“Hello everyone. My name is Blue Banshee.”

“Hello Blue.”

“Welcome Blue.”

“Hi Mr. Banshee.”

Ramon raised a finger. “Azul. Please feel free to remove your mask if you’re comfortable. We are bound by secrecy here.”

He rubbed his leg. “Perhaps another time.”

“That’s no problem, Azul. Please continue.”

“I have these urges. These desires to achieve this certain… goal of mine and I just keep failing.”

“We like to think of failing,” Ramon said, “as just getting one step closer to success. Heck, failing means you’re at least trying, isn’t that right folks?”

People around the room nodded in agreement.

“Tell me, Azul, are you proud of the work you’ve done toward your goal, despite the setbacks?”

“Well, some of it. I had this really great plan involving, we’ll call it a surprise, but I just ended up falling in a lake. Then my car got stolen. Also my axe wound up in the same lake and then a replacement got stuck in a tree. But I did help out this elderly gentleman, sort of at the expense of my own needs, but it still felt good.”

“Mmhm,” Ramon said.

“I’m sorry, did you say axe?” someone asked.

“Let’s allow Azul to finish,” Ramon said. “Those all sound quite difficult, though it is nice to hear you found joy in helping others. That’s one of our guiding principles. Helping others gets us out of our own heads.”

Blue Banshee shifted in his chair. “So anyway. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. I saw the flyer and figured maybe it’d be good to get a little of these frustrations off my chest.”

“Well, we’re glad you came,” Ramon said. “It’s not easy to put yourself out there. And while I’m not quite sure how your goals align to Overeaters Anonymous, you’re always welcome.”

The group nodded again.

Ramon surveyed the room. “Who wants to share next?”

Blue Banshee let out a breath and sat back. His chair started to creeeaaaaaaaak. A bolt shot from the corner.

CRASH. It collapsed beneath him.

*****

The bowling alley parking lot was nearly empty. A few night owls still knocking down pins. Blue Banshee clicked his remote to unlock the doors on his Hyundai. He stood by his car for a moment, taking in the cool evening air, watching the yellow light flash at the intersection.

“Hey, Azul, wait up,” Ramon said. He jogged from the basement door. “Sorry again about the chair. Hope that doesn’t discourage you from coming back. It’s good to have newcomers. More experiences, more support.”

“Not a problem.”

“So, you work around here?” Ramon asked.

“Between jobs at the moment. Had something up at Camp Shikawa, but that’s fizzled out since they shut down for fall.”

“Seasonal work, that can be tough. But hey, life is cyclical, I’m sure things will turn around. Hang in there.”

“Will do.”

A brightly painted funnel cake truck rumbled past, towing a trailer.

Ramon laughed. “There’s some irony for ya. A funnel cake truck sails by the moment a meeting for people with food disorders lets out. Am I right?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well stay strong. The county fair season starts this weekend. It’s gonna be a wild few weeks. A lot of temptation out there.”

Blue Banshee’s grin was hidden under the mask. “There sure will be.”

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Trailer Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Stonehouse 3: Meet the team responsible for one of the river’s busiest stretches.

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands: A tourist’s big day goes sideways as he drifts into Eastbank Bend.

Line Throwers 3 - We Need Heroes: Recruiting season introduces Johnny, a trailer park lifeguard with big dreams.

Line Throwers 3 - Floating Party Pub: A bachelorette party rescue, while Riverborn County faces a high-stakes opportunity for National Park Designation.

“Don’t forget your lures, dear.”

“I’ve got ’em,” Pete said.

“And your fishing vest.”

“This ain’t my first time.” He reached for the door.

“And the keycard. I’m going shopping, so I won’t be here when you get back. Don’t lose it, either. There’s a replacement fee. We should’ve just gotten those bracelet keys they offered.”

“And pay an upcharge?”

*****

A whistle sounded over the Line Thrower tryout area upriver. It was a rugged section of the county, far from the posh shopping district and Restaurant Row, where campers and outdoor adventurers came to get their fill of Riverborn.

“Move those legs, skink! This ain’t the trailer park pool!” Barrett shouted at Johnny who was staggering past carrying a sandbag over each shoulder.

Johnny dropped them in a designated square, then began unraveling a training line. Another recruit followed close behind. She got her line untangled first and launched it into a tire target. Johnny’s hit a second after and they were off to the next station.

From the observation tower, Sarge lowered his binoculars. “Who are those two?”

A recruit coordinator consulted his clipboard. “Johnny Grade and Cassidy Quinn. She goes by Cass.”

Sarge nodded. “Keep an eye on ‘em.”

Barrett blew his whistle, signaling the next group to launch their kayaks.

*****

Pete flicked his lure beneath an overhanging limb and took a peaceful breath. This was his favorite part of their annual trip to Riverborn county. His wife always tried to negotiate a stay downtown, but he wasn’t paying resort prices when nature was where he wanted to be.

A whistle blared.

Pete winced. “What the devil?” He looked downriver.

Another whistle.

“Christ with cream cheese.” He reached into his pocket for a tin of chew. As he pulled it free, the keycard came with it, flipping into the water. “Oh come on.”

*****

A recruit balanced on a small skiff and sent a line toward an overturned kayak, it fell short of the anchor point. His second attempt sailed wide, splashing against a rock.

Barrett clicked a stopwatch. “Excellent. They’re all dead.”

The recruit began another attempt.

“Just leave it! Get to the rope test!”

*****

Pete moved from the shoreline onto a cluster of rocks, where his keycard was wedged. There it sat. An undetermined replacement fee staring him in the face.

“Not today.” He stepped onto a closer rock. His foot slipped, dunking him straight into the water.

Pete surfaced and gasped, his life jacket bobbing him onto his back.

“Dammit!”

The keycard floated beside him, he grasped at it, but it slipped away. The current now carried them both downstream.

*****

A coordinator blew a whistle. “Ten minute break!”

The recruits scattered near the water’s edge. Some collapsing onto the ground, getting covered in leaves and dirt. Others rested their hands on their knees or found nearby benches.

Johnny leaned against an observation deck railing and wiped his forehead with his shirt.

Cassidy settled beside him. “Johnny, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, filling a plastic cup of water from a Gatorade jug.

“Not skink?”

“To some,” Johnny said.

“Cass,” she said, offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

A recruit sitting on a rock pointed toward the water. “Oh here we go.”

Johnny looked up. A man in a life jacket was bobbing downstream, one hand waving above the water.

“Guess the next tests are starting,” a recruit said.

“Guys is way too committed to the bit. Must want extra credit,” another said.

Pete disappeared, then popped back up.

*****

Sarge raised his binoculars. “We start the simulations?”

The recruit coordinator spoke through a protein bar. “Starts tomorrow.”

Sarge lowered the binoculars.

Pete disappeared beneath the surface again.

“Then that’s not one of ours,” the Sarge said. “Barrett, go!”

*****

Johnny dropped his cup and raced down the dock, snatching a throw bag in the process.

“Where’s he going?” the coordinator asked.

Johnny leaped into a skiff to get a better angle, it rocked from his momentum.

Cass was right behind him, grabbing the mooring line before the boat could swing away.

Johnny launched the bag. The rope unfurled across the water, landing just beyond Pete’s outstretched hand.

“Grab it!” Johnny shouted.

Pete held the line. The current pulled it taut.

Cass spotted a calmer section of water near the dock. “Bring him this way.”

Together, they guided Pete toward the landing.

Barrett was there, pulling Pete to the shoreline.

Pete collapsed on his back, coughing.

“You hurt anywhere?” Barrett said, kneeling beside him.

Pete shook his head. “No. No.”

A cheer erupted from the group. Cass helped Johnny climb out of the skiff, the two exchanged a high-five.

Sarge approached. “Good instincts you two. Real good.”

They both smiled.

“Good instincts?” Barrett said. “The skink didn’t follow protocol.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Sarge replied. “That said, jumping into a skiff at full speed? That’s how a rescuer ends up needing to be rescued.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnny said.

Sarge looked between them. “You both show some real promise. Keep at it.” He headed back toward the lookout.

Barrett helped Pete to his feet. “So what happened to you anyway?”

“Dropped my keycard in the river. Tried to fish it out.”

“You know the resort does key bracelets?”

“And pay the upcharge? Please.”

“It’s eight bucks.”

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—Ricky C.

Edgar’s wrecker never starts on the first try, but tonight he was feeling lucky. He licked his fingers and hit the ignition. It fired.

“Sweet peppers on Suzy.” He smacked the dash. “Knew you’d have it in you.”

Twenty minutes down the highway, he began squinting at the mile markers.

“What’d he say again? Fifty-eight or sixty-eight?” He looked at the ceiling, trying to think, as the truck began to drift. “No, it was fifty-five. Fifty-eight was when I was born… I think.”

The tires crossed the white line and rattled onto the shoulder. “Maybe that was my sister’s birthday, the fifty-fifth.” Suddenly the headlights shone on a massive man in a sheep mask.

Smack.

Edgar slammed on the brakes. “What the hell was that? A burrito salesman?”

He adjusted the rearview mirror. Blue Banshee stood up, rubbing the back of his head. “Whew, it’s just Blue Brand Sheet.”

He hopped out of the truck. “If you’re planning on getting carjacked again in the middle of the night, I’d recommend keeping a flashlight in your back pocket or something.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Blue Banshee put two hands on his lower back and pushed. “You didn’t see an axe go flailing when you attempted to impale me with your wrecker, did you?”

Edgar looked around. “That it there, buried in the trunk of that tree?”

The axe head was stuck in the heart of a pine.

“Hate to say it, but I believe that’s the first kill that axe has had,” Edgar said.

Back in the wrecker, they headed down the road.

“So it was two of ‘em?” Edgar asked.

“Yep.”

“Damn organized crime.”

“I was this close… this close, Edgar to getting my first kill.” Blue Banshee held up two fingers.

“Murderin’s a hard business I reckon. What you don’t count on is even more criminals out there upstaging ya.”

Edgar reached into the door pocket to retrieve something. The wrecker swerved.

“Twinkie?”

“Sure,” Blue Banshee said, unwrapping the spongy treat.

Edgar had one as well and they ate in silence.

Near town, Blue Banshee spotted his car outside a convenience store.

“Hey look, slow down.”

Edgar eased the truck to a crawl. “What, those B33 pumps? Sure, they got better outflow, but you start pumping gas that fast, you’re asking for trouble.”

“Not the pumps. My car.”

“Oh, let’s check.”

“No. No. No. No. No.” Blue Banshee slunk down as best he could with his massive frame, while Edgar pulled in and parked three spots away from the Hyundai.

