Joel set out on his trawler early, the morning mist breaking along the front of his boat like cotton along a craggy knife. Once he reached the middle of the bay, Joel cut the motor and limped to the stern.
"Dick, where are you?" Joel muttered to himself as he took a puff from his pipe.
He lowered the anchor and looked out on the bay. Nothing but mist and the echoing sound of geese. He looked down at the stump that used to be his right leg and cursed.
"I'm going to get that big white dick someday," he growled. The boat stopped drifting once the anchor's rope grew taut. The sun had finally peeked out over the east, throwing harpoons of light through the mist and causing Joel to squint his one good eye.
Joel rolled the nets out, one by one, into the grey waters. For weeks now they'd come up with tuna, salmon and the occasional carp, but never with anything for him to eat. Joel was waiting for dick. The big white dick.
To read the rest of this harrowing tale of man versus dick, subscribe today to the Saturday Evening Post.
