Bass and Beyond a fisherman's adventure

Missouri Fishermen in trouble

Out on the glassy lake, time hung like mist in the early morning air. The water shimmered in peach and lavender, painted by the brush of the rising sun. The fishing boat floated as if suspended in a dream — no ripples, no birds, not even a single bug to slap. Just silence… and the two men in the boat, staring out into the surreal, alien beauty of it all, each caught in their own mental whirlpool of disbelief.

Stan, with his jaw still sore and a half-melted worm dangling from his line, finally broke the silence.
“You know, Carl… I still can’t figure out how that goat got into the motel hot tub.”

Carl didn’t move his head, just blinked slowly like a lizard on a heat rock. “Worse part is, I think it was wearing my pants.”

A long pause. The sun crept higher, casting golden halos around their heads like saints of chaos.

Stan squinted. “You think they’re gonna charge us for the vending machine?”

Carl finally turned. “The one we set on fire, or the one you tried to baptize?”

Stan sighed. “Both.”

They sat in silence again, listening to the eerie stillness, trying not to laugh too hard in case the lake gods were watching.

The night before had been a whirlwind of bad decisions wrapped in cheese fries and mystery moonshine. The bingo hall incident. The spontaneous wrestling match with inflatable flamingos. Carl’s heroic attempt to parallel park a golf cart… in a stairwell.

Yet here they were.

Alive. Somehow unsinged. Floating in a fishing boat that shouldn’t have even been in their possession, watching the sun rise like nothing had happened.

Carl scratched his stubbly chin. “We should be dead. Exploded. Vaporized. Or at the very least, arrested.”

Stan nodded solemnly. “And yet… we fish.”

Carl reached for a thermos that probably held more regret than coffee. “Maybe it was fate.”

“Maybe it was Frank’s raccoon repellent,” Stan muttered, looking suspiciously at the odd green stain on his sleeve.

“Either way…” Carl cast his line into the mirror-slick water, “this lake don’t ask questions.”

Stan followed suit. “Good. ‘Cause I got no answers.”

The sun broke free of the horizon, pouring gold across their shoulders. The fishing boat rocked slightly. A single bass breached the surface like it was applauding them for surviving their own stupidity.

Two men. One boat. A new day. No idea how they made it there, but quietly, absurdly thankful all the same.