Blue Banshee peeked out of Edgar’s window. “What should we do?”

The crew came outside. Three of them now, the two Blue Banshee recognized from the hijacking and a third friend they must have picked up.

“Get down,” Blue Banshee said.

“What?”

“Get down!” Blue Banshee shoved Edgar forward. His forehead bounced off the steering wheel.

Honk.

Edgar’s hat fell into his lap. “What happened? Mosquito?”

The three stared at the wrecker for a moment, then drove off. Edgar and Blue Banshee followed.

The crew whipped into the parking lot of a beer store. Three guys piled out and ran inside.

“Wait here.” Blue Banshee jumped from the wrecker. He hurried across the lot and grabbed the driver’s side handle. It was locked. He tried the rear door. Also locked. “Of course.”

Through the window, he spotted a to-go container in the back seat. The peach crumb.

Edgar honked the horn, signaling the guys were at the cashier. Blue Banshee darted back to the truck.

“My pie,” Blue Banshee said, out of breath. “They left my pie in the backseat.”

“Hmm. In my day they’d even eat the air fresheners. Pretty civil thieves if you ask me.”

The party peeled out of the lot, gravel shooting all over.

The wrecker kept up the pursuit until the cars pulled off down a dirt road.

“Any idea where that leads?” Blue Banshee asked.

“That’s the old Santos farm. Ain’t been occupied for years, though. Think most kids head that way to neck.” Edgar rubbed his forehead. “Eww, you think they’re gonna go neck around your pie?”

“Kill the lights,” Blue Banshee said.

Edgar pulled onto the shoulder and switched them off.

“Park beneath that cluster of pines, I’m walking in.”

Edgar grabbed a shotgun from the back bench. “I’m coming.”

“You need that?”

“Could be more mosquitoes.”

They walked into the woods, parallel to the dirt road. Blue Banshee had his axe in one hand, Edgar followed behind, breathing heavily.

“You late for something?” Edgar asked.

“Sorry. Long legs. Big steps,” Blue Banshee said. “And be quiet.”

“Just asking.”

Through the trees, the old Santos barn came into view. A portable lantern glowed above its doors.

The three guys clinked beer cans and slapped each other on the back.

“If they start neckin’ I’m firing,” Edgar said.

“Shhhh.” Blue Banshee smiled beneath the sheep mask. “Stay here.”

He disappeared toward the barn.

Two of the guys climbed into a car and headed back down the road. The remaining guy pulled the Sonata deeper inside, then got out and dragged one of the heavy barn doors across the opening.

“My Hyundai now.”

Something creaked inside the barn.

“What the?”

The man shook his head, trying to ignore his mind playing tricks on him, and continued shutting the barn.

A rusty latch sounded above him.

He stopped.

The hayloft door slowly swung open.

Blue Banshee stepped into the opening, axe in hand.

“Lurch?”

Blue Banshee dropped from the loft, landing heavily on the ground.

The guy stared up at him. “Oh, damn.”

Blue Banshee raised the axe. The guy ran. He only made it a few steps before tripping over a feed bucket.

Blue Banshee stalked toward him, dragging the axe in the dirt.

“Look, man, we were just screwing around. Your car is fine.”

Blue Banshee kept coming.

“Found it!”

Blue Banshee stopped and turned.

Edgar stood in the barn doorway, holding the pie.

Blue Banshee looked at Edgar, then at the teen.

“You better get outta here.”

“Me?” Edgar asked.

“The kid.”

He scrambled to his feet and sprinted past Edgar into the dark.

Edgar watched him go, confused. “Thought you’d wanna murder that fella.”

“I did.”

“So what happened?”

Blue Banshee lowered his axe. “It’d make you an accomplice.”

“I haven’t accompliced anything.”

Blue Banshee looked at him. “You wanna share the pie?”

“I got forks in the glovebox.”

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—Ricky C.

The squire was using a stick to flick something brown from his shoe.

A miller had to sidestep Dale to enter the granary. He gave Dale a dirty look.

“I believe that man just snarled at me,” Dale said.

The squire kept digging.

“Squire, are you listening to me?”

“I am, sir. Shortfalls in gourd identity. The strife of a passerby. All great stuff.” The squire finally broke the chunk free. “Ah, there we are.” He slid the shoe back on and leaned against the horse tie railing.

They both stared across the square, where cheers rang out from the tavern.

“You know, squire, it occurred to me you’ve never told me your name.”

“I have, sir. Remember, we even tried that thing where you stenciled it on the back of my shirt. It’s Je—”

“Pip, pip, that’s enough of your droning. That miller’s coming back out.”

Dale stood taller as the man passed, bumping him on the shoulder with a bag of grain.

“Pardon me,” the man said. He loaded his cart and left.

“Have you seen worse coordination? The man had no control over his limbs,” Dale said.

“He was carrying two forty-pound bags.”

“So you agree he had the upper-body strength of a bedridden handmaid?”

“Yep. That was exactly where I was going.”

A man burst from the bar, stumbling toward the back of the building.

Dale shook his head. “Shameful drunkard, it’s not even noon.”

The squire brightened. “Ah, that brings up an important point. What shall we have for lunch?”

“Fish.”

“Fish?”

“Something light. Trout perhaps.”

“The tavern usually has trout.”

The man began retching behind the building.

“Perhaps we should try and fish ourselves?” Dale said. “How hard could it be?”

“Quite easy. Since I was a boy, my father used to take me before he lost hi—”

“Excellent! Fetch the rods.”

Shortly after, they set up at a nearby stream.

The squire put a worm in his mouth and pulled its body out with his hand.

Dale stared at him in horror. “Good Lord, squire. When was your last meal?”

“Oh, this?” The squire smoothed the worm on his shirt. “Old fisherman’s trick. Cleans the dirt off and straightens it for the hook.”

“I can’t tell who’s enjoying it more—the worm or yourself.”

About an hour later, the squire had caught three fish. Dale successfully scared away a gnat.

The creak of wooden wheels came from the path behind them.

Dale glanced over his shoulder. “Well, well.”

The miller from the granary was pushing a small handcart along the road, with several sacks of grain inside.

“What?” the squire asked.

“Our friend must be making deliveries,” Dale said, lowering his voice. “I want you to distract him. Show him that worm fetish of yours.”

“Oh, I’m certain he uses something comparable. But yes, I will.”

As the miller approached, Dale raised a hand. “Good day.”

“Good day,” said the miller.

“Good day,” said the squire.

The miller stared at him. “Good day.”

“Say, miller,” Dale began.

“My name’s Geor—”

“Irrelevant. I was just having a debate with my squire here. Do you fish?”

“On occasion.”

“Ever straighten a worm with your mouth?”

“Of course.”

Dale gave a disgusted look. “Right, well my squire insists he has the best form but I believe he’s doing it wrong.”

The squire stepped forward. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Dale smiled. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”

While their backs were turned, Dale gathered the three trout they’d caught. He loosened three of the grain sacks and dropped a fish into each.

He returned to find both men with worms dangling from their mouths.

“Good Lord,” Dale said.

The miller pulled the worm slowly through his lips.

“So,” Dale said. “What’s the verdict?”

The miller examined his worm. “Your squire’s got the right technique.”

“Marvelous. Shall we never speak of this again, yes? On your way miller.”

The miller shook his head and pushed off down the path.

The squire looked toward the stream. “We should probably eat, huh?”

“Agreed.”

“Hey where’s the fish?”

“Let’s just say they’ll be awfully easy to fry, seeing how they’re covered in flour.”

The squire stared after the miller. “So they’re already breaded?”

“Uh, huh.”

Both of their mouths started to water.

“Should we get them back?” the squire said.

“Precisely. Come on!”

Dale took off after the cart. “Say, miller! Help us settle something. Which one of us is taller?”

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“I’m on lunch,” he said.

“The Department of Maritime Misconduct waits on no man. We’ve got flag approvals.”

“You know, there was a time when my meal breaks revolved around an ale or three, capped off by a nap and a game of dice.”

“Those were simpler times, dear.”

“First they came for the naps. Now lunch. If they say we have to stop drinking on the shift—”

“I’ll burn the department to the waterline.”

Henry smiled. “I’m a lucky guy, Anne.”

She put an arm on his shoulder and cracked the folder open. “Lucky… and busy. This first one’s from Clamshell Mike.”

Henry snarled. “Always hated that name.” He studied the drawing. “What am I even looking at here?”

“I believe it’s a seahorse inside of a shoe.”

“Fail. What’s the goal there? Strike fear of a foot blister.”

“Not sure. Clamshell is a bit of a doofus, but thinks of himself as the creative type.” Anne set the next flag proof down.

They both stared. Anne rotated the picture.

Henry’s mouth opened. He squinted. “I’ve seen globs of horse dung land in a better formation than this.”

“Fail,” Anne said. “Next, we have Earthworm Tim’s submission from Two Stacked Cows.”

Henry shook his head. “As an aside, who is approving these boat names? Two Stacked Cattle?”

“Cows.”

“Pardon?”

“The ship. It’s Two Stacked Cows,” Anne said.

“That’s objectively worse.”

“I believe Lucy’s been approving. She’s got one eye and low ambition.”

“Ah. Well, that explains it.”

Anne slid the proof toward him.

The flag was bright orange, with two yellow cows stacked neatly atop one another.

Henry leaned closer. “Well, damn.”

“Quite good,” Anne said.

“Exceptional linework, really. The cattle, I didn’t think I’d like their stacked formation, but the udders… it’s somehow captivating.”

“Agreed. The man understands bovine.”

“Normally I’d throw something like this directly in the rubbish, as it doesn’t frighten in the least.”

“But truly impresses.”

“Aye. Approval?”

“Why not?”

“One Eye Lucy’s obviously liberal with the stamp, why can’t we?”

“That’s the spirit.”

Henry pushed back from the table. “Is that all of them?”

“It is.”

“Excellent. Let’s break out the dice.” He stood and raised a hand. “Barmaid! Two more ales here!”

Anne slapped another folder down. “Better make it four.”

“What’s that?”

“Parrot registrations.”

“Cursed to hell, the water rats of bureaucracy.”

Original artwork by

Ahoy!

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^{Header illustration: Claude Lovat Fraiser, Pirates (1922)}

He was working on an American cheese omelet, chewing under his mask.

The waitress approached. “Can I warm up your coffee, sugar?”

Blue Banshee grunted.

“What’s that, darlin’?”

“Yes, please.”

She topped off his mug. “Feeling optimistic about tonight?”

