Fish Farm

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The Lord’s Prayer rings through the church, the choir just finishing its rendition, and the priest, seated at the far wall of the sanctuary, stands up to approach the pulpit. Solemnly, he peers into the mass of seated parishioners, before beginning his sermon - his voice echoes loudly as he speaks:

“Romans, 12:17-21: ‘Repay no-one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable, in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God.’” Finally, he concludes: “For it is written: ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’.”

Jack and his wife - a couple in their early sixties - are seated in the front pew. They sit with hands folded; Jack appears particularly attentive, as though hanging on every word.

When the service has ended, the priest makes his way to stand at the doorway, greeting the parishioners as they leave. Jack and his wife wait in line.

“Thank you, Father - your message was truly inspirational. If only we could all live by those words.”

“Thank you, Jack. But those are not my words - they are the words of God. I merely pass them on, to those who are willing to receive them and act accordingly. The peace of the Lord be with both of you.”

Jack sits in the passenger’s seat of the beat up ’92 Pontiac, being driven by his friend Petey - a balding, portly sixty-eight-year old.

It is early afternoon, and they drive along a desolate country road, bordered by nothing but woods and farm land.

Then, suddenly, flashing red and blue lights are illuminating the rear-view mirror.

“Hey, Jack, what’s this cop want? He’s right on our ass!” Petey exclaims, nervously.

Jack turns in his seat, to look through the rear window. “How the fuck should I know? Better pull over.”

They pull over and wait nervously, as the cop car pulls up behind them. A few long seconds pass, before the cop exits his car, and approaches.

They watch, as he momentarily stops, eyeing the large box which protrudes from the Pontiac’s trunk, before continuing toward the driver’s window.

“How are you gentlemen doing today?”

“What’s the problem officer?”

“What’s in the box in your trunk?”

Jack stares straight ahead in sweaty silence. After a second or two, he turns to face the cop, struggling to conceal his anxiety; “It’s a television. We’re takin’ it up to a friend.”

“Television, huh? In a box that big?”

“It’s an old one,” Jack interjects.

At this, the cop turns, and again walks to the rear of the car. He looks over the box once more, before returning to address Petey: “Just where exactly are you taking it?”

“We’re takin’ it to Larry, up at ‘Larry’s Fishin’ Hole’, a couple miles up the road.”

Immediately, the cop strikes a less threatening pose and tone, and smiles; “Oh, you mean Larry Fine. Known him for years - I take my kids up there fishing now and then.” He pauses, then continues:

“Anyway, the reason I stopped you is because you can’t have that box hanging outta the trunk like that, without a flag on it. A piece of cloth will do it – a red piece would be best.”

Looking over the clutter in the back seat of Petey’s car, the cop points to an old shirt lying on the back seat: “That plaid shirt there - you can use that.”

Jack reaches back over the seat for the shirt.

“That’s about it, boys. By the way, tell Larry that Tim Harbor was asking about him. Have a good day.”

And, with that, the cop gets into his car and drives away.

Jack expels a sigh of relief.

He gets out of the car and proceeds to hang the shirt over the protruding box. When done, he gets back in the car, and they start driving.

“Man, that was a close one!” Jack sighs.

“What do you mean?” asks Petey.

Jack hesitates for a moment, before starting to speak, rather unconvincingly: “Well… you don’t have the money to pay for a ticket, do you?”

“Oh, yeah - I see what you mean,” Petey agrees. “Yeah, that was a close one.”

They are driving for several more minutes, before a sign appears in the distance: “SORRY - NO FISH ARE BITIN’ TODAY. CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.”

Still, they turn in, and drive down the long, dirt lane adjacent to the sign.

A dust cloud is pouring from the rear of the car as they drive - this is Sticksville, for sure.

Larry appears a burly, unshaven man, with a long, scraggy white pony-tail and several missing teeth. He has faded tats on both arms – reading “Nam 68” and “Khe Sanh”, and a huge keloid scar on his left cheek.

Sitting in the rocker on his dilapidated porch, he wears faded blue jeans, and an unbuttoned, ragged, red and black flannel shirt, with cut-off sleeves; his large, shaggy, red mongrel dog, Rusty, lies next to him.

