blastin’ away back toward the ramp. Jist ‘fore they round the point, o’ course, we hook up ta that ring again an’ the last thing they see is Cletus settin’ the hook on another U-boat. Usually by about ten o’clock we kin git Harley on his cellphone an’ tell him whether he needs ta git on up ta the True Value fer a couple more fifty-footers.

Sincerely,

Bubba Joe Jim Bob Beets, Jr.
Big-Time Tackle-Marketin’ Executive