He sat back. “Gladys, I’ve gotta say, I may have made a few mistakes, but tonight is foolproof.”

“Whoa, look at you. Whatcha planning? It’s not that idea about hiding on the roof of the boathouse, is it? I’m telling you, those things are slipperier than a tomato skin rain hat.”

“Delightful metaphor, I suppose. But no. I’m still, ah, waiting to try that one.” He rubbed his shoulder at the memory of sliding off the boathouse roof, slamming onto the deck, and bouncing into the water. “No, tonight, I’ve set a trap.”

“Okay, a trap. I like it.” She leaned against the server station, then laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing. Just the idea of a trap. First thing that popped in my mind was something you’d see in a cartoon where they’re trying to catch a bunny with a box propped up by a stick, but instead of a carrot being on the ground it’d be something campers might eat. That’d be hilarious.”

Blue Banshee shifted some hash browns around on his plate. “Well, I mean, the box wouldn’t be super visible. It’d be covered in leaves and stuff.”

“Oh, Mr. Banshee. Please tell me.”

“What? I got the spicy ramen noodles. They love those.”

She shook her head. “Where’d you even find a box that big?”

“Back of the appliance store. Refrigerator box. I painted it dark, glued on some leaves. It’s fairly well camouflaged, especially at night.”

She noticed his shoulders slump. “Well, hey, what do I know? Right? Could be a camper already stuck in there. Though I guess they could just… lift off the box.” She shook her head. “Gladys, there you go again with your negative thoughts. I’ll just let you be. Can I get you anything? Some pie, maybe? On the house.”

“No, no. No pie. Just be on my way.”

“You sure? It’s peach crumb this week.”

“I’ll take it to go.”

*****

Blue Banshee’s Hyundai Sonata meandered down the winding county road. It was about a twenty-minute ride to the parking area near the camp.

He shook his head. “So stupid. Cardboard box trap, like I’m Wile E. Coyote.”

As he came around a bend, he spotted a car parked on the shoulder with its hazard lights blinking. He slowed to a crawl, leaning forward to see what was happening. A figure stood in front, looking under the hood. He pulled to the shoulder and stopped, then cut the lights.

“It appears fortune favors the persistent.”

The stranded man shut the hood after noticing Blue Banshee cut the lights. He was young, late teens, early twenties. He gave a nervous wave.

Blue Banshee grinned beneath the mask. “Poor sheep. Wrong place. Wrong time.” He stepped out of the car.

The young man took a step back upon seeing him. The mask, his intimidating size. “Whoa. Hey man. Cool, uh, cool mask. Early Halloween party or something?”

Blue Banshee remained silent, then slowly walked around the back of his Sonata.

“Hey, uh,” the guy said. “You don’t happen to have, like, a socket set, do you? Think I just need to adjust this belt.”

Blue Banshee opened the trunk. He reached inside and pulled out his axe.

The young man took another step backward.

Blue Banshee lowered the axe head to the pavement and began walking toward him, the metal scraping along the road. Sparks shot every few steps from the steel catching a stone.

“Hey, man, actually I think I’m alright. I’m just gonna see if I can call my roommate. He’s close by.”

Blue Banshee kept coming.

“Seriously, man. I’m all good.”

There were just twenty feet between them. He kept dragging the axe.

Fifteen now.

Ten.

An ignition fired behind him.

Blue Banshee turned around.

The Sonata’s headlights clicked on.

“What the—”

The Hyundai launched back onto the county road, kicking up gravel.

Honk, honk. Honk, honk, honk, honk, honnnnnnnnnnnnkk.

Blue Banshee spun around, hearing the other car start.

The young man was behind the wheel. “Catch ya later, Lurch!” He stomped the gas and peeled away.

Dust settled over the empty road. Crickets chirped from the woods as two engines faded into the night.

“My pie was in there.”

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An old woman picked up a sample from the squire’s makeshift booth and gave it a sniff. Then kept walking.

Dale leaned against the booth’s railing. “Then I told mother, ‘If you insist on bringing home cheese flecked with blue, at least have the decency to serve it after supper. Otherwise we may as well eat in the stable.’ Am I right?”

“I live in a stable.”

Dale curled his lip. “And you’ve got the scent to prove it.”

“Pork bark!”

Another villager stopped briefly, then kept moving to another stall at the center of town.

“I told you these wouldn’t sell,” Dale said. “Pork bark. Nobody understands it. Should have went with pig shingles.”

“It’s not about the sales. Don’t you recall, sir? I covered the plan as you watched me set up.”

“No.”

“And on the walk over.”

“Nothing.”

“And yesterday evening over ales.”

“Listen. If I have to pay attention every time you start one of your ramblings, I’ll need a second squire just to wake me up when you reach the point.”

“Well, to recap, sales don’t matter. I could be selling watering ladles with holes in them.”

“Probably do better,” Dale said, cutting in.

“The thing is, Robin Hood frequents the market to surveil the poor. We wait for a tall, handsome, hooded fellow to approach, properly identify him, and then follow him back to his hideout.”

“Hmm,” Dale said. “I would have preferred advance notice to prepare a disguise, and likeably something more dignified than pork peddlers, but not bad.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Dale adjusted the price sign on the booth. “Alright. Consider me a pork peddler.”

“I always have,” the squire said.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Let’s get to it, sir.”

*****

“Pork bark,” the squire announced.

“Pig shingles. Fresh and firm here,” Dale said.

“Get your pork bark here!”

“Pig shingles! You see how I do it, with flair? That’s how you move hog.” Dale bobbed his head around villagers passing by. “Wait a moment, what about him?”

A tall slender man studied a bag of onions across the square.

“Looks a bit gangly, if I might say.”

“What about him?” Dale said, pointing to another.

“Too homely.”

Dale shook his head.

The afternoon wore on. Dale rejected a baker for being too short and a woodsman for being portly. The squire mistook a miller for Robin, but realized it was his cousin.

Dale slumped against the railing. “This is hopeless.”

The squire shrugged. “Just not our day, I’m afraid.”

Dale suddenly straightened. “There!”

The squire squinted. “I’ll say he matches the description. But man, is that fellow drunk.”

“Oh, it’s all smoke and mirrors. That’s him.”

The man stumbled up to the booth. “Ha! Pig squares.” He burped. “What’ll they think of next?” He then headed toward the alley latrine.

Dale sprung up. “This is it, squire! You hang back and guard the pig shingles. The glory’s mine!”

*****

Dale returned an hour later.

“How did you make out, sir?” the squire asked.

“Followed him about four miles after he stole a bladder of ale from the tavern. He wound up drinking it and stumbling into a ditch. I was convinced it was a trap until I rolled him over with a stick and tried removing his disguise. He had wee’d himself and the beard didn’t budge.”

Dale looked over the booth. All the pork bark was gone. “What happened here?”

“You wouldn’t believe our luck. We sold out.”

“All of it?”

“Some traveler came by with a bag of silver. Bought the whole lot.”

“What an imbecile. No sign of Robin?”

“Nothing.”

Dale looked around. Villagers were collapsing their stalls for the day. “So, a traveler, huh?”

“Yeah. A real pleasant fella. Handed out most of the pork bark too.”

“Strange.” Dale shook his head. “More money than sense.”

“Agreed. And handsome too.”

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—Ricky C.

Mr. Wand, the store manager’s idea to put Gillman on drive-thru had generally been successful. Customer complaints were down, drinks were coming out less soggy, and the per capita flies had plummeted.

A white SUV pulled to the window.

“That’ll be $18.63,” Gillman said.

“Whoa, you’re that Gill fella everybody’s been talking about!” the customer said, handing off their credit card.

Gillman grabbed it with a moist hand, the customer wrinkled their nose.

“Yes, that’s me. Do you want a receipt?”

“Hot dog. What’s your story? How come there aren’t any more of you?”

“How come there are so many of you?”

“Hmm.” The man looked skyward. “Good question.” Then drove off.

“Gillman,” Samantha said. “You ever notice my name and your name both have ‘man’ in it? Gill-man and Sa-man-tha.”

“Ribbiting.”

Samantha cracked a smile. “Is that more swamp humor? You kill me.” She poured foam on a latte. “We still on for the movie tonight?”

“Eh, I’m feeling less motivated. What’s playing again?”

“Shipley’s Last Voyage. It’s supposed to be really good.”

“I don’t know. Seems emotional.”

“And? There’s nothing wrong with that. We all have emotions.”

Mr. Wand approached carrying two syrup containers. “Gill, smell these. Both expired, but how long do they really have?”

Gillman made a phlegmy inhale over the bottles. “Three more weeks on the Peach Bellini, but the Razz Matazz is more like Raz-Ma-Rancid.”

Mr. Wand handed the raspberry flavoring to Samantha. “Here, just mix it with some Strawberry Lemon Drop. I’ll order a fresh jug next week.”

*****

Later they sat in the cramped cream-colored break room for lunch.

A bug flew out of Gillman’s sandwich. He snatched it out of the air. “Juicy.”

Samantha pretended not to notice. “What do you have there? Mostly flies? Or different kinds?”

Gillman spoke through chews. “Anything really.” His lips smacked, bugs in his teeth. “Mosquitoes are my favorite, but we’ve all seen what’s happened to the price of those.”

“Right. Insectflation.”

Gillman lowered his sandwich. “Exactly.”

“So, are we still on for tonight? Shipley’s Last Voyage?” Samantha shifted into her best movie trailer voice. “Shipley’s got a gruff exterior. But there’s one gentle mille-feuille of a woman who could smooth his sharp edges.”

“I guess.”

Samantha bounced in her chair. “Good. Because I also told Mr. Wand he could come.”

“I’m out.”

“Oh come on. I’ll tell him he’s got to buy you a bucket of mosquitoes.”

Gillman ran his tongue over his teeth. “Fresh or dead?”

“Fresh.”

Gillman picked up his sandwich. “What time?”

*****

It was just past 9:30, the movie let out. Gillman sat at the curb, waiting for Mr. Wand to pull the car around. His eyes were puffy.

“You alright, Gill?” Samantha asked, sitting down next to him.

He sniffled. “Fine. It’s my amphibious biology. I can’t… theaters. Humidity… How? Tell me how Shipley still sets sail after all that?”

Samantha put her arm around him. Her jacket now streaked with goo. “The call for adventure can do powerful things to a man.”

A red Toyota pulled up. Mr. Wand rolled the window down. “Who’s up for Applebee’s? Boneless wings. America’s favorite.”

“I’d rather be on the boat with Shipley.”

“Me too,” Samantha said. “But Wand’s buying.”

Gillman stood. “Fine.”

