Several times this last week my dad was trying to get me to take off Friday to go fishing with him. I could have, but it's really not in my nature to take off. Plus, I thought he was joking, he never goes fishing. I told him I couldn't take off, but we could go Saturday. After work Dad called me over to his house and proceeded to show me the catch. That bastard went without me! He had 6 catfish between 4 and 6 pounds. After allowing him to rub it in for a few hours, I asked if we were still on for Saturday. Sure he said.
So I got up about 6am and loaded up the truck and we were off to an uncle's place in the country that had a tank stocked with bass and catfish. We had your regular bait; worms, shrimp, and liver, but were hoping to run into a jack rabbit on the way. Catfish love jack rabbit. They don't really like regular rabbit, but there is something about its long eared cousin that it finds tasty. We turn off the dirt road into a field. "Shortcut" Dad yells. A few minutes later he notices a jackrabbit bouncing up ahead. He looked at me and asked what the hell the problem was and to shoot the damn thing already. Knowing that the last time I shot a .22 was between five and ten years ago he knew I pretty much had no chance. I shot about six times and missed horribly. He smiled and reassured me there would be more chances on our way. A few minutes later another jackrabbit appeared and Dad slammed on the breaks and shot the little bastard on the first shot. I got out and retrieved the jackrabbit and threw him in the back of the truck. Next stop the fishing tank!
Unfortunately, unlike Friday morning the fish just aren't biting. We try all our bait, but nothing. I hooked a small bass and decided I'd take one of the poles and try a little bass fishing instead. I told dad about the plan and walked around the tank to find a good spot. It was hard going around the tank as the mesquite went right to the bank, but eventually I found a clearing. It was a nice cool spot, with a lot of shade and enough room to cast. I caught a few more small bass, but nothing of any real size. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a dark shape moving to me. I instinctively I brought up my fishing pole into a defensive posture. Then I felt something burst thru the pole and hit me square the middle of the head. Dazed I grab my forehead and feel a sting, and then notice blood on my hand. I look down on the ground still a little dizzy see a throwing knife. The fishing rod changed the direction just enough for the blunt handle to hit me instead of the sharp business end. I was pretty lucky. All of a sudden several shapes materialized out of the mesquite trees. Ninja! I know what you are thinking. Fucking ninja are everywhere these days. I scuffle with the ninja, were I get a few more scrapes and a bruise or two, but I sent them running in the end, because like we all know ninjas are really just a bunch of cowards.
I grab my fishing rod and head back to the truck. Damn, that was my favorite rod I think as I carry the broken hero. At least it saved my ass, It was a short but courageous life. I tell dad the story of the knife and the ninjas and he gives me that knowing look. "So you snagged your line on a tree, broke your rod trying to free it instead of just cutting the line? And how many times are you going to get knocked in the head by a low hanging branch before your remember your 6'5? "
I'll remember that next time you're attacked by ninja! In the mean time pass me a beer.