Old Bucky that roamed the muddy depths.

There was once a river blue, and legend had it that it crapped out a wide-whitewall spare tire, complete with the dog dish wheel cover still on it.  The river catfish was that awesomely big it seemed, and it was well, a titillation, such to perturb even Crick and Watson and their pet theories of the substance of life.

What was done, some of the old boys had poured straight Castrol and Supertech and some other in the water, Prestone green, and then some Prestone pink, until at last, what looked like a smooth sandbar, the color of blue cheese surfaced.

Twas, perchance, the belly of the great beast.

In the meantime, the Capital Intelligencer-Gazette had nicknamed the big old fish "Bucky" because somebody had come up with something that was either a fish tooth or petrified wood: no one knew the difference, I guess, and Crick and Watson had departed the mortal coil anyway.  The fish tooth thing was the size of a car alternator or turbo charger, kind of a molar that he had lost trying to eat God knows what, maybe even the concrete bridge pilings that supported 29.

Three diesels brought it up, or well, not up cause it would rip apart on the bank, but brought it to water's edge, and they had a field day with it.  There was an entire 1964 Volkswagen Beetle in it, with some muck inside that, which may have once been human.  It reminded me of the time they had found an old Triumph two-wheel in the water, and the whole time I'm thinking that if the rider hit the water at highway speed, he was unconscious entirely, and in the drink.

The Poston's Salvage trucks that were there had pulled 16-foot trailers with them, and believe me, they loaded-up on meat, the good old one-of-a-kind river cat meat.  They also said the whiskers were bigger than their tow cables, and they stood there taking pictures for the newspaper, holding parts of the great beast, the desultory provincial Leviathan, the beast from the deep.

It was the kind of thing, had we not abandoned that technology, the gut could have wintered hundreds of lamps and camplights.