Dead Frenzy by Victoria Houston

logo—all the more visible because it stretched taut across the man’s barrel chest.
    His pants, also black, looked like they could stand up by themselves and were complemented with matching black tennis shoes, though on closer examination Osborne could see they were actually
white
tennis shoes: filthy white high-tops with rubber soles and no support, the old-fashioned kind. He carried a spinning rod and a six-pack of MGD.
    Something about the second man made Osborne uneasy. He made a mental note to keep his can of Deet close at hand. A little of that in the eyes can stop you in your tracks. Osborne finished sliding the sections of his fly rod into their canvas sleeves, then folding the sleeves lengthwise to slip into his rod tube, all the while watching the two from the corner of his eye. Nothing too remarkable about beer belly, but that other guy …
    Meanwhile, the two men had paused about twenty feet away, set down everything they were carrying, and strolled down to the shoreline. They didn’t appear to be aware of Lew and Osborne, who were screened from the winding path by a small stand of young balsam. That was odd. Hadn’t they seen Lew’s fishing truck?
    Osborne continued to puzzle over the appearance of the shorter man. Granted he was wearing all black, but even so he looked unusually pale. From the side, his face appeared soft and pulpy and oddly dimpled—as if someone had taken a fork to his cheeks. The man stopped at the water’s edge and turned his head away to look south. As he did so, it dawned on Osborne: The guy’s hair grew in the wrong direction.
    Actually, it wasn’t growing at all. Instead, it was brushed up, forward and down over the top of the head. But unlike many baldies, who nurse their hair forward from the top of their skull, this guy was more inventive. He started all the way from back of his neck at a spot that was just below his ears. As he turned to face west, Osborne was fascinated by how the hair flattened out, mat-like, over his ears to end in a hunk plastered low on the forehead. Probably literally plastered—you’d have to do something to secure that floating bog.
    Just then Lew hoisted her pack up onto her shoulders. The rustle of her movements caught their attention and the two turned to peer past the stand of trees. They took a couple steps in the direction of Lew and Osborne.
    “Where the hell
you
from?” said beer belly, his manner a little too abrupt.
    “Loon Lake,” said Lew, unfazed. “Wisconsin.”
    No one said anything for a few beats.
    “Where are you from?” said Osborne, keeping his voice low, cool, and professional—the tone he found effective while administering root canals.
    Beer belly backed off. “Up near Manistique. My buddy here is from Mercer over in yer neck of the woods. How the hell you find this place?”
    “I fish here pretty often,” said Lew. “How’d
you
find it?”
    “A fishing guide over in Marquette, cousin of mine. He told me about it. Big trout, he said. How many you get?”
    “Not a one,” said Lew. “No luck tonight. This is a tough spot, y’know. Fish here are too damn smart.” She turned so Osborne could hook her float tube onto her pack. Then she did the same for him. He could see she wanted out of there as soon as possible.
    “Yeah, Loon Lake, huh? I been hearing ‘bout that tournament you got goin’ down there next week. That bass tournament? Big purse, huh? A million bucks? That’s a lotta dough.”
    While beer belly talked, Osborne watched the guy with the bog on his head walk over to pick up his rod and six-pack. He didn’t look so good from the rear either—the black pants so baggy in the seat that it looked like he had a frying pan stuck down there. Real cute these two.
    “Yep,” said Lew, agreeing with beer belly as she moved backward to exit the clearing and the conversation, “we expect quite a turnout.”
    “Might see you folks around next week. I’m hoping to hang out and see how the pros do