Pastor Geoffrey Smythe is hardly one of those charismatic crackpots who sees demons around every corner, so when he whispered, "Perry . . . slight chance I met Satan on the Housy today," I immediately took interest. Could Smythe actually be experiencing a paradigm shift in his theology? You've got to understand, friends: this guy is the quintessential Protestant liberal. He barely believes in his birth mother, let alone God or that fallen angel, Lucifer. For him to acknowledge the supernatural is a rarity too rare to ignore. Ah, here was a story worth hearing.
"Go on," I urged.
Apparently the good reverend had been seeking a bit of solitude on the Housatonic, but never quite found it. Whichever pool Geoffrey tried to fish, another fisherman--constantly the same person--had already beat him there. Ironically, although the stranger possessed less casting ability than a turnip, he sure caught a lot of trout.
Now, according to Geoff: "The damnable snake killed them all. I felt obliged to object, but as I approached the greedy devil an awful odor nearly overpowered me. Smelled as though the fellow took a massive dump right in his waders. And, oh, the insects! A huge horde of them hovered around the fool's head like a cloud. Also, after introducing himself as Lou Cypher, he followed up with a litany of regret because the deliciously deceitful sport of fly fishing had not been his personal invention.
"Ignoring the sickening aroma, I switched subjects to a debate about catch-and-release for the sake of pushing an obvious point. During our discussion two highly suspicious details became manifest. First off, Cypher's stick proved to be a combination spin/fly rod. True fur and feather men won't touch such garbage. Secondly, the bozo wasn't wearing a vest; I saw no evidence whatsoever of a single fly box anywhere on his wretched body. Yet I did see a styrofoam container sitting on the ground. Nary a positive sign, if you appreciate what I mean.
"Yep, the cup verily writhed with squiggly rice. Maggots! The cheater laughed hysterically, hesitated a moment, and suddenly went ballistic about biblically illiterate morons who don't get the humorous connection between maggots and himself. Frankly, I'm still pretty clueless.
"Nonetheless, the reason I think Lou Cypher may be Satan is because throughout our disputation he kept interjecting hellish mockeries of everyone I hold dear, particularly Hillary Clinton. Said he especially looked forward to toasting a pop tart like her. Well, nobody but the head honcho of Hades might speak thusly. I'm madly in love with Hillary. She represents the highest ideals of my soul. Just imagine Bill's babe as America's future Commander-in-Chief. Hallelujah! Anyhow, care to pleasure your buddy with some perspective, Perry ?"
Folks, rest assured; I had little intention of pleasuring Geoffrey with anything else. I'm Presbyterian, not Episcopalian.
Offering my opinion on his rather unique encounter, I tried to be kind. Honest. I told him Senator Clinton, if ever elected, should make a wonderfully appropriate leader for a country in the death throes of cultural decline. Regarding Cypher being Satan, I agreed 100 percent.
"Geoff, get them ears cleaned out. Lou Cypher is Lucifer. He certainly can appear as a fly fisherman, but the old dragon is merely a deceiver. Second Kings calls him Baal-zebub, Lord of the Flies, which explains the maggots. The Gospels tell us he's Beelzebub, the dung deity, hence the stench. In other words, Satan is really a stinky ole bait bubba. Methinks you've found the perfect fishing partner, perhaps even a father figure."
"Huh?"
"Explain why your San Juan worm imitations wiggle."
"Pretty clever, Fuller. How'd you know?"
Hypocritical hands are filthy. The soil always shows--sometimes literally. Suspecting Geoffrey had'nt been digging only his own grave, I ventured an intuitive guess, "Dirty fingernails . . . uh, crawler guts . . . for starters."
Pastor Smythe abruptly turned guilt-red, fidgeted self consciously, then slowly slithered away in stark silence. 'Twas, indeed, terribly heartbreaking to watch. A preacher with absolutely nothing to say for God--or himself--is the saddest sight imaginable.
©copyright 2003, Perry S. Fuller
