Hook, Line, Stinker

Jim presents himself as older than me. He might be, but I don’t think by much.

That is not the point here.

While in Virginia City yesterday, I saw him sitting on an upturned bucket, a fishing pole in hand, drowning a worm in a mud puddle from the boardwalk. Knowing he was up to something, I asked him to come into the Ponderosa Saloon and have a drink with me anyway.

As we each nursed a double-shot of whiskey and being the smart-ass I am, I asked, “So how many have you caught today?”

He smiled, “You’re the seventh.”