Larry slowly rocks back and forth as the Pontiac approaches. Even as Jack and Petey get out of the car, he continues to rock.

“You got it here alright, I see.”

“Hope it’s gonna work okay, after that ride along your road there,” replies Petey.

“Oh, it’s gonna work just fine, I’m sure,” Larry answers confidently, with a broad grin.

Petey goes to the trunk and starts to untie the box.

“No, leave ’em on,” Jack calls out.

“Well, how are we gonna get it out of the trunk and into the house, if we don’t untie it?”

“You didn’t tell ’im, Jack?” Larry remarks.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Guess ya wanta make it a surprise, huh?” Larry says, with a laugh.

Jack is silent for a moment.

Then, he turns to Petey, who stands, perplexed, still holding onto the cord which secures the box: “Listen, Petey – there’s no TV in there. Come over here and sit down for a minute.” Jack motions toward the porch.

As they sit, he proceeds to explain, and Petey listens, silently, in a trance-like state.

When Jack finishes, Petey exclaims, in astonishment: “You gotta be shittin’ me!”

“I couldn’t tell you, because I thought maybe you wouldn’t bring me up here if I did.”

“I probably wouldn’t have!” replies Petey. “But, guess what: it’s too late now, isn’t it? So, what happens next?”

“Well, we’re gonna get rid of that ‘TV’ now, once and for all. If you wanta come along, Petey, and help out, that’s okay; but, if you’d rather just stay here and wait, that’s okay too.”

“Let me tell ya, though: it ain’t gonna be pretty,” Larry warns.

“I’m in too deep now - may as well go along for the whole ride,” Petey replies, with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

“Petey, we gotta drive down to the pond,” says Jack.

“No, wait a minute,” Larry interrupts; “We can’t just throw it in there - we gotta do some preparin’ first.”

Jack seems surprised; “What do ya mean?”

Larry points toward a dirt path, which leads to the rear of the house; “Come on - pull it around the back by the garage; follow me.”

Giving Jack a quizzical look, Petey gets back into the car. He drives slowly behind Larry and Jack, following them round the house.

The garage is an old, partially dilapidated building, with hinged doors, which Larry swings open, to reveal walls lined with old car parts, rusty tools and scrap lumber. In the middle of the unit stands a large machine.

“What’s that?” exclaims Jack.

“Meat grinder - commercial grade!” Larry answers, proudly.

“What do we need it for?” asks Petey, anxiously. He is starting to hope the answer won’t be what he is suspecting.

“Get the box outta the trunk – I’m gonna show ya,” Larry says, as a look of realization is also starting to spread across Jack’s face;

“Holy shit!”

Larry explains: “Ya didn’t think we were gonna just throw him in the pond in one piece, did ya? I mean, my guys are pretty good at eatin’ stuff, but they’re not piranhas! If we don’t cut him up it’ll take days - if we do, it’ll be minutes.”

So, Petey backs the car up to the garage and gets out. Walking to the trunk, he starts to untie the box.

“Is this thing going to handle it, bones and all?” Jack asks, timidly.

“Ya gotta quarter up the legs first - then it’ll do ’em just fine,” Larry assures him.

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause I done it before. Let me tell ya how I got this thing in the first place: I us’ta have a huntin’ buddy – Ralph; we always got a couple of deer every season - and sometimes in-between seasons, too, if ya know what I mean. Anyway, Ralph was really into making venison sausage, so he bought this grinder here. Then, about ten years ago, the price of the liver that I us’ta feed the fish with went sky-high, so what I did was: after we dressed out our deer, I took the guts from ’em, and ran ’em through the grinder - made perfect fish food, for free.”

“But, the deer guts didn’t have bones in ’em, did they?”

“No, but I us’ta run the feet and the leftover bones through, too, and they went in just fine.”

“You said it was your buddy Ralph’s machine. How come you got it?”

“Ralph hasn’t hunted in five years now - he can’t no more.”

“How so?” asked Jack.

“It seems that poor Ralph was using the grinder, and he got his hand caught - it took off all his fingers, includin’ his trigger one. After that happened, he didn’t want no part of this machine, so, I got it.”

Petey has untied the box, and they wrestle it from the trunk to the ground, before dragging it into the garage, where Jack untapes it.

