I shot Muldowney

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I shot Muldowney, and you too would have fired that double low holer crossing. Except that once I tell you what you did, you would have completed it and fed your bones to your dogs, that is, between you and me, I was the one who showed moderation. Of course, everyone always thought about it, but nobody could prove it, so they left me alone in the water for 40 years to take care of my traps. But now they put a camera in my ass and I'm going to die of cancer, so I do not care who knows.

I shot Muldowney, but the only surprise is that it took so long for someone to pull the trigger. A bad man not improved by alcohol or hard work, he never met a person he did not hate.

There are men who think that a lobster buoy is a corner marker, and once they drop a trawl, they own the water. But after getting shot in the ass in Nam for a couple of trips, 2 flights a day, 6 days a week, I considered that my retirement was a deferred payment for dangerous tasks. You do not understand it unless you get home, and many of my friends did not. Hell, they knocked me down once. He had a family, he had a son, he was still young. Is not the American Dream doing a little better than surviving on a pension? Also, after Nam only felt human in the water.

Today they received names for these things, and I probably had PTSD; Lord knows I did not know what to do with me when I returned with my wife and daughter or any other person. So, I dusted the old man's boat and spent the winter building traps like him and me before we left. It was all I knew, and building something instead of destroying something felt good. 420 traps, in 7 trawl traps, which were 60 trawls in the water. I made the calculations, ran the numbers and thought that if I kept everything, I could leave little Bessie in college. I even gave the boat a new coat of paint and put his name on it.

They recruited me in the locust wars, just like they sent me to Nam. That first season, I lost a third of those traps. Muldowney or some other Down East asshole who thought he was invading his unclaimed swell would cut my lines every time they saw them. One day, Muldowney fired a gull from its stern-dragging board, and the bullet shot out of the water on my starboard side when I leaned over to pull a trap. You do not make mistakes like that by accident. After that, I put my dad's thirty-six carbine in a rubber bag and put it in a cubicle under the arch.

They say that Muldowney killed a man once at the Old Bridge, killed him in the Alley with a blow and said it was self-defense. It worked too, because nobody would testify. The & # 39; Bridge & # 39; It's one of those bars where alcoholics start to get together like hair in a shower drain before respectable men leave work. They sell pissed beer in thick frosted cups that only contain 12 ounces and half of that is foam. You have to work hard enough for your load to drink that way. And they always do it.

I stopped there exactly once. It smelled like a fish house, and all bloodshot eyes turned to me when I entered. The conversation stopped until I approached the bar, then Muldowney said, "Hero of the war, what is it like bombing women and children?"

One thing about going to war, you learn what is important and what is not. All the names had called me. Ironically, sometimes it was nice: you have to get angry with someone else for telling you all the things you say to yourself. My beer arrived and I took a long drink. Then, without turning around, I said: "I think it could be your kind of job, Maurice." At first, all I could hear was the blood in my ears, but then the room erupted in laughter. Nobody ever called him Maurice. Hell, if that was my name, nobody would call me that either.

The corners of my mouth were just coming down in a sardonic smile when he hit me on the back of the head with one of those damn cups. I close the stove to my skull and pulled my legs out from under me. When I fell to the ground, I turned around as fast as I could, but everything was in slow motion and the lights looked like tracer bullets. He was standing next to me, leaning back like a dog eating shit. He removed his Timberland and broke me in the short ribs just in case.

After everything that had happened, there was no way to die on the floor of a bar soaked in urine. With the sense I had, I pulled my foot back and led one towards the old chest. When he fell, I realized that I was as drunk as I was in shock. I turned on him and stuck my fingers in his throat. He was vomiting Michelob and I was saving him, he was hitting me with less and less force when they pulled me out and threw me into the alley.

Yes, you could say that we came back a long time ago but you could not say we were friends.

Like I said, I learned what was important. You never exhaust the bastards, but in the end, they decide that you will not go looking for someone else. You find your own water, you maintain your own peace and you foolishly think that your presence has been accepted.

This happened for some years, until in the spring of 1980, Bessie was hit by the car when she was riding her bike home from school. It's not the kind of thing you expect in a quiet New England town. They said he must be a drunk driver; there were no slip marks and his body was dragged a hundred meters. I never let my wife Angie look at what was left, and she never forgave me. Add it to the list, I thought, as I drank more and spent more time in the water, the only place where I felt human. Some days, I did not pull a trap. I stayed there facing east until something took me out of my reverie. I do not remember much about that time.

The day I shot Muldowney, a Sou & # 39; s Wester was entering. We hear about the Nor Easts, but it's the weirdest of Sou & # 39; Wester with its 3000 miles of range, building longer waves that are really dangerous for your trawls. They will take the seven traps, tie them in a package and place them on the beach, crushed like a typhoon in a kite factory.

Angie, went down to breakfast for the first time since the accident. Oh, hell, call it how it was … murder.

"Do not go out," she said.

"I need to do it," I said.

"I need you," she said.

I stood up, leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "They will go if I do not pull them and take them to deep waters."

"Let them go." I smiled at him as if it were a small request, but you should not ignore your wife in that way.

Muldowney's blue and white F150 mixer was the only other truck in the parking lot when I left. When I got to my first trawl, I knew I was in the shit. The two final buoys were wrapped together. That bastard Muldowney had picked up a buoy and run it in circles around the other so that all the traps were in a knot dropped at the bottom. That was more than 500 pounds. of cement plus wood, and in no way would my winch. It took me 45 minutes of good daylight to undo the Gordian knot, and when I got up, with the crick on my back, I was on my side on a 12-foot swell. I hit the accelerators forward and drag it, still attached to the trawl. Finally I put them in and added lines to the buoys. I pulled the next two very well, stacking traps all over the boat so I could run to deep water and throw them away.

When I got to the fourth trawl, it was another knot. I stood up and looked towards the horizon. The sun was now a misty red fist above him. Depending on how much hatred I would have spent on this, Muldowney could have come up with a plan to end my business. He would have to find trawls he had not sabotaged and write to others.

He was watching the waves when his boat suddenly appeared on the crest of one of them, already returning from his first trip, falling in deep water. He passed a great distance and laughed. "You'd better start your ass sucking pensions, hero, if you want to survive the storm." It was then that struck me: the afternoons of the Old Bridge, the truck, the blue and white paint on the bicycle. I bet you that fucking drunk did not even know he had hit her.

I stood there, boat pointing towards the waves, then I went down the carbine. His boat was only raising a wave when I saw it. He hung there for an eternity. They found his boat that afternoon, his body wrapped in the steering wheel so that he was forming large, lazy circles, half full of water from the side of the waves. By then, my carbine was in 300 feet of water by the Shoals Islands and also what was left of my traps. Yes, I shot Muldowney, and you would have done it too.


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