They moved toward the car.

“Hey, Samantha,” Gillman said. “You think Shipley makes it?”

“Well, it is called Shipley’s Last Voyage.”

“Maybe he retires.”

They got in the back seat.

Mr. Wand turned around. “Anybody got the app? Says we get $5 off if we pre-book a table.”

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—Ricky C.

^{Photo by Nicolas Nieves-Quiroz on Unsplash}

“Yo, Tripp. You see what Crystal was wearing at the pool?” Reggie threw a dart, hitting a twenty.

“Did I see? I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Pretty sure I lost one of the campers downstream.” Tripp threw a dart, missing wide.

“Eh, they’ll turn up.”

Tripp threw again. “Yes. Fifteen.”

“That’s a five,” Reggie said.

“No chance,” Tripp said, walking up to the board and grabbing the darts. “It’s in the wire.”

“You hit the wire. So you deduct points. English Bristle rules.”

“English Bristle. You made that up.”

“Bro, my dad’s got an official dart board in his den. We play all the time.”

“This is what I think of your dad’s den.” Tripp flung a dart through the open window.

“Owww. Hoot.”

They both froze.

“Dude,” Reggie said. “I think you hit an owl.”

“No way.”

“Do it again.”

Tripp launched another dart.

“Owwww! Hoot!”

“Oh, crap. What do we do?”

“Just shut the window. We don’t want it flying in here, and worse yet, you could lose your whistle over animal abuse.”

“That’s all I need. I’m already on thin ice with my folks for putting laxative in the slushy machine at school.”

Outside, a bush rustled. Blue Banshee crawled out, a dart sticking from his shoe. “English Bristle.” He got to his feet and limped away. “I knew I should’ve gone with the steel-toe boots.”

*****

A few hours later, Blue Banshee scrunched flat against the roof of a boathouse. Going after the bros playing darts was a questionable idea. But this would be it. He knew her routine. She’d come, just as she had the last three nights. A female counselor sneaking away from her bunk for a smoke break. Her little secret, and soon he’d be the last one to know.

He waited.

A mosquito landed on the tip of his nose. Not a problem with his mask on. It started to crawl into the nose hole. He swatted at it, taking his hand off his axe. The weapon began sliding down the metal roof. “No. No. No. No. No.”

Sploop. Right into the water.

Blue Banshee exhaled. The mosquito flew away.

Just then, she arrived, bobbing to her headphones. She got to the corner of the boathouse, looked around, and retrieved a pack of smokes from behind a flower pot.

Blue Banshee peered over the edge, sweat building on his forehead. Losing his axe would mean he’d have to get a little more creative. No problem. His first victim was worth it.

She danced in place as she smoked. He wondered her name. Though, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t long for this world.

Blue Banshee slowly rose.

Footsteps clinked down the metal dock. “Hey, Becky.”

Blue Banshee ducked back down.

Becky panicked, spun around, and flicked her cigarette into the air. “God, Jess. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” said the other counselor, stepping into view. She sniffed. “Hey were you smoking?”

Becky rubbed her foot on the ground. Caught.

Jess held out her hand. “Got another?”

They both busted out laughing. Becky grabbed the pack from the flowerpot again.

Above them, Blue Banshee remained perfectly still. The mosquito came buzzing by. He shook his head as it attempted to find the earhole.

The two counselors smoked beneath the stars, enjoying the quiet.

Blue Banshee sniffed. Something smelled strange. He looked over his shoulder. A small flame glowed on his shirt. His eyes widened.

Jess dropped her cigarette into the water. “Should we get back?”

“Yeah.”

They both disappeared back toward the cabins.

Blue Banshee rolled wildly on the roof, slapping at his back. “Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.” His grip slipped on the metal and he began to slide. “No. No. No. No. No.”

Sploop.

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Trailer Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Stonehouse 3: Meet the team responsible for one of the river’s busiest stretches.

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands: A tourist’s big day goes sideways as he drifts into Eastbank Bend.

Line Throwers 3 - We Need Heroes: Recruiting season introduces Johnny, a trailer park lifeguard with big dreams.

A pedal-powered bar meandered through Riverborn’s shopping district. Eight tourists wearing Becky’s Last Splash t-shirts lazily turned the pedals while country music thumped the speakers. At the center, the captain shook a cocktail mixer with one hand and steered with the other.

The bride adjusted her tiara, then tossed back a shot of cinnamon whiskey.

“Woooo!” The rest of the boat cheered.

“Alright, ladies,” the captain called. “Who’s up for another round?”

The party vessel kept cruising as it headed into Restaurant Row. Two elderly couples eating brunch scowled at the disruption.

“Whoop, whoop,” Captain Randy said. “They wish they were on board, don’t they girls?”

The group erupted.

Captain Randy cranked the wheel, narrowly missing a parked kayak. “I can mix and mambo.”

“I like this guy!” the maid of honor said.

Randy grinned. “I’ve heard that before.” He finished making a margarita, took a quality control gulp, and passed it to one of the bridesmaids. “Still got it.”

The women laughed.

“So where y’all from?”

“Tampa.”

“That explains why no one is pedaling.”

More laughter.

Randy leaned against the bar while shaking another cocktail. “So, Miss Bridesmaid. You bringing a date to this shindig or what?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends if you’re busy.”

“Hiooooo,” Randy said and clanged a bell overhead. “Next rounds on me.”

Another resounding cheer.

One of the bridesmaids looked toward the front of the boat. “Uh? Captain… weren’t we supposed to turn back there? This says, ‘Do Not Enter.’”

Randy smiled. “Nah. We’ve got plent—” he looked downstream. “Oh, God.”

*****

Rebecca was eating a coffee cake muffin from her stand overseeing the river, when her radio crackled to life.

“Stonehouse 3. Stonehouse 3. Wayward Pedal Pub in your district. Restaurant Row. Come back.”

“Rebecca here. Confirmed.”

“Rochelle too. Confirmed.”

“It’s all yours, ladies. Last visual: passing Wolf Pack Bar and Grill.”

Rebecca switched to the Stonehouse 3 channel, knowing Rochelle would be doing the same. “You hear that, Rochelle?”

“Already en route, babe. That’s only a few blocks from the pedestrian bridge.”

“See you there. Clean throws.”

“Clean throws!”

Rebecca jumped down from her stand and took off. The muffin rolled into the water.

******

“Everyone pedal!” Randy shouted. “We need ‘em spinning in the opposite direction. Now!”

The bride looked around. “What?”

“Backwards! Pedal backwards.”

The group fumbled to find the wet pedals beneath the bar. Their shoes slipping.

The current kept pulling the pub toward the pedestrian bridge. They’d never clear the overhang.

Diners began standing at their tables, watching the disaster unfold.

Captain Randy reached for the radio again. “We’re not gonna be able to stop!”

Rebecca appeared first, sprinting along the east riverwalk.

Rochelle matched her stride from the opposite bank.

Without hesitation, two throw bags arced over the water. Rebecca’s wrapped the grab rail. Rochelle’s caught the boarding ladder.

“Pull tight!” Rebecca said.

Both women leaned back.

The ropes snapped taut.

Drinks sloshed into the water. The bride’s tiara fell from her head. The Party Pub lurched and slowed, stopping just short of the bridge.

Then applause erupted from Restaurant Row.

Captain Randy exhaled. “You saved more than my tip jar, ladies.”

Rebecca recoiled her line, letting the pub drift into the public landing lane. “Maybe try a little more steering than shaking next time, Randy.”

Randy rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s fair.”

Rebecca met Rochelle at the edge of the riverwalk. The two bumped fists.

“Clean throws.”

“Clean throws.”

*****

Mayor Ray Whitlow clipped the end off a cigar while Sarge stirred a glass of sparkling water with a lime wedge.

“You know,” the mayor said, “one day I’m gonna get you to smoke one of these.”

“You’ve been saying that for fifteen years.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

Sarge smiled. “That’ll be the day you trade brisket for broccoli.”

The mayor laughed and lit the cigar. He leaned back in the leather chair, taking a long puff.

Sarge watched him for a moment. “So, what’s the scoop, Ray? You know I don’t like cigar bars.”

“Well, today was cause for a celebration.”

“What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the mayor said. “They called this morning.”

Sarge sat forward. “The Park Service?”

Whitlow nodded. “We’re finalists.”

Sarge slapped the padded arm of the chair. “No way!”

“As sure as the river flows.”

“So… what’d they say?”

The mayor walked to the window overlooking Restaurant Row. Tubes wandered beneath the evening sun, covered in light from the flickering street lanterns. “You know what this county looked like when we were kids?”

Sarge laughed. “That’s not what I asked, but I’m guessing mostly mosquitos?”

“Mosquitos and bait shops.”

“We’ve still got plenty of both.”

The mayor smiled. “Now look at it, though.” He gestured toward the water. “Families. Modern hotels. High-priced outfitters. People flying in from all over the country just to float our river.”

“It’s been fun watching it grow,” Sarge said. “And brings me back to my question, what’d the Park Service say?”

“They think Riverborn’s ready. National Park designation.”

“Hot damn, Ray. I’m gonna need something stronger than this seltzer.”

Ray turned from the window. “Communities spend generations chasing something like this, Sarge. New investors. Property values climb. Businesses stop worrying about surviving the winter and start thinking about expansion. We’ll no longer be a hidden gem. We’ll be all the ore in the mine.”

“Game changing,” Sarge said.

“There’s just one minor catch.”

“Lay it on me. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“We’ve got to prove Riverborn is safe enough for the designation.”

“Is that it?” Sarge stood. “That’s all they want? Tell ‘em to take a canoe downstream. Hell I’ll paddle myself. You hear about that save of the Party Pub this morning? Routine for us.”

Mayor Whitlow nodded. “Of course I heard. But here’s the deal. We get one shot. July fourth weekend, they’re coming for an evaluation. There can’t be any safety incidents.”

Sarge’s jaw tightened. “The Fourth? Come on, Ray.”

“They want to see how we handle peak season.”

“Listen, I stand behind every Line Thrower in this county, and my crew’s the best of the bunch. But that’s the busiest weekend of the year. Every cocky gunslinger with a brand-new jet ski thinks he’s invincible, and every tourist who can’t swim rents a tube.”

Mayor Whitlow took a puff.

Sarge exhaled and looked back toward the river. “Hell of a weekend to judge safety.”

“Agreed. And they won’t be announcing where they’ll be or when. They just want to experience Riverborn.”

Sarge rubbed his chin. “What if we make it bulletproof?”

“How so?”

“We hire. Really hire. Five times the crew. Flood the river with Line Throwers.”

