Night Fishing with Chevy

DB Crouper
I received a call last week from Louisiana, telling me that Chevy Fouquette, my 68 year old coonass friend and soon to be father-in-law of my son, suffered a stroke. While running tests on him they discovered that , sometime in the past, he had suffered a massive heart attack, and had severe scarring of his heart. He doesn't know when he had the heart attack, even though his doctors don't believe that. They just don't know him very well. Slick's Seven Devils story reminded me of my visit to Sulphur, Louisiana, and the first time i met Chevy.
Chevrolette Fouquette is a full blooded grizzled and weather-worn Coonass retired shrimper from the bayou, whose two shrimp boats ended up on the highway during the Katrina hurricane. Uncle Sam paid him off and he retired. Looking at 25 year old photos, he bore a striking and surreal resemblance to Charles Bronson. He seems a mild mannered man, who can fix or build anything, and has hundreds of close friends who he helps on a regular basis . He lives in a single wide trailer, but spends most of his day in his 1200 square foot saloon, built from the finest materials, complete with his and hers bathrooms, a twelve stool bar, a chef's kitchen, and two big screen tvs.
He is an accomplished chef, a skill he learned in prison when he was much younger. According to family legend, he had an altercation with the town bully in a local bar, and the bully pulled a knife, which angered Chevy greatly, as the bully was 1/2 again as big as him, so he disarmed the guy, but ended up killing him with his bare hands. Chevy's not a big guy, and I thought his family was having some fun with the visitors from Oregon.
After a few days of 103 degree weather, endless beer drinking, and deep fried frogs, chickens, and snakes, Chevy asked for my help with a problem.
More to follow
DB Crouper
Chevy's " estate" consisted of 80 acres two miles west of Sulphur, Louisiana, on a forgotten country road which runs parallel with a dark and mysterious bayou. He has 1/2 mile of road frontage in grass and pasture 500 feet deep, which borders the bayou on the rear, and a 150 foot wide irrigation canal on the south, with a 10 foot high berm to keep the canal from flooding his property. Spaced erratically across the 1/2 mile of frontage are four other single wide trailers of mostly ne'er do well relatives.
Chevy's well kept trailer, saloon, and barn are sited about 200 feet from the road, with a man-made pond about 200 feet in diameter behind the house, abutting the bayou in the back. The excavation from the pond forms a berm, about 4 feet tall, and wide enough to run 4-wheelers on the top, forming a circular track about 250 yards in length around the pond, which is fed by a hidden and screened 8' pipe driven into the irrigation canal. The pond is full of 1 to 4 pound catfish and multitudes of assorted bream, reserved for young children's entertainment while the adults barbeque, deep fry, pull pork, and drink themselves silly. Coonass people really do know how to party. Anyway, there was something in the pond, which led to the problem.
are you awake yet? :lol: :whistle:
ya lets here the rest of the story as Paul Harvey would say.
DB Crouper
Chevy handed me a Pabst," DB, I got a problem and need your help. I know you been catchin' some big sturgeon up north, so mebbe you can git dis big ol' channel cat outta my pond. He's eatin' my bream and small cats regular now, no matter how much I feed 'im. Must be now."
"How'd you get such a big catfish in your pond?" I asked.
Chevy took a long pull on his Pabst, exhaled a heavy sigh, shook his head, and spoke, "My worthless coonass cousin, Pierre, was fishin' illegal right under the No Fishing sign in the irrigation canal last summer, and hooked 'im up. He had to bring him over to show him off. He had him in the back of his pickup hopin' I'd skin and feelay it. He's completely useless when when it comes ta stuff a man otta know how to do.
" Anyway, 'bout that time, Amy Cross, our policewoman friend, had just finished her shift, and decided to drop by for a few beers. As she often did, she pulled a power slide into our driveway, lights on and siren wailing, just to let us know she was thirsty. Pierre's survival instinct kicked in, and he did what came natural-got rid of the evidence. Threw that big ol' cat right into my pond before I could stop 'im. The fool's 75 years old an' he ain't done nothin' right yet."
"Chevy, you have been a great host, and I am honored to be asked to help." Frankly, I was getting a little tired of hearing from everybody else around here about how Chevy could do this, Chevy can fix that, Chevy can make that, Chevy can build that, and on and on.... maybe I could get a little Alpha back if I could catch that catfish that eluded him. Hell, I'd even insist on skinnin' and feelaying it.
We waited until dark, and then chose our gear from his tin fishin' shed. I chose the lightest gear, a 5 1/2' green glass rod about the diameter of a broomstick at the butt, and about the same at the tip, but with a little stiffer action than a broomstick. The reel on it looked like two hubcaps with an axle between them, and a jack handle welded on the side for a crank. Chevy picked out some heavy gear. We rigged some wire leaders with 24/0 hooks to avoid hooking the smaller fish, and grabbed some backhoe lugnuts for weights, a couple of woven folding chairs, a bucket of chicken parts, and the big cooler full of PBR. As we climbed the 4' tall berm in the dark that age old feeling in the pit of my soul kicked in. We were goin' fishin'!

