A Miracle of Catfish Read Online Free Page A
Author: Larry Brown
[â¦]
The wrench slipped off while he was pulling really hard and he busted his knuckle on the rusty exhaust pipe something horrible. Oh God. It hurt so terrible bad he thought he was going to throw up. Oh
shit!
It hurt like a son of a bitch. It hurt so bad it made his stomach hurt. He didnât even want to look and see how much hide heâd torn off this time. He just gritted his teeth and laid his head back on the gravel and put his hand between his knees and squeezed it hard with his knees and didnât look at it and looked at the side of his transmission instead. Something was wrong with third gear in it. It made a bad noise in third gear but Rusty said he knew a guy down at Bruce who could fix it. But it would run the way it was. You just had to get some RPMs built up in second before you dropped it into fourth. It would grind a little bit. He needed to get some insurance on this thing, too, before something happened to it. Some asshole might slam on the brakes in front of him with no warning.
He looked at his black knuckle. Some skin was torn off it and some blood was leaking out of the black grease. It still hurt like a son of a bitch. He needed some WD-40 after all. It might be worth going to town just for the sake of his knuckles. He wondered if this son of a bitch would crank. He thought that battery had a weak cell. Or maybe that rebuilt voltage regulator wasnât regulating the voltage just exactly right.
He pulled his head out from under the car. Somebody was coming up the road that led past his trailer, and it was just gravel, and it hadnât rained in a long time, and a big cloud of dust rolled up and in and drifted over him when the car went on up the road, and got all in his hair, and settled over the pores of the skin on his face, and he lay there on his back and cussed whoever it was for driving up the road he lived on. He raised up and looked over the fender to see who it was. It was a white Jeep. Mailgirl. [â¦] In a way that he couldnât have explained to anybody, he thought of the road as his. He wondered if that old man up the road was building a catfish pond with that dozer he kept hearing. He sure hoped so. The old man would have to stock it sometime if he wanted some fish in it. And a mess of catfish would be nice. Especially if it was free. Be better than fucking Seafood Junction. [â¦]
4
A Tommyâs Big Red Fish Truck had compartments. For gloves, dip nets, clear polyethylene fish-hauling bags, for little cardboard boxes of thick rubber bands to tie tightly around the necks of the bags after the little fish were in there, in ice cold water, with plenty of oxygen shot in there through a hose to get them safely to your pond, scales to weigh fish, fish fertilizer to make the fish grow, turtle traps to catch turtles that robbed fishermen of their catch by eating them off the stringer where it was tethered to the side of a boat or a dock or a bank, bream traps to keep bream from overcrowding in ponds, spare canisters of oxygen, fish feed, sales slips, promotional brochures, order forms, and other fish-selling paraphernalia [â¦]. It had compressors and generators and refrigeration units built in. There were pens and pencils, black Magic Markers, sure. One always stayed parked in Tommyâs driveway when he wasnât in Vegas so that he could make deliveries to privately owned fish ponds and lakes across the mid-South and Midwest in order to secure capital. Tommyâs hair had turned white from trying to secure so much capital.
Mostly a Tommyâs Big Red Fish Truck had tanks of live fish. It had channel catfish anywhere from four to eleven inches long. It had black crappie one to three. It had largemouth bass two to four. It had hybrid bluegill one to six. It had straight bluegill one to three. It had one- to three-inch redear bream. It had fathead minnows. They were small. It had white amur grass carp. And they were about a foot long. You didnât need
The wrench slipped off while he was pulling really hard and he busted his knuckle on the rusty exhaust pipe something horrible. Oh God. It hurt so terrible bad he thought he was going to throw up. Oh
shit!
It hurt like a son of a bitch. It hurt so bad it made his stomach hurt. He didnât even want to look and see how much hide heâd torn off this time. He just gritted his teeth and laid his head back on the gravel and put his hand between his knees and squeezed it hard with his knees and didnât look at it and looked at the side of his transmission instead. Something was wrong with third gear in it. It made a bad noise in third gear but Rusty said he knew a guy down at Bruce who could fix it. But it would run the way it was. You just had to get some RPMs built up in second before you dropped it into fourth. It would grind a little bit. He needed to get some insurance on this thing, too, before something happened to it. Some asshole might slam on the brakes in front of him with no warning.
He looked at his black knuckle. Some skin was torn off it and some blood was leaking out of the black grease. It still hurt like a son of a bitch. He needed some WD-40 after all. It might be worth going to town just for the sake of his knuckles. He wondered if this son of a bitch would crank. He thought that battery had a weak cell. Or maybe that rebuilt voltage regulator wasnât regulating the voltage just exactly right.
He pulled his head out from under the car. Somebody was coming up the road that led past his trailer, and it was just gravel, and it hadnât rained in a long time, and a big cloud of dust rolled up and in and drifted over him when the car went on up the road, and got all in his hair, and settled over the pores of the skin on his face, and he lay there on his back and cussed whoever it was for driving up the road he lived on. He raised up and looked over the fender to see who it was. It was a white Jeep. Mailgirl. [â¦] In a way that he couldnât have explained to anybody, he thought of the road as his. He wondered if that old man up the road was building a catfish pond with that dozer he kept hearing. He sure hoped so. The old man would have to stock it sometime if he wanted some fish in it. And a mess of catfish would be nice. Especially if it was free. Be better than fucking Seafood Junction. [â¦]
4
A Tommyâs Big Red Fish Truck had compartments. For gloves, dip nets, clear polyethylene fish-hauling bags, for little cardboard boxes of thick rubber bands to tie tightly around the necks of the bags after the little fish were in there, in ice cold water, with plenty of oxygen shot in there through a hose to get them safely to your pond, scales to weigh fish, fish fertilizer to make the fish grow, turtle traps to catch turtles that robbed fishermen of their catch by eating them off the stringer where it was tethered to the side of a boat or a dock or a bank, bream traps to keep bream from overcrowding in ponds, spare canisters of oxygen, fish feed, sales slips, promotional brochures, order forms, and other fish-selling paraphernalia [â¦]. It had compressors and generators and refrigeration units built in. There were pens and pencils, black Magic Markers, sure. One always stayed parked in Tommyâs driveway when he wasnât in Vegas so that he could make deliveries to privately owned fish ponds and lakes across the mid-South and Midwest in order to secure capital. Tommyâs hair had turned white from trying to secure so much capital.
Mostly a Tommyâs Big Red Fish Truck had tanks of live fish. It had channel catfish anywhere from four to eleven inches long. It had black crappie one to three. It had largemouth bass two to four. It had hybrid bluegill one to six. It had straight bluegill one to three. It had one- to three-inch redear bream. It had fathead minnows. They were small. It had white amur grass carp. And they were about a foot long. You didnât need
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