The mayor shook his head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because people pay for ambience as much as adventure.” He pointed toward a couple getting into a tandem water bike with ice cream cones. “You staff every block with rescue stations and emergency crews, suddenly folks stop seeing a vacation destination. They start seeing a place they might not make it back from.”

Sarge sat for a moment, knowing the mayor was right. “So we do what we’ve always done.”

“Which is?”

“Make clean throws.”

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—Ricky C.

Photo by Alain Gehri on Unsplash

Swords clanged.

“Yield I said!” Dale hollered, bracing himself against the wooden rail of a bridge.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the squire said, lowering his weapon. “I couldn’t hear you over your yelping.”

“I wasn’t yelping, you coward. I noticed you were winded and didn’t want you keeling over into the rushing waters. Force me to explain why my squire is floating downstream… again.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” the squire said. He knelt at the edge of the bridge, scooped some water into a small bucket, and delivered Dale’s drinking ladle.

Dale took a sip. “It’s a bit wet. So you’re lucky I’m parched.”

“Right. It smelt wet. Shall I send a letter to the King? Perhaps he can have the river repaired?”

“Eh, not worth the trouble. These ungrateful villagers wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Speaking of. You know how Robin Hood is always pulling off these amazing feats of generosity, embarrassing you in the process and putting you further and further in the backs of people’s minds?”

Dale’s face soured. “Vaguely.”

“I was thinking.”

“I thought I smelt burning tallow,” Dale cut in.

“What if you came up with your own memorable act of generosity? Remind the people that Robin’s not the only one with a heart in this town.”

The squire scooped a handful of water to drink.

Dale’s eye lit up. “Hmm. That’s not bad, squire. Let me ask you, what’s the one thing villagers use every day?”

“Bum straw?”

“The bridge, you clodpoll.”

“Right. What about it?” the squire said.

“We start charging people to cross.”

“And that helps them how?”

“Well, we’ll collect a modest toll. Call it a donation. A few coppers for passage. Less, of course, a modest administrative fee.”

“Then…”

“We donate a portion of the collection.”

“So you’ll charge everyone for something that was free?”

“Only briefly.”

“And then give some of their money to someone else?”

Dale let out a breath. “This is like having a conversation with an oyster. YES.”

The squire leaned against the railing for a moment. “Couldn’t you just give your own money to the poor?”

“Well then, it wouldn’t be a community effort, would it?”

*****

The next morning the squire rolled a large oak barrel onto the bridge.

Dale stood atop an overturned onion crate. “Donations for the poor!”

“For the poor,” the squire echoed.

“Help your brethren in their hour of need!” Dale called.

“Hour of need,” the squire repeated.

An old man approached and dropped two copper coins into the barrel. “Bless you two and your efforts,” he said.

Dale peered inside the barrel. “Two coppers? Cheap coot.”

“Pardon?” the old man said.

The squire helped him along. “You ought to scoot.”

He scooted away.

A woman in a threadbare shawl approached next and dropped in a single coin.

“Bold of you,” Dale said.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Bless you. Move along.”

A priest was next, his robe dragging in the mud. He raised a hand over the barrel and mumbled something in another language, then walked on.

“Excuse me,” Dale said. “Holy man. Where’s the coin?”

“I prayed for your endeavors. It’s all I have, my son.”

“Son? If you were my father, you’d have a coin pouch as thick as a toad. Move along.”

A man on crutches came next.

Dale turned to the squire. “Oh dear, Lord. Is there anyone not maimed or destitute in this entire village? It’s like they don’t even try to become wealthy.”

*****

That night, by lantern light, the squire counted the haul. “Six coppers. One blessing. One verbal debt. And a fish.” He smelled it. “Dried halibut, I believe.”

Dale let out a long sigh. “Tomorrow we proceed as planned.”

*****

The following afternoon, Dale and squire carried the barrel to the village square, where a beggar sat against the well with his cap out. Dale reached in, lifted the halibut and dropped it into the man’s hat.

“Good fortunes to you, beggar.”

The man looked into the hat. “This fish stinks.”

“Then I suggest you eat it quickly.”

The beggar poked the halibut with a grime-covered finger. “It’s got a film on it.”

Dale wiped his palms on his tunic. “That is a glaze of charity.”

Yield.

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“Name?” Henry asked.

“Bones,” the applicant said.

“Brand?”

“Brand?”

“Aye. What are you known for?”

“I wear a skeleton mask.”

“In this humidity? Good luck. Anything else?”

“I carry a double-barrel handgun, short snout nose. Call it my Squealbone.”

“Intriguing,” Henry said. He looked toward Anne. “What do you think?”

She stepped to within inches of the applicant. “I don’t love the redundancy of Bones as his name and Squealbone as his sidearm. But he’s a right intimidating lookin’ fella.”

Henry nodded. “Agreed. What do you think about a name change?”

“Like what?”

“Corpsy,” Anne said.

“Elegant,” Henry agreed. “Strong.”

“Bit grim,” the applicant replied. “I’d also really prefer sticking to the skeleton theme if possible.”

“Hmmm. What about Marrow Tube?” Henry suggested.

Anne shook her head.

“Tibia?”

“Too soft,” Anne said.

Henry rubbed his chin. “The Rattler.”

“Veto,” the man said.

“Aye,” Henry said, pausing. “I’ve got it. Femur Jack.”

“Not bad,” Anne said.

“Right? You can do a whole thing. Femur Jack’ll crack your… your… anyone?”

“Back.”

“Back, yes, thank you, Anne. I’m just spitballing here, but this has some real potential. You’ve got a distinct silhouette, memorable weapon, humidity sensitive mask which isn’t a dealbreaker. What do you say? Femur Jack?”

“I just had ‘Bones’ stitched onto three overcoats, but I’m in.”

Henry stamped the application. “Congratulations, Mr. Jack. Pirate designation approved. Feel free to set sail at your leisure.”

Henry stood and stretched his arms out. “What have we next, dear? I’m getting hungry.”

Anne pulled something from a satchel behind the booth. “Here. Salted pork.”

Henry took her hand. “Where would I be without you?”

“Still drunk on the floor of the Copper Scales.”

“I do love that bar,” Henry said. “A little too much.”

“We’ve got a 10:30 cannon certification.”

“To the firing range,” Henry said.

A burly pirate was waiting on the dock near a row of iron cannons, cradling a cannonball with both hands.

Henry shook his head. “Have you been holding that the whole time?”

“The madam said it was required.”

Anne grinned innocently.

“Oh, you little devil,” Henry said. “Let’s get started.” He put on a pair of safety spectacles and pointed toward the ocean. “Your target is the center buoy.”

The pirate packed the barrel, lit the fuse, and smiled. Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on the buoy using a spyglass as the fuse sizzled.

“Umm,” Anne said. “He’s standing in front of the cannon.”

Henry lowered the spyglass. “You may want to take a step to the port side.”

The pirate, busy plugging his ears, didn’t respond.

Henry sighed, grabbed the ramrod, and pushed the man out of the way. The cannon blasted.

The pirate looked up. “Where’d it go?”

“A whisker from your spine.”

“Is that good?”

Henry picked up his clipboard. “It means your certification’s denied.”

“Dammit!”

“You’re a kind soul, Henry,” Anne said as they walked back to the application booth. “I would have let him gain a blowhole.”

Henry settled at the table and picked up the next application. “Let’s see who’s next? Ahh. Fortune’s with us, Anne. This next one is a privateer license.” He looked toward the line. “Is there a Whispering Will?”

A tiny man limped up, one of his sleeves was pinned to his shirt. His spectacles were cracked in both eyes.

“No,” Anne said. “Denied.”

“Anne, he’s hoping for privateer. Let’s hear him out.”

“Henry, he’d lose a fight with a warm candle.”

“Oh now. Let’s just see,” Henry said. “Whispering Will, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Will squeaked.

“Says here you have eight years sea experience. Tell us about it.”

“I’ve watched ships.”

Henry nodded. “Observation. An underrated quality. There’s a lot to be learned watching aboard—”

“From the shoreline,” Will added.

“Even better,” Henry said. “Haven’t picked up any bad habits.”

Anne’s jaw opened. “He’ll be dead before sunrise.”

“Now now. Whispering Will, do you understand you’re sworn to escort merchant vessels through pirate waters?”

“I’ve read the agreements extensively.”

Henry smiled. “Prepared.”

“Delicate,” Anne said.

“Prepared and delicate,” Henry said, making a note. “A healthy combination.”

Henry reached for the stamp.

Thunk.

“Approved. Provisional privateer.”

“Yes,” Whispering Will whispered, then coughed into a handkerchief and limped away.

“I can’t believe you approved him,” Anne said.

“Someone has to protect the merchants,” Henry replied. “Or at the very least, give the pirates something to aim at.”

Ahoy!

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^{Header illustration: Claude Lovat Fraiser, Pirates (1922)}

The chef looked up and spotted the massive figure behind the screen.

There’d be nowhere to run.

Blue Banshee tightened his grip and nudged the door open with the axe head.

The chef set the knife down. “You must be Henri. Come in, come in.”

Blue Banshee stopped, then answered in his most menacing growl.

The chef squinted. “From Montreal, right?” He appraised the big man. “I heard you were eccentric, but…I think they undersold it.”

Blue Banshee raised the axe.

The chef sighed. “We can’t have that in the kitchen.”

Before he could react, the chef grabbed his axe, kicked open the screen door, and tossed it into the night.

“There.”

Blue Banshee’s jaw dropped.

“Insurance, liabilities,” the chef said. “You get it. Now, go grab me a squash.”

A minute later, the would-be slasher returned carrying a pumpkin.

The chef frowned. “Close enough. Start by peeling spuds.”

Blue Banshee looked around the kitchen.

“Over there.” The chef pointed to a 50-pound bag of potatoes.

Blue Banshee grunted and reached for the peeler.

The chef nodded and went back to seasoning the stockpot. “Say. What’d you do before this?”

“Aspiring murderer.”

“That the barbecue joint by the highway?”

*****

Later that evening, flashlights bobbed between the trees.

“I hate this game. It’s scary out here this late.”

“That’s the point, Crystal. It’s called manhunt. If it were daytime, we’d just be playing tag.”

Blue Banshee watched from behind an oak, happy to be free from the cursed potato bag and finally back in his element. He spotted a lone camper standing nervously beside a bush. His pulse quickened as he stepped forward. Just then another camper sprinted from the shadows and slapped him on the back, knocking his axe to the ground.

“You’re it! Run, Julie. Lurch is it!”

