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.
“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.”