Hot K recently graced the greater Tailout, and, as he is a member of the midwest pro-staff, it was only proper and right to show the man an officially badass time. Naturally, this began with a night on the tiles, a cute waitress that K tried unsuccesfully to seduce, a Fugazi playing basement bar, an enlightening visit to the Big Willamette, and a ride home that was payed for exclusively in gold coins.
Then the fun began.
K and I have spent our fair share of rough mornings and late evenings surveying rod tips on Michigan piers, and when Tailout recon hinted at the chance for some plunk style steelhead, the urge couldn't be denied. Now, we know a thing or two about three way swivels, pyramids and big water, but we know very little about police for lease.
You see, kids, HWA Security never patrols Great Lakes pier heads.
What with the terrrrrrists plotting to rape our dogs and beat our wimminz, you never know what kind of fear to look out for. Moslems could be at our gates, commies could be in our schools, hippies could be fishing the Columbia after five pm. The thought of these threats sound like a siren to our men and women in private security uniform, a ringing call to duty in a land beset with criminals. Enter Napolean, and Bob.
"Hey, you boys come up here, and bring the rods."
"You got it"
"There's no fishing after 5. Stop right there"
"My apologies guys, we thought this was open to fishing until dark."
"I'm going to need your fishing licenses and ID. Yeah, all of you. A ranger will contact you in the morning if he feels it's necessary"
"What kind of ranger? State game enforcement, US Fish and Wildlife?"
"Ahhh uh, a Federal Ranger. A federal ranger. Yeah, he'll call you."
I don't know if it was the black hat with "SECURITY" in puff letters across the front, the remarkably dim gaze, or the lack of lucid conversational skill, but Napolean was starting to show his hand. I got out a pen and paper
"OK, so you've got our info and we'll be on our way, but could I have your names first."
Silence. Until a low grunt passed napoleans throat, and a word.
"Because I always ask for identification in these situations."
"Wwell we don't have to give it to you."
"You mean you legally don't have to provide us with your name?"
"Nno, not really."
Now, there's a point where one in our situation realizes that even if you wanted to fight it on prinicipal and you're pretty damned sure you'd make it good, the man in the suit still has you tight by the gonads. So the Tailout took the high road to a beer and a good story and we just let it be. But somewhere theres a federal ranger with our names, and Napolean is still a dirty son of a bitch.
A Tale of Three Steelhead
1 year ago