The two disappeared into darkness. Another camper sprinted past. “Can’t catch me, cement legs.”

Blue Banshee looked around. “I’m what?”

In the distance someone shouted, “Come on! Let’s hide by the creek.”

Blue Banshee sighed and left the forest.

*****

Crickets chirped as a Hyundai Sonata rolled over the air hose at the old gas station.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Edgar, the elderly gas station attendant. He sat outside watching a possum crawl into a bucket of fried chicken.

“Well, look who it is.” Edgar smiled. “Blue Birch Tree, right? How’s all that murdering coming?”

Blue Banshee climbed out of the car and leaned against a pump. “Slower than anticipated.”

“Is that right?”

“The other day I got conked with an oar. And I’ve spent most of today making soup.”

Edgar nodded. “Never had a taste for conch soup, but s’pose everybody’s gotta eat.”

“Maybe this isn’t for me,” Blue Banshee said.

Edgar shrugged. “How long you been at it?”

“Few days.”

“Ain’t nothing. My first month, I pumped diesel into a Buick.”

“Did the car make it?”

“Engine rattles and smokes when there’s frost, but she’s still on the road.” Edgar paused. “Kind of like me, now that I think about it.”

Blue Banshee kicked some gravel.

Edgar scratched his chin. “You’ll be alright. My grandpa always said, ‘If you step in a mud pie, just throw a little whipped cream on it.’ Now head on back and wrangle yourself a camper. We’ll celebrate with a couple of cherry slushies.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “You have those here?”

“No.”

Blue Banshee opened his car door.

“Before you go,” Edgar said. “Mind shooing that possum off my fried chicken? He’s a slippery son gun.”

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—Ricky C.

He leaned against a brick building while villagers hurried past carrying barrels, hammering together wooden stalls, and stringing colorful banners.

“Not many, sir,” the squire said. “My parents weren’t learned folks and when they were murder—”

“Oh, here we go again. If this ends with one of your childhood life lessons, I’m leaving.” Dale watched two men wrestle a wagon piled high with pumpkins into the square. “What’s with all the commotion today?”

“It’s the carnival, sir. I thought you knew?”

Dale’s eyes widened. “The Fleur de Floomp?”

“Yes, the Fleur de Floomp.”

“I love the Fleur de Floomp. Haven’t missed one in years.”

“Weren’t you escorted out of the last one?”

“Eh, a minor incident with a duck vendor. Still counts.”

*****

By nightfall, the village square had transformed. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across rows of painted stalls. Fiddlers played while children darted between merchants carrying toy swords. Roasting meat, cinnamon cakes, and wood smoke filled the air.

“I’m giddy, squire,” Dale said. “The carnival makes me feel alive. Tell me, do you have anything that brings you such joy?”

“Well, actually when I was si—”

“Ah! The duck stall. Come along.”

“Fresh duck here! Fresh duck!” the vendor cried.

Dale stepped forward. “One duck.”

The vendor reached for the first bird on the spit.

“Halt.”

The vendor paused.

Dale pointed to the back of the spit. “That one.”

“They’re all the same, sir.”

“This is either your first Fleur de Floomp or you’ve confused me with a tourist who fell off the turnip cart.”

The merchant stared. “Dale, I’ve worked this stall for twelve years. You were engaged to my sister.”

Dale squinted. “Ah, yes. Mark, is it?”

“Steven.”

“Right. Must be the soot and duck fat. She doing well?”

“Married a miller. Two kids. Quite happy.”

Dale leaned toward the squire. “Oof. A miller? Talk about a downgrade.”

“Poor girl,” the squire said.

Dale pointed. “Well, I’m sure things will turn around for her soon. Or not. Either way. Duck. Back row. Plumper the better.”

The vendor shook his head and handed Dale the duck.

Dale inspected it from every angle before taking a satisfied bite. “Mmm. Very rich. Well done, Mark.”

*****

They pivoted away, wandering deeper into the Fleur de Floomp. Laughter spilled from the ale tents. Every few yards a barker tried to tempt the crowd with a prize.

“Strike the bell and win a tunic!”

“Topple the cups for a silver goblet!”

“Test your strength!”

They rounded the next corner when a booming voice emerged. “Step right up to the Rings of Fortune! Attempt a shot even Robin Hood himself couldn’t pull off!”

Dale stopped abruptly, the squire bumping into him. “What did he say?”

“Rings of fortune?”

“Not that,” Dale said. “You there, carnival peasant. What’s this about Robin Hood?”

The man placed two hands on the booth table. “The outlaw tried about an hour ago. Hit the first two, missed the third.”

Dale smiled. “At last, our hero is flawed. Hold my bird.” He thrust the half-eaten duck into the squire’s hand. “What are the rules?”

The man gestured toward three iron rings suspended from ropes. Each hung farther away than the last, the nearest a foot wide, the final hardly larger than a walnut. “Three arrows. Send one through each ring. Miss a shot and the game is over.”

Dale rolled his shoulder and nocked an arrow. The first ring he cleared with ease. “Ha! Take that gutter dog.”

The man looked confused. The squire dismissed it with a head shake.

The second arrow clipped the iron and sent the ring spinning, but counted.

The third arrow went wide, embedding itself in the back platform.

“Damn!” Dale shouted.

“I’m sure it was just the duck grease, sir,” the squire said.

“Yes, of course. That and the bent arrows from this charlatan.” Dale slammed another coin on the table. “Again.”

Hours later, the fiddlers were packing up and the lanterns had burned low. Dale was exhausted, and his coin purse held a single remaining copper.

The squire finally pulled him away from the game.

“You know perfectly well that last arrow went through,” Dale said. “It’s the shadows playing tricks on our eyes.”

“Certainly, sir.”

As they walked away, they passed a small tent. A sign read: Fortunes - One Copper. An old woman sat inside, beyond a curtain of beads. It caught Dale’s eye. “Well, squire. This day couldn’t get any worse. Let’s see what else fate has planned.”

Dale sat across from the woman and placed his final copper on the table. She took his hand and closed her eyes. Dale grimaced, then mouthed toward the squire, “Get me a wet towel.”

She spoke:

“He boasts of skill but misses the mark,
He squanders his coin till the square grows dark.
A proud, blind creature of foolish habit,
What am I, sir? A mule or a rabbit?”

Dale rolled his eyes. “Illuminating. And I thought you were bad at riddles, squire.”

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—Ricky C.

“Is it the Blue Banshee or Blue Banshee?” she asked, sliding the plate across the formica tabletop.

“It’s just Blue Banshee,” Blue Banshee said.

“Interesting. Because, you know, it’s The Flash. The Green Goblin.”

“Well nobody says, The Superman.”

She crossed her arms. “Fair point.”

He picked up a fry.

“You don’t take the mask off even when you eat?” she said.

“I do, just not in public places.”

She looked around the empty restaurant. A wobbly ceiling fan creaked overhead. “There’s nobody else in here.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “Did you miss the part about me being a prolific serial killer?”

“Fair again.” She nodded. “But you know, you could’ve just walked in without the mask on, never mentioned this whole Blue Banshee business, and I would’ve just thought you were some guy who really liked fish sandwiches at midnight.”

He let out a long breath. “I’m starting to find that everybody’s got an opinion, but nobody’s willing to swing the axe.”

“Maybe so, but all in good fun.” She pulled out her order pad. “I’ll let you get back to your supper. Any interest in our homemade pies?”

“What do you have?”

“Peach, cherry, blueberry.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll try the cherry.”

“Good choice.” She smiled. “It’s to die for.”

Blue Banshee shook his head. “Really? Couldn’t help yourself?”

“What? No. Just a habit.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Be right back with your slice. Don’t lose your head.”

Blue Banshee dropped his fork.

A pale fog drifted across Lake Shikawa. It was 4:30 in the morning, and there wasn’t yet a hint of daylight beyond the trees. Four rowers eased their racing shell into the water.

“What’s the deal with the counselors? It’s not even five in the morning and we’re out here practicing?”

“Yeah, well, last year we finished third in the All-Region Camp Games.”

“So?”

“So apparently that’s unacceptable considering what our parents pay.”

Twenty feet downshore, the water rippled as something slipped silently beneath the surface.

The campers noticed nothing.

The shell drifted away from the dock.

“Nice and easy,” the lead rower called. “Let’s wake the lake up gently.”

The rowers dug their paddles into the water, making slow lazy strokes.

Swimming parallel to the craft, Blue Banshee moved silently through the water, his boot knife clenched in one hand.

The rowers paddled. He was gaining on them.

WHACK.

A paddle caught him square in the forehead.

Blue Banshee disappeared beneath the water.

The shell continued onward.

WHACK.

Another paddle found him.

“Man,” one of the campers said. “This lake’s really choppy.”

“Nah,” another replied. “Just kelp.”

“I didn’t think freshwater lakes had kelp.”

Blue Banshee resurfaced.

WHACK.

Immediately he caught a paddle across the bridge of his nose. Water poured through the eye holes of his mask.

He sputtered, swallowed a mouthful of lake water, and finally peeled away toward the shore.

A minute later he crawled onto the rocks, gasping for air. He rolled onto his back.

“Should’ve skipped the cherry pie.”

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—Ricky C.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

Nothing happened.

The girls inside the car strained to peer through the station’s foggy windows.

“Where is everyone? Does nobody work here?”

“I told you we should’ve just stopped in Pine Mason.”

“And I told you I wasn’t paying six dollars for gas.”

“Oh, what do you care, it just goes on your daddy’s credit card.”

A third girl in the backseat leaned forward. “She’s got you there, Cindi. Now, just hit the horn. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Okay. Okay,” Cindi said.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEP.

Nothing again.

Behind an ice chest, a dark figure flinched.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

The figure slinked further back into hiding, nearly dropping the axe he was holding. The girls hadn’t noticed.

Inside the shop, a toilet flushed.

“Comin’,” a voice called.

A man stepped out of the back restroom, drying his hands on a paper towel. He clipped the dangling strap to the bib of his overalls and made his way outside.

The girls exchanged nervous glances as he approached.

“Oh my God,” one whispered. “He looks like the Crypt Keeper’s grandfather.”

“Be nice. He might show you his good tooth.”

Edgar stopped beside the driver’s window.

“Evenin’.”

“Could you fill it up, please?”

“What’s that?”

“Fill. It. Up.”

The girls laughed at Cindi’s over-annunciation.

Edgar nodded.

Cindi stuck her credit card out the window.

“Cash only, darlin’. Can’t you read the sign?” Edgar pointed toward the front door.

