Fishing with Dynamite

“Bastard!”  Jack slapped the catfish but it had died with the stabbing.  When Jack got close enough to the lake shore to stand up, he threw the enormous catfish up in the air with a great grunt.  “Incoming!”  The now, flying dead catfish looked like an incoming missile with whiskers.

The small guy glanced up, flinched and gave out a little scream when he saw it making its final approach.

“Just a fish dead from an explosion.”  Jack laughed.  “Not an explosive flying fish.  Jez, Lewis.  Soldiering turned you into a pussy of a little girl.”

“More practical is all.  Reckless gots you kilt over there.”  Lewis smiled.  “Not kilt yet!”

Jack was soaking wet.  He wore large lose boxer shorts.  They were thin enough when wet to reveal his less than public parts.  Streaks of blood covered the left side of his shorts.

“Crap!  You’re bleeding bad.”  Lewis pointed with a burning stick.  He had always been good at building fires.  “That thing bit your finger off?  Or was it your dick?”





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