Why would men cocoon him in a canoe?
Why would men pump creamed corn into his stomach with a fireplace bellows?
There was one question, though, that would regrettably not occur to him, a far more important question. The question was this:
How long can a human being live, or even stay sane, when trapped for weeks in a canoe full of his own slowly rising waste?
««—»»
“Yeah, yeah, I know you!” the mammoth knife-wielding redneck exclaimed. The knife—a big knife—remained pointed at Ashton’s rapidly paling face.
Bob held his hands up, stammering, “Luh-luh-look, sir. We-we-we’ll give you money, luh-luh-lots of it. Please, just duh-duh-don’t hurt—”
Before Bob could finish pleading for their lives (and pissing his slacks), the rube put the knife down and clapped his hands together so loud, one might think he’d just won the Lotto. His matty beard bloomed into a grin of elation. “You’re Ashton Moronne, ain’t ya?”
“Well, yes, but—” Ashton’s face fell open. “Have we met?”
The rube belted a laugh. “Shee-it no, Mr. Morrone! Yeah, like someone like me livin’ on a dang island has met a FAMOUS TV STAR!”
Ashton’s brain started up when he realized he wasn’t going to be murdered. “You mean…you’ve seen my show?”
“Shee-it! Seen it? I’se worship it!” A fat, begrimed hand stuck out, which Ashton shook with some reluctance, then the slovenly redneck continued, “I’m Esau, sir. I’se live out here on the island with my brother Enoch. We run this here bait shop. But I got me a hobby, see? And—and, aw, shee-it, lemme show ya!”
At once, Ashton was being pulled into the next room. Sheree, Bob, and Carol, all looking widely at one another, followed them in. The bait shop’s fetor quickly changed over to luscious aromas. What they’d walked into was a small but complete kitchen. And on the walls hung—
You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sheree thought.
—four different posters of Ashton, from his show Cooking With Ashton. Over the range sat a row of Cooking With Ashton mugs, and above that hung a Cooking With Ashton calender. And from a peg on a closet door depended a Cooking With Ashton apron. Even more astoundingly, a small color television in the corner flickered with Ashton’s fat face—ANever simmer the shallots, sweat them, otherwise they’ll lose their sweetness by the time you add the langoste tails”—which seemed to be from the available set of Cooking With Ashton videos.
Ashton stood impermeably stunned.
Giddily as if meeting Brad Pitt, this filth-flecked Esau character huffed to show more of his devotion. “See, see, Mr. Morrone? I even got the mitt!” and then he donned the official Cooking With Ashton stove mitt.
You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sheree thought again.
“My…goodness,” Ashton remarked. “I’m flattered.”
“Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, I live to watch yer show. See, we got one’a them fancified dish-things in back, gets all the cable shows, and my brother Enoch, he didn’t bitch much ’cos he likes ta watch WCW rasslin’,—Sting and all that Goldberg nonsense—but most other times he’ll bitch like a housewife ’bout spendin’ money on account’a we don’t make much, but anyway, I watch all the cookin’ shows—Great Chefs of the World, Epicurious, Carlo’s Creations, Kinion’s Seafood Wonder Kitchen—and none of ’em ain’t dog-doo compared to yer’s, sir.” The rotund and quite malodorous redneck rambled on, visibly shaking with nervousness. “Ya see, sir, I’m a chef too, just like you—er, well, not like you, on account you’re the finest chef in the whole dang world.”
Ashton flashed his big white teeth. “Well, maybe not the finest in the world. I think maybe Wolfgang Kissler and Andrew Puck might have half a leg up on me,” he admitted with a chuckle.
Esau wouldn’t hear of it. “Those dang idjits? Shee-it, they cain’t flip burgers! They don’t know the difference ’tween julienne leeks and Julie Strain. I could kick both their asses with one hand and whip up an plate’a mocha tartufo with the other!”
Ashton went red in the face honking laughter. Eventually he introduced everyone else and explained that they’d come to fish.
“You want good fishin’, Mr. Morrone,” Esau guaranteed, “well Harstene Lake’s got it. We got shad, we got walleye, we got bull trout, brown trout, and blue trout. We got the bridgelip sucker and the greengill sunfish. Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, we got it all!”
“Well…Esau,” Ashton attempted to pronounce. “That sounds terrific. We’ve got our Winnebago and boat on the other side of the lake, so—”
Ashton’s words stopped short like a cartoon character screeching on brakes. His big nostrils opened when he sniffed. “What’s that you’re cooking? It smells great.”
“Aw, just some mushrooms for a quick duck-savior flan. It’s for my Grandpa. He loves it.” Esau extended his dirty hand toward the butcher block table where a small pile of black shriveled things lay.
Ashton’s eyes narrowed in his bulging face. “Mushrooms? Those look like…Perigord truffles.”
“Yeah,” Esau casually confirmed. “They grow all over the island, big as coffee saucers. But if ya ask me, sir, the Gleba truffle is much better than the Perigord. Same flavor but no sting on the palette.”
“What the fuck are they talking about?” Carol whispered to Sheree.
“Tree fungus,” Sheree informed. “Tastes just like mushrooms from the grocery store but the stuff they’re talking about costs hundreds or dollars per pound, wholesale.”
Carol’s nose skrinshed. “It looks like a pile of shit.”
But Ashton was staring at the indecorous rube, floored by his knowledge.
“I agree,” he admitted. “But I hope you’re sweating them in—”
Esau smiled proud. “Cottonseed oil, never olive.”
Ashton and the rube continued their banter while Bob smoked cigarettes. “We’re gonna take a walk,” Carol announced to no response, then grabbed Sheree’s bare upper arm and guided her out.
“Can you believe that geek bullshit?” Carol said once they were back outside. “They’re in there talking about tree fungus the way most men talk about football and Playboy.”
Sheree lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “That shows you where Ashton’s mind is at. All the fat fuck gives a shit about is food.”
“And all Bob cares about is money.”
Sheree snorted a laugh. “Well, I hope Bob gives you more action than Ashton gives me.”
“Don’t make me laugh!” Carol nearly squealed.
For some reason, Sheree felt inclined to confide. “Think you can guess the last time Ashton actually fucked me?”
“I don’t know. A couple weeks?”
“Try eight months. Usually he just asks for blowjobs—”
“Says he’s too tired or stressed out to fuck, right?”
Sheree looked at her friend. “Yeah. How did you know th—”
“Look, look!” Carol suddenly squealed, pointing down over a wooden ramp rail on the side of the bait shop. “See it?”
“What?” Sheree asked.
“Right there! It’s a widget!”
“A…what?”
“A widget! Right there! Lean over the rail! It’s right there!”
Flummoxed, Sheree leaned over the wooden rail, peeling her eyes.