Then, he opens the box, and rolls out the plastic bag containing the body.

Larry takes a sheet of plywood, which was standing against the wall, and lays it on the garage floor, in front of the grinder; they roll the bag next to it. Jack draws a pocket knife, which he uses to slit the plastic bag open.

As the body is exposed, Petey flinches at the sight of it. There he is, just as pristine as the day Jack packaged him up.

On seeing the corpse, Larry spontaneously blurts out a grisly compliment to Jack: “Don’t smell bad at all, considerin’ it’s been a bunch of days, now. Ya done a real good job - I don’t think an undertaker coulda done as good as you did, Jack.”

“Jesus Christ!” Petey suddenly exclaims. “That’s one of the guys that forced me down to the bank that day - one of those ‘Fireman Gang’ guys. As a matter of fact, he looks like the boss-man.”

“Well, he won’t be doin’ any more collecting from ya now, that’s for sure,” remarks Larry, as they heave the body onto the plywood.

Larry goes to the rear of the garage, returning moments later with a yellow rain slicker, a shower cap, an old scuba mask and a small electric chainsaw. He points to the body: “Strip him down and stand back.”

“Did you ever do this before?” Petey asks, nervously. “To a human-being, I mean.”

“Can’t say as I have,” Larry answers calmly. Then, he looks up at Petey, and smiles; “Ya know what they say, though: the first time is always the best!”

As Jack strips the body, Larry puts on the slicker, mask and cap. Then, he starts up the chainsaw, with which he proceeds to dismember the body.

After removing one of the arms, he points out a pile of plastic leaf-bags, calling out to Jack: “Grab one of those bags over there, put it under the machine, and run this through.” At this, Larry holds up the arm, for Jack to take.

Jack swallows hard and hesitates. Then, he slowly reaches out for the severed arm.

“Come on, man!” snaps Larry. “You didn’t think this was all on me, did ya?”

Timidly, Jack starts the grinder, and follows Larry’s commands.

A loud crunching noise resounds from the machine, as it struggles to consume the arm. Within minutes, though, the limb has been pulped and spewed into the bag Jack holds beneath it.

A long hour passes, before Larry and Jack have finally finished grinding the body to mincemeat, all of which now fills the plastic bags.

Larry leans the blood covered plywood sheet against the garage door, along with the slicker, cap and mask lying next to it, and washes everything down with a hose. Petey, meanwhile, has just finished vomiting at the side of the garage.

Larry grins, and says to him: “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Petey replies, with vomit still dripping from his chin: “Not so bad!? It was fuckin’ awful!”

Ignoring him, Larry points out a wheelbarrow and shovel, leaning against the side of the garage; “Tie the bag up, so he doesn’t spill out on the way down. And, get that wheelbarrow and shovel.”

He spots a can next to the wall; “Oh, yeah - bring the kerosene can, too.”

Petey obliges, and together they start to lift the plastic bags into the wheelbarrow.

“Get his clothes and put ’em on top,” commands Larry. Petey gathers up the pile of the dead man’s clothes, and puts them, too, into the wheelbarrow – he sees that Larry is still grinning.

“Okay,” Larry instructs, “let’s get down there – it’s already past their lunchtime.”

He wheels the barrow to the fish pond, as Jack and Petey follow. Once there, he cuts the first bag open, revealing the red, pulpy mass it contains, and, grabbing the shovel from Petey, dumps a shovelful into the pond.

They watch the bright red pools appear in the water, as the mush splashes into the pond; then, within seconds, the color dissipating, as the fish swarm. As Larry works, they voraciously devour every shovelful in an instant. Finally, Larry shovels the last of the body’s remains into the pond.

He then washes what remains from the bag, with the help of his garden hose, before pointing to an old, rusty fire barrel; “Throw his clothes in that barrel over there - we’re gonna burn them; we don’t want any trace of him left - not so much as a fart.”

Jack tosses the pile of clothes into the barrel, and Larry pours kerosene on them, before setting them ablaze. The three men stand in silence, watching, as the flames leap from the barrel.

After a while, Jack asks: “Do you think that will get rid of everything for sure?”

“No worryin’ - if anything got spilled, the rats will take care of it, pronto,” Larry assures him.