Published on February 24th, 2013 | by Tanuki0
End of the Line :: Meteoroid Crashlands in Japan (PART 2)!
The old man jostled about, gripping his fishing rod with his weathered hands, the end wobbling and flailing like a fly swatter as he rushed into position. Hoping it wouldn’t snap, he danced around the shoreline like an aimless madman, trying to get the perfect leverage for such tug-of-war. There was no doubt in his mind: he’d gotten one hell of a bite, but was he strong enough to out-muscle that fish?
What perplexed him almost to the point of uneasy alarm was the strange fight this supposed catch was giving him: so unpredictable and fast with the ability to turn on a dime, stop, then suddenly begin pulling at the old man’s line as if it were angling for him instead. The reel squealed like a piglet as several feet of line were forced from the spool. The old man cursed, “Kuso!” as he toppled forward, catching himself by one knee, almost landing face-first in the water.
Frozen in fear, yet still brimming with pride, the old fogy wouldn’t let go of the rod. He rammed the butt-end of the handle into the saturated ground and pulled back with all his remaining might, kick-starting every ragged muscle his frail frame could muster. The strain on his body as he entered a stalemate with the aqua-beast caused him to quiver and shake like a heaping bowl of of green JELL-O pressed up against 50 mega fairy vibrators. ブルブル!!!
By this point, with such a chaotic ordeal taking place, the geezer half-expected to have hooked the likes of Gamera on his lure. With his pride waning, prayer recitation began jolting through his head like someone throwing the switch on a strobe light. He felt the line was stressed to its limits and one of two things were about to happen: it would snap or he would become overpowered; throttled into the river to some unknown fate.
Crows feet ran like sharp crevices from the edge of his eyes as he shut them tight, waiting for a miracle to happen. Suddenly, the watery thrashing from where he’d anchored his line into the river ceased. The wild commotion subsided to a subtle stirring. The old man held still with his rod firmly in place; beads of sweat slowly dripping down his furrowed brow, mixing with the sheets of dusty dirt that had been kicked up. He squinted out of one eye as if to verify that he was still alive and not some morning breakfast of whatever was clamped at the end of his fishing line. Then, it began to slacken…
The old fisherman began to stand back up, albeit gingerly …cautiously. The line had slackened to a weakened limp, causing a look of puzzlement to come across his face. “Did it swim away?” he wondered. His beady eyes gazed into the river looking for evidence of his prized opponent, but the water was too murky to even suggest a hint of something there. He tugged back at his line intending to rouse the mysterious fish. A good taunting might liven things back up and produce the truly challenging fighter. A few seconds passed by with no skirmish at all. By his estimates the lure was now stuck on something gnarly seated at the riverbed.
He reached into the pocket of his tattered jacket, pushed aside the warm 16 oz. can of Suntory Malts and pulled out his pocketknife. Time to cut the line, his losses, and go home with quite a story that no one would believe. As he brought the blade’s edge to the vacant fishing line, a deep groan belched from the river. It sounded as if a foghorn was being sounded from under the surface.
The water began to thrash once again, but this time it curled around itself like a dog chasing its tail, forming a vortex about 6 feet in diameter. The black hole at the center of the whirlpool echoed a sound of swirling liquid being sucked through vacuum. Ripping right out of his hand, the rod took off and launched right into the spiraling mass of water.
The old man gasped in horror. Not knowing what to do, he erratically flung the beer can at the mouth of the pool (as if that would do any good). Like a grenade exploding on contact, the vortex projectile-vomited a cannon of grayish-green water in the direction of the terrified (and now sober) old man. A shower of droplets rained down upon his shivering body. He crouched in fear, shielding himself with arms above his head as he became soaked to the bone. Crashing down to the ground some 3-feet behind the huddled man was his beloved Shimano fishing rod …now broken into 4 pieces.
He sat there, shivering, wet, bracing himself in preparation for some final impact to take him swiftly into the next life. Minutes went by, but death never came to swoop the old man away as he stayed crouched in the fetal position with his heart thundering like a jack-hammer.
The morning sun now shone bright in the sky and the distant voices of young Japanese students of the Tamana Girls High School carried in the wind. Amidst the muddy soil along the shoreline where the old fisherman remained, a small, snake-like trail could be seen leading from the Kikuchi’s muddy banks and in the direction of the school’s property.