CASH ONLY AFTER 7PM - CARD READER DIES

Cindi stared at it. “Ew. How does a card reader die?”

“Usually around supper time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not what I asked.” Then turned back to the group. “Do any of you have cash?”

Both shook their heads.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any cash. Could we like mail you some money? We’re just heading up to Camp Shikawa. I promise we’ll do it as soon as we get there.”

“Camp what?”

“Camp shi-ka-wa,” Cindi repeated.

The girls giggled.

Edgar scratched his head. “The summer camp?”

“Yes.”

“Fancy place, I hear. Bunch of rich folks sending their kids to do fencing and eat barbecue on real plates.”

The dark figure slowly leaned around the corner, knocking a rusted coffee can off the ice machine.

CLANG.

He jumped back, startled.

The girls’ eyes darted toward the sound.

“What was that?”

Edgar looked past the car. “Didn’t hear nothin’.”

“There’s a shocker,” the girl from the backseat whispered.

“Lot of wildlife round here. Probably a raccoon. They’re always messing with my dumpsters.”

“Right,” Cindi said. “Anyway, can we like get going?”

“Ehh, why not? I’m sure you’re good for it.”

“Really? Thanks bunches, sir.”

Edgar flashed a grin. “Not like you could outrun me if you skipped paying.”

“A potted plant could outrun him,” one of the girls said.

They all stifled a laugh as Edgar filled the tank.

After taking down the address, the girls went on their way. Edgar watched the taillights disappear.

“Nice girls.”

He bent down to pick up a discarded lottery ticket. When he straightened, a towering man stood ten feet away blocking his path inside.

Edgar jumped. “Cheese and cork you’re a big fella, ain’t ya?“

The man just tilted his head slightly.

Edgar shifted where he stood. “Don’t tell me you don’t have cash either. I’m just bout empty of freebies tonight.”

The giant took a step forward off the curb. Edgar eyed the axe that glimmered in the moonlight.

“You from the tree trimmers or something?”

“You can call me the Blue Banshee. And consider yourself—”

Edgar cut in. “Blue Bedsheet?”

“Banshee.”

“Band cheese?”

Blue Banshee’s shoulders slumped. “BAN. SHEE.”

“What tree company are you with again?”

“I’m not with any tree company. I’m Blue Banshee. And tonight marks the debut of the most ravenous and horrifying axe murderer the world has ever known. There will be stories told by campfires for generations on what I’ve—”

“Why aren’t you wearing any blue?”

“It’s more of a mindset than anything. Also wardrobe hasn’t been my first priority.” His tone shifted quickly, clenching the axe and moving a step closer. “Listen, I don’t have to explain my dealings to some codger.”

“No it’s Edgar. Not Rodger.”

Blue Banshee tightened his grip on the axe. “Listen carefully, Edgar. I have spared your life this evening for one reason only. You unknowingly revealed the location of those girls. I am headed to Camp Shikawa. By sunrise, Blue Banshee’s reign of terror shall begin.”

Edgar nodded. “Alright. Well if you’re planning on murdering those campers you better get a move on. Camp Shikawa’s a good two-day trek through the woods.”

“I wasn’t planning on hiking. I’ve got a Hyundai Sonata.”

Edgar looked him up and down. “Doesn’t seem very murderous.”

Blue Banshee scuffed his boot over some gravel.

“Is it blue?” Edgar asked.

“It’s maroon.”

“Maroon?”

“I think they call it Royal Cabernet.”

“Sheesh.”

“But it’s the most fearsome shade you’ve ever seen. It’s like the color of… Of.”

“Blood?” Edgar offered.

“Yes, Edgar. Blood! And it’s severely neglected. I rarely rotate the tires.”

“Okay then. Best of luck, Mr. Bedsheet.”

Blue Banshee let the axe head rest on the ground, then turned and marched toward the forest.

After a few steps he stopped.

“It’s a 2017.”

“What’s that?”

“The Sonata. A 2017.”

“Hope it’s paid off.”

“Mostly,” Blue Banshee said and disappeared into darkness.

“Nice fella.”

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—Ricky C.

Trailer

Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Morning Assignments

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands

Barrett entered Stonehouse 3 before most of the crew arrived. He was nursing a hangover from celebrating yesterday’s rescue of an accountant who’d drifted down the wrong side of Eastbank Bend. He pulled the hood up on his sleeveless sweatshirt and dropped into a chair next to Skip at a small card table in the corner. Skip, his number two and in similar condition, was picking at a breakfast burrito.

“That got outta hand yesterday, bro,” Skip said. He sniffed a refried bean and curled his nose. “I should’ve quit drinking even before that accountant showed up at the Cliff Jumper and started buying rounds.”

Barrett rested his forehead on the table. “Same. But he was so happy to be alive it felt rude not to take advantage of him.”

“Oh, you have to. Someone else’s dollar? I’m ordering Jägerbombs until they throw me outta there.”

“Which is exactly what happened, if I recall,” Barrett said.

“You know it.”

They both looked at each other and high fived.

“Stonehouse Slings!” Skip said.

The crack echoed through the briefing room, causing both men to wince.

Just then the sarge came power-walking in, smoothie in hand. “Man do I love the smell of the river in the morning.” He took his sunglasses off. “By god, boys, you look like hell.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” Skip said.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” He studied them for a moment. “Lemme guess. Too much celebrating over the accountant?”

Neither answered.

“I get it, boys, I do.” Sarge set the smoothie on the podium. “I’ve been there. Make a headline save. Drinks are flowing. Everybody started chanting Eastbank Bend’s undefeated. Then the out-of-town wallet shows up and buys a round. That’s tradition.”

Barrett nodded.

“But you’re also Harbor Marshal.”

Barrett’s smile faded.

“The younger throwers watch what you do. If you’re gonna be the face of Stonehouse 3, you gotta know when to call it.”

“Fair.”

“And Skip, I got no expectations for you.”

“Thank you, Sarge.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Sarge grabbed a stack of flyers from the podium. “So instead of throwing line today, since you’re both so obviously under the weather, guess what? Recruiting season starts this week.”

Barrett groaned.

“Don’t give me that. You’re both on flyer duty. Cover downtown. Restaurant Row. The Marina District. And the trailer parks. Every bulletin board, coffee shop, and public restroom.”

“Come on, Sarge. You just said I’m the face of Stonehouse 3. Shouldn’t the face be doing something chiller?”

“Yeah. And the face’s assistant. Doing equally chiller?” Skip said.

“Good thing you two are better at rescues than grammar,” the sarge said. “And no. Non-negotiable. Consider yourselves head talent scouts.”

Barrett huffed. “How about we ditch the trailer parks? A skink hasn’t made the cut as a line thrower in more than ten years.”

“Another non-negotiable. Riverborn is a community. We take care of our own, no matter which side of the river your rump rests.”

Barrett and Skip grabbed the flyers and trekked off, the click-clack of flip-flops carrying in their wake.

Sarge watched them go. “Ten years,” he muttered. “Let’s see if we can change that.”

Johnny was throwing stones into the hole of a life preserver hanging from a chain-link fence. He was aiming for the center diamond. The trailer park pool was mostly empty. A ten-year old in swimmies had just grabbed his mother’s purse and dived into the shallow end. She didn’t notice, too engrossed in a cigarette.

Lipsticks and compacts began floating toward the diving board. As head lifeguard, Johnny considered whether familial purse theft fell under his jurisdiction.

A few pennies drifted to the bottom.

He decided the situation would mostly resolve itself, then tossed another stone. The rock sailed over the pool and through the center of the life preserver.

“Did you hear what I said, Johnny?” Grace called from behind the concession stand counter.

“Huh? Oh. What was that?”

“I said, what’d you want to get into tonight? I know they were doing half-priced chili boats at The Mountie. Figured we could head down there and split one.”

Before Johnny could respond, a soft-top Jeep came speeding into the lot. Out popped two familiar faces.

“Well, well, well,” Barrett said, walking with Skip through the pool entrance. “Head Skink of the underworld.”

Johnny let out a sigh. “What are you doing here, Barrett?”

“Honestly? No idea.” Barrett glanced around the pool. “For reasons nobody can explain, Sarge has a soft spot for this place and thinks we might find a body capable of throwing line. But all I can see is a flip phone about to float into the skimmer and a pool that’s one dead possum away from being condemned.”

Skip pointed toward the water. “I don’t know. Looks kinda nice.”

“Can it, Skip,” Barrett said.

“Yeah, can it, Skip,” Johnny said.

Barrett shoved past Johnny, then leaned on the counter. “You mind if we hang a few of these on your chicken tender shack here, Grace?”

“Have at it,” Grace said, then went back to stocking the hot dog buns.

Barrett handed a few flyers to Skip, who began stapling them to the sides of the concession stand.

“I’ll also take a Cherry Laffy Taffy. But only if it’s the ones with the sprinkle crunchies on em,” Barrett said.

“I think we got some in the back,” Grace replied, then left to check.

Barrett turned back around to Johnny. “So, you planning on trying out this year?”

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe.”

Barrett laughed. “That’d be something.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Then a ringtone sounded from the pool filter. Nobody moved.

Buzz. Buzz.

The mother sat up from her plastic recliner, looking for her phone.

Her purse was now floating upside down in the deep end.

“TYLER!”

The kid immediately started running.

His mother lunged after him, caught her flip-flop on the lounge chair, and windmilled directly into the pool.

Tyler cleared the fence and disappeared between two trailers.

The woman surfaced, cigarette damp but preserved.

Barrett shook his head. “This place is a wasteland.” He headed for the exit. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Chief. Looks like you’ve got a cleanup in aisle two.”

“Yeah. Grab a mop, skink,” Skip added before following Barrett out to the Jeep.

Johnny watched the soft-top speed out of the gravel lot. The mother was treading water, trying to fish her purse from the bottom with a leaf rake. He looked down at one of the flyers Skip had left behind.

RIVERBORN LINE THROWERS - THE COUNTY NEEDS MORE HEROES - ARE YOU READY?

The woman disappeared beneath the surface.

Johnny sighed and headed for the life preserver.

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—Ricky C.

Cover photo credit -

Dale approached the building, sidestepping a pile of dung. A fly circled his head.

Buzzzzzzzz.

He removed his hat and swatted it away. “Shoo you insipid beast,” Dale said. “Squire will be hearing about this.”

He mimicked the squire’s voice in a whining tone. “Meet at my house. I need to show you something.”

Another fly buzzed past.

“First and last time.”

He approached the entrance and appraised the building, then knocked.

The squire answered. “Sir, welcome. Come in. Come in.”