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Awesome story so far. Can't wait for the rest.

btw, I almost didn't see this b/c I don't venture into the NFR section very often, glad I did.
k...I will be back later...this be gettin good
DB Crouper
And it was dark. No moon tonight, but the stars hung low as we set up our chairs, the cooler and bait bucket between us. Chevy picked up a hemp rope from the hard packed track that encircled the pond, and laid it in a circle around our chairs. I figured this was to discourage snakes from invading our inner man-circle.. I had more to learn about life in the bayou.
I baited up a drumstick, and chevy hooked up about 1/2 a chicken. We threw our gear beyond the bullrushes and eelgrass into the depths of the inky darkness of the still pool. I thought perhaps his failure to rid his pond of the monster catfish was his too large bait, but I held my tongue. We felt in the dark of the icy cooler's contents, popped the tabs quietly so as to remain secret from our prey, propped our poles up on the back of a chair arm, took a long and meaningful pull on our PBR, and settled in just as the ancient fishermen had eons before.
Inevitably, we drifted into an uneasy sleep, interrupted intermittently by the peck peck of the bream and small catfish furtively attempting to tear off small bits of flesh from the too large bait.
Something unseen, unheard, ominus forced me erect in my chair...

Conclusion tonight
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DB Crouper
What was that...? I pushed the light button on my watch- it was 2:30 AM. Closing time??? My mind wandered...WHACKKK!!! My pole slammed down horizontel on my chair arm...instinctively I lurched out and grabbed the fat pole as it rocketed toward the pond. The heavy metal reel slammed into my wrist, searing pain ignored as my sausage-like fingers closed vice-like on the worn cork of the rod! As I was yanked from my chair, heels dug into the dirt, I bellowed, "FISH ON!!!"
Chevy, sitting calmly in his ratty chair, spoke finally, "That ain't a fish. That's a gator, and a big one at that." He reached into the cooler for a Pabst.
"What the hell do I do!?" I pleaded.
"Keep a tight line. I was told you'd fished before," he said disdainfully, and then took a long pull on his beer, and leaned back in his chair.
As I was being jerked and drug violently down the berm toward the dark pond, I looked back at Chevy for guidance. He was in the middle of tipping back as I felt the wetness around my ankles..the water was very warm. Finally Chevy gave me some good advice,"Keep the line tight. that way you'll keep your distance. I think you hooked Big George. He's been eatin' our calves now goin' on 5 years."
The line went slack....a V appeared out of the darkness, coming toward me.
"Now's a good time to get that line tight again", Chevy volunteered.
I scrambled wildly and clumsily up the berm, chancing a glance over my shoulder, as Big George emerged fom the pond, flames of wetness bursting from his massive shoulders as he shot up the berm, 13 feet of pissed off bull gator. As I approched Chevy, sitting calmly in his chair, ready to tip his beer, he gave a little more advice.
"Keep that line tight. Run him a lap around the pond and see if you can tire him out a little."
I'm a bit miffed at Chevy by now, but my all- encompassing panic is superceding any effective anger.
So is this how it all ends? Running around a pond in Sulphur, Louisiana with a cheap fat fiberglass fishing rod, hooked up with a cow-eating gator that's gaining on me. I could see my obituary, "He could parachute from a jetliner, but , alas, he couldn't keep his line tight."
Like a drowning man, I was ready to let go, when in the distant darkness I sensed and then saw an ...apparition...reaper?... no, it was Chevy, draining his beer and rising from his chair. As I drew nearer to him he reached down for something... I glanced back... George was no more than two strides back. As I reached Chevy, he fell into stride with me. I thought of that old joke-I only have to be faster than you...Then, incredibly, Chevy slowed his pace and moved away from me slightly. Was he sacrificing himself for me? I looked back. Big george was fixated on me, one stride back, closing. I felt at peace...ready to accept the inevitable...floating...peaceful...WHAMMM! The line was tight again!! I looked back...alive.. I threw off the pole.
What I saw next, in the starlight, was Chevy, laid out on the scaly back of Big George, left arm clamped around his jaws, the hemp rope in his sinewy right arm, turning lightening fast wraps round and round George's massive mandibles. He artfully tied off the rope with 2 halfhitches,sat up on Big George's back like a bronc rider, and after about 8 seconds, slid off the left side of the powerless gator, walked over to an old oak tree at the base of the berm, and tied the tag end of the rope to the tree.Big George, purged of his power, glowered at Chevy, but I saw fear and awe in those reptilian orbs, before the second set of eyelids clouded the view into the gator's soul.
"We'll barbeque him tomorrow. They taste like chicken. Now let's see if we can't catch that catfish".
We popped another tab. I couldn't help but think if that bully in the bar fight 25 years ago could have seen what I saw, he'd probably be alive today.

The End
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:clap::clap::clap::clap::clap: very good story.....thanks
thats an awesome story :clap: was gunna wait to read the rest until the morning before i go springer fishin but i couldn't resist :lol:
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Good read! Thanks
Awesome story Mr. Crouper. Two thumbs up!
DB Crouper
I'm glad some of you enjoyed it. Slick inspired me with his super awesome storytelling from a previous website ( that's not as good as it use to be). I can only hope my title is appropriate. It was the hardest part of telling the story.
I like it here more all the time, and only have a couple requests; that Slick not shower me with signs of affection, and that nobody takes umbrage with my story title.
I'll drink to that.
it is a very good story.....looking forward to the next one
That rite thar is a mighty good'un Bro...:lol::lol::lol::lol:

We used to drink some Pabst Blue Ribbon in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
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