I always wondered what the connection was between my “Gasoline Leech” and the brown water environment. I’ve not thumbed my nose at my quarry for exploiting their obvious weakness – rather I’ve just assumed it was a bit of good fortune that the plastic beads rolled off the table into the bag of Olive marabou.

Blink. Light bulb.

Naturally the fly fisherman in me suggested my creation the product of profound knowledge and artistic genius. My insight into the tainted watershed about me, the creatures that call it home, and the things found dripping into or oozing out of – rolled into a single creative whirlwind of fish death …

… but the scientist in me suggested there was not enough data to assume any connection between the gawky beaded mess and the fish that eat it, and a carrot stick trundled through the pool would have as much impact if twitched fetchingly …

“All living things seek pleasure and avoid pain,” being the scientific rationale why the former is more palatable than the latter. Despite the absence of an impartial third party I was all set to fit that olive wreath to my brow …

… when “Chumley” barfed lunch into my hand …

The fly fisherman in me exclaimed, “I’ve seen that before on the Upper Pit River, when the trout root in the vegetation for Ephemera SmallishKindaBrownia … Your Prescience has extended that cold-water treatise to the present odiferous watershed.”

The internal scientist suggested I was an egoist and hadn’t had an original thought in months. After being pickled in agricultural chemicals and estrogen, bugs taste about as “buglike” as a McNugget resembles chicken, and any fish with brains goes Vegan …

Blink. Light bulb. Fillet this one … it may be the final indignity.