Dale entered the building and immediately covered his nose. “Good heavens, squire. You live in a stable?”

“It’s technically attached to the stable.”

“A horse can see you while you sleep.”

“Only if he’s facing this direction.” The squire waved a hand. “Come have a seat, can I offer you a drink?”

“Not with dysentery going around,” Dale said. “Remind me again why you couldn’t have met me at my home?”

“My mixing pot is far too heavy to carry across the village.”

Dale nodded and looked around the room, unenthused. There was a small cot in the corner. Hay covering the dirt floor. A pot boiling over a freestanding fire.

“Before we address whatever concern this is, you’ve been my squire how long now? Year? Year and a half?”

“Eight years, sir.”

“Hmm. That’s strange. I can recall a squire named Jerry a few years ago.”

“That was me, sir.”

“That explains very little,” Dale said. “Anyway. Quick question. Are these considered common living arrangements for a squire?”

“Actually, they’re quite modest, sir. Many don’t even have an overlooking horse.”

“Astonishing. I had my suspicions I was overpaying you. This confirms it.”

“You aren’t paying me at all, sir.”

“Nor should I. How embarrassing for me. A squire who can’t lift a pot across a village.” Dale took a seat at the wooden table. “Let’s get on with it. I’ll be flying Bartholomew later, and you know peregrine falcons get impatient.”

“Of course.” The squire filled a vial from the simmering pot. “This, you’ll love. I call it the Three Days Rest. A sleeping potion.”

Dale studied the vial. “How’s it work? You invite them over and share your life story?”

“Not quite, sir.” The squire set a small wooden box on the table, containing a mouse.

Dale peeked inside. “I’m hoping that’s not your breakfast.”

The squire shook his head. “No. It’s tomorrow’s.”

Dale recoiled.

“Watch this, though,” the squire said. He squeezed a small droplet onto the mouse, which immediately fell asleep.

Dale nodded, smiling. “Not bad, squire.”

“I thought you’d like it. And even more, it’s incredibly practical.”

“Practical?”

“It means useful. Like how a soup bowl’s round.”

“The potion, you clodpoll.”

“Ah yes.” The squire reached beneath the table and produced an arrow with the head removed. In its place was a small bundle of felt wrapped around the end.

“Dip the felt in the potion. Then all you need is a bit of exposed skin. An arm. A leg. The neck. A graze should do it.”

Dale’s eyes widened. “At speed?”

“Ideally.”

“Ingenious.” Dale stood. “Perhaps we need to test it on a larger… subject.”

The horse neighed. Dale looked in its direction.

“I believe your neighbor just volunteered.”

“I’d rather not. He’s quite large. I’m not sure I could drag him back into the stable.”

“You really need to lift more iron,” Dale said. “Let’s shoot out the front door then, I’m sure I can find some dolt in the distance to practice on. Perhaps that miserly baker. He always overseeds the tea-cakes.”

They stepped into the doorway.

“There,” Dale said, pointing across the village. The baker was unloading flour from a wagon. “Marvelous timing.”

Dale took aim. The horse neighed behind him, and a fly buzzed into Dale’s ear.

“AH!”

Dale flailed. The bowstring snapped forward. The felt-tipped arrow shot upward, struck the stable overhang, and ricocheted behind him.

Thud.

“Where’d it go?” Dale asked.

No answer.

He turned. The squire was sprawled on the floor.

Dale sighed. “Could you be more dramatic?”

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—Ricky C.

“Back it up, back it up,” he said.

The applicant swung the wheel hard, clipping the edge of the dock as he settled into the designated space between two buoys.

“Well,” the applicant asked. “How’d I do?”

Henry looked down at his notes written in charcoal. “Capsized a boat, sending a fisherman into the wharf. Hit the dock. And scared a seagull with the lantern.”

“Excellent.”

“You also hit The Salty Mermaid bar,” Henry said.

“Only the corner.”

“Application denied.” Henry tossed the charcoal into the sea and walked down the gangplank.

His assistant, Anne, offered a hand to help him bridge the gap. “He show promise?”

“I’ve seen better instincts crawling on the end of a wooden lice comb.”

“At least he knocked that fisherman into the water.”

“Always the optimist, my dear.” Henry gave a wide grin. “How are we looking this morning?”

“Line’s steady as ever. Lot of interest in pirating, though. Haven’t seen many privateering forms come through.”

“It’s that damn Blackbeard effect. All of a sudden everyone wants to walk around like a salt-cured fire-eater. It’s uncouth.”

“Can’t blame them,” Anne said. “Less oversight. Less regulation. More take home treasure.”

“Yes, yes. But they tell me I’m supposed to be issuing more privateering licenses. Apparently government-sanctioned piracy lacks appeal.”

Anne stopped him as they walked, taking his hand. “I know. But what do we say?”

Henry shook his head. “A barnacle-crusted hull still carries the gold.”

“That’s right,” Anne said.

“When the ghost fog settles thick and blind, ye be the lighthouse that guides me home.”

Anne smiled. “That’s beautiful, Henry. Now get back to the booth. The line’s backing up and in this heat they’re starting to smell like the wrong side of a catfish.”

They shared an embrace and returned to the licensing booth at the start of the dock. A makeshift sign overhead read:

OFFICE OF PIRACY AND PRIVATEERING

NO CUTLASS BEYOND THIS POINT

Henry pulled a sardine from his pocket and flipped it to a pelican perched atop a heavy table. The bird snatched it from the air and resumed guarding the applications. “Who’s a good boy, Peggy?” The bird cooed as the next applicant approached.

Henry looked up, underwhelmed. “Pirate or privateer?”

“Pirate,” the man said.

“Aye, have you considered privateering? Perfectly legal and has dental.”

“Don’t have many teeth, sir.”

“Also vision,” Henry said.

“Just the one eye.”

“And we’ll try and keep it that way… At half the premiums.”

“I don’t know. I’m more of an off-the-books plunderer.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else in the sea.” Henry lifted the form. “Alright, name?”

“Wick Stool,” the man said.

“Middle initial?” Henry asked.

“Is that relevant?”

Henry smacked his lips. “It is.”

“Middle initial’s R.”

Henry began writing. “Wick R. Stool.” He stopped. “Wicker Stool? Application denied.”

“Damn it!” The man threw his hat to the ground and trudged off.

Henry turned to Anne. “Imagine sailing the high seas alongside Wicker Stool?”

“Oof. One strong wind and he’d end up in a sunroom,” Anne said.

“Aye. A rattan nightmare,” Henry replied. “Next!”

Ahoy!

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—Ricky C.

His wife was overpaying for pilates somewhere near the marina. The twins were zip lining upriver at an adventure course. Walter himself spent the better part of two hours at the hotel bar, The Sterling Basin, enjoying river-forward bourbon cocktails. Walter didn’t know what it meant, but the bartender gave a little shoulder shimmy while shaking the mixer, which he took as chemistry and kept ordering.

But now his stomach was calling. He hopped off the stool and threw an extra twenty onto the bar. She slid the money away and gave him a wink.

“Still got it,” Walter whispered to himself before heading outside.

Next to the bar sat a walk-up kiosk for The Pluck & Tot, the best fried chicken in the county. He ordered an extra-large bucket with steak fries, the perfect accompaniment to slosh downriver.

Walter approached the street’s rental launch. “This is livin’,” he whispered to himself.

The teenage dock attendant looked concerned. That, or his eyes were blinded from the SPF 70 Walter shellacked across his chest, visible through an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Walter paid extra for a premium tube and a parking space near their hotel. It came with cupholders and a slip-resistant coating. He still managed to almost capsize trying to settle in. He slid the kid a fiver for holding his chicken bucket.

“Whoa—okay. Okay. We’re good,” Walter announced and pushed off. The current caught him almost immediately. At first, the ride was perfect. Riverborn drifted around him in postcard fragments.

Tourists waved from rooftop bars overlooking the water. Paddleboards wandered between tour boats near the ferry crossing. College kids cannonballed from an old stone bridge while shoppers carried boutique bags along Restaurant Row.

Walter raised a chicken thigh toward the sky. “This is why people work hard. The Aspen of the lowlands.” He made a mental note to look into buying a rental condo before Riverborn turned into one of those places people ruin by discovering.

A few bends later, the river widened, and the buildings thinned. The current sharpened up. Walter floated past weathered bait shops, old fishing docks, and a handful of warning signs. Up ahead, the river split.

Most tourists stayed left, where the current slowed near Restaurant Row and drifted lazily beneath the patio district. Eastbank Bend went right. Faster water. Narrower channels. More rocks and brush lines, catering to the more action-oriented seafarer. Walter, however, was busy watching a sunburned woman in a neon bikini shotgun a hard seltzer from a paddleboard. By the time he looked forward again, the current had already claimed him.

Walter squinted at some signs through his sunglasses. “Hmm.”

ENTERING EASTBANK BEND
INCREASING SPEEDS
KEEP LIMBS INSIDE

Then the tube accelerated. The fried chicken basket bounced, sending a fry into the river. “Damn.” Water splashed onto the lid of his lemonade. He wondered if any made it past the lid hole. The current pulled him faster toward a narrow stretch where the river curved around a cluster of low hanging brush. People along the shoreline began to notice.

A waitress carrying cocktails froze mid-step. Someone on the dock stood up. A tourist whispered, “He’s in the wrong spot.”

Walter attempted to paddle with one hand, getting nowhere. He pulled off a Croc to use as a makeshift oar. It did nothing. Now he was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster. The tube clipped a warning buoy and ricocheted sideways toward some underbrush.

That’s when a whistle blew. Every head turned. And standing atop the Eastbank platform was Stonehouse 3’s own Barrett Westbrook. Sunglasses, tank top, and practice rope dangling around his shoulders like a gunslinger holster.

He strutted down the platform steps and onto a rescue skiff while tourists gathered along the railing to watch.

Walter’s tube spun again. “My chicken bucket!” he yelled.

Skip, Barrett’s number two, glided the skiff into place. Barrett twirled the rope once. Twice. A completely unnecessary third time and then launched it. The line whipped through the air in a perfect arc before snapping tight around a handle on Walter’s tube.

The crowd erupted.

Walter’s tube stopped spiraling. Barrett gave the rope a tug and anchored him to the skiff, then coasted to the calm shoreline.

“Easy now,” he called. “Eastbank bites hard after lunch, hombre.”

The dockside crowd applauded as Barrett jumped ashore and offered a hand to Walter.

He looked up in awe. A single wet chicken skin fell off his shorts as he got up. “You saved my life.”

“We throw line,” Barrett said. “Around here… it’s the same thing.”

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.