Clemson Tibideaux
“Shoot him Tommy!!!!!”
I’m holdin de gatah best I can, but he’s a damn big gatah and I done know how much I gots left in me fore dis big green bastard yanks my Cajun ass over de side de boat. De hook was in. Deys no doubt. I had put de whole chicken on da big hook to make damn sure, if any of dem gators grabbed it, he was gointa have a hook in his gut. My plannin paid off wid dis big sonbitch. I had him, but now it was just a matta uh killin his ass fore he jumps in da boat an bit our legs off or knocked us in da water to have his way wid us fore he dies. Eada way, it want gonna end well sept Tommy puttin some lead in dis damn ting’s head.
“Dammit! Shoot his assssss!” I yell.
Tommy has de gun cocked and ready, but de boat is all ovah de place – bein’ the gatah’s slappin de shit outta it. Tough to get a shot when ya got a 22 an standing in a boat not much bigger dan de gatah – specially when dat gatah be pissed-off as hell. Tommy usually hold de line while I shoot, but my boy is dirteen and it’s time he do some killin.
“Just aim fo de head an shoot, Boy!” I yell agin.
Tommy pulls de triggah an de gun make a sweet sound. Dat gatah? He just relax. Dat’s what I like about de 22’s – dey sing soft. Shotguns, an anythin above a 22, make you take a step back. But a 22? Dat baby will sing night-night to a 20 foot gatah widout makin you piss yo breeches. So when Tommy lets loose dat sleepin pill and dat damn gatah relaxes, I’s happy to pull him in de boat. Den I give Tommy a slap on de shoulder with an “At’s my boy!” trown in for pride and good damn measure.
Tommy axes me all excited.
“We got da limit, Pop?”
“Yeah, Son,” I tole him. “Warden upped us to twenny-tree dis year. So countin de fouteen we ad dis mornin and de nine we got nah, we good da go.”
“Aaaayeee!” he say. “Led’s go make some choose.”
I love my boy’s entusiasm. He ain’t de biggest of my fou boys, but he gotta set uh soccer balls hangin ‘tween his legs, so he ain’t scared a notin. I been takin him out huntin since he was five. Baby boy took to it right away. He likes de hunt. He feels it like me when you comes up on a bouy bobbin around like id’s chasin a squirrel. Den ya grab de line and pull it nex to da boat. Gatah got no choice since he juss swallowed a whole ded chicken wid a big, six inch hook surprise inside. Da hook grabs his gut an gives him no place ta go. He gonna dies soon anyways, so why worry bout it. We done let dem suffer fo longer than we gotta. Not dat I knows how dey feels anyways. You just pulls de rope to de boat an drag dem and dey gut to de surface. Den you puts a slug in dey brain to end all dat thrashin round and humbug.
Tommy gots himself a clean shot in dat second shot. Gatah just give up the ghost. We haul him in de boat an head for home. I got dat dare cleanin shed behind my place just off Bayou Teche. Ain’t but fifty yahd from the bayou. Make it easy to drag even de biggest gatah up to de shed. Once we ged dere, I rig me up some pulleys an hooks ta field dress de gatah. You hook dem and pull dem up from the back legs just under day thigh. You gotta cut dat spinal coad and de arteries on both sides next to day head sos day bleed out. From dere, is just like cleanin a hog oh deer. Rip it down de middle an scoop out whas on de inside. Dem gatah’s got dis slimey smell I don like much. Not like deer. Deer has dis musky smell to dey blood dat is jus sexy… if dat doan sound too weird.
“Damn! This basta ain’t missed a meal!” I tells Tommy while I looks at our last catch all strung up.
“He been at dat Golden Corral,” Tommy jokes. Yeah, my boy got balls an a sense ah humor.
I play long to egg Tommy on.
“Whad you dink made him so big?”
“Wadn’t the all-you-cain-eat salad bar,” Tommy say. “This prime piece of gatah meat been suckin on them all-you-cain-eat snow crab legs.”
“Naw, not enough fat,” I says back, playin as I’s scrubben de gatah down wid bleach. I also tryin not to laugh be jus as cool as Tommy play. “He been grazin the surf and turf. All you can eat crab legs and sirloin tips!”
It take bout 5 beats ah silence afore we boat bust a gut. I love dat boy. I love all four my boys an my little darlin girl. Tommy jus remind me why more ofen dan the uddas.
“You know he’s first in line foah the desert bar!”
Now all I can imagine is dat gatah. Big snout pressed against de sneeze glass. Checkin out de desert an deciding he like anything – de chocolate de best though.
We carryin on an laughin so much, I mess up and slice de gatah’s stomach open while I guttin him. You never wanna do dat, cause now you gotta clean up all dat bile and alf digested fish. You tink his insides smell bad? Dat aint nuttin compared to de smell from inside dat damn stomach.
“Aaaayeee, what’d you do Pop!!” Tommy yells out – jumpin back to keep de bile from getting in his rubba boots. “Dang dat smell bad!”
“Yeah, I mess up and cut de gut,” I say, jumpin back myself. “Go get de hose. We gonna haveda wash all dis shit up.”
I goes over ta my work table an grab my cleanin knives to finish dressin out de gatah. Then I hears Tommy start to sprayin the workshop floor wit da hose.
“Hey Pop. What’s dat?”
I done even boddah ta turn round. I seen whad dese gatahs eat, and I not be s’prised if dey was a spare tire or sometin in dey belly.
“Oh it’s nothin, Tommy. Prolly jus a undigested piece ah squirrel or sumptin.”
“Dat aint no squirrel I eva seen.”
I toyn an look. Shore nuff, days a big, funny-lookin lump sittin deah, so I walks over ta see. I god my gloves on, so I goes head and pics id up to get a bedda look. Id took me a couple seconds fore I realize whad I’s holdin. My knees give out, an I drop dat ting quick. Den I turn even quicker to walk away fore I trow up.
“Back up, Tommy.” I yells as I choke it back. “Just, just walk out da shed right now!”
“Why, Pop. Whad dat is?” Tommy asks, eyes fixed on da lump.
“Is a head Tommy,” I tells him as I steady myself on da workbench.
“Is a god-damn human head!”