something about the killing

December 12, 2012


Kuris was nimble with his large hands and thick fingers. Creating flies and lures. A cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Sitting on a stool over a vice in his father’s garage. He looked like an ad for Camel’s cigarettes.

“You don’t fish?” he asked.


“Why not?”

“Don’t know. My old man never took me, I guess.” My father’s family were hunters, fishermen, sportsmen. Except my dad. Maybe it was something about the killing.

“There’s nothing like a strike.” Ed took his cigarette out of his mouth and grinned. “Sends a fuckin’ chill up your spine.”


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