Tiger settled with the court and Trout Unlimited by halving the proposed impacts to the creek and contacting AquaDoubleHelix to create a boutique fish that wouldn’t upset the delicate balance of Nature, yet wouldn’t anger those patrons sending a steady stream of Titleists into the fast water.

Dubbed the “Fairway Trout”, it subsists on a diet of Rock Snot and dry Kibble, isn’t interested in flies whatsoever, fetches anything tossed into the water, sees breathable waders as a hydrant, and announces itself rather soulfully whenever the moon is full.

But most of the time it drapes itself over a hot rock and snores loudly, husbanding precious energy that it semi-promises to use later – were you only to scratch its ears …

It’s Version 1.0, they’ll work the bugs out …

Pikeminnow come to the fly like the cattle feeding the Halliburton coffers, slashing at anything shiny hoping for a glimpse of the hand that feeds them. A monetary orgy masterminded by the disgraced puppet master Karl Rove, who should’ve been handed around like a hash pipe to the depraved flesh pirates of D Block. Ehrlichman and Haldeman took the rap and did time, Cheney’s pit bulls are watered down like cathouse whiskey, free to plunder the lecture circuit like some defiant cur.

I’m fishing, but the weight of the .357 in its shoulder holster is welcome, the hiss of casting overshadowed by the muffled black helicopter, orbiting like a bloated carrion bird, alert for infirmity.

Bass eat flies like Goebbel’s brownshirts storming the Reichstag, and behind me the bank is lined with corpses. The staccato thumping on my fly interrupts the pleasant haze of Jack Daniel’s and twice boiled coffee.

Damn few insects have the nerve to show themselves, those that do are ground into paste by reflex, or swatted remorselessly into the underbrush.

The foam line reminds me of the soiled head on warm beer, rigid and unyielding, an aging Hollywood strumpet with a Botox fetish. Line and fly welcomed unto her aging bosom, where bluegill lie in ambush.

This is the sport of sissies. Lacking the adrenaline rush of driving a snarling battered Cadillac sideways through the streambed … a flaccid surrogate for emasculated hunter-gatherers, who yearn for the heady days of frenzied dance by firelight, smeared with the blood of enemies.

Brownlining is a skid mark on a fine Armani blazer, an abomination akin to tap dancing within the fetid confines of an airport washroom, death is clean by comparison.

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