Home » Binders of Otters » A “little fishing…” how quaint…

A “little fishing…” how quaint…

Mark, there is a special place in Hell for people like you who lead others on, make promises and then don’t follow through, especially when the targets are overly trusting, impressionable youths…  You are no more going to take Rusty fishing than you are going to pleasure Cherry in any meaningful way…  you are a cad, a psychological manipulator who by dint of his self-perceived charm and good looks can string people along indefinitely…

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“And Gee, Mark… with all that’s happened, and even with the tingle I feel running up my leg, I really can’t stay here with you on this dreamy shoreline watching the sun set and trout feed off a fly hatch… I really have to get back to the office and earn a living.  Unlike you, I have rent to make and my dead-tree newspaper job is hanging by a thread…”  This is so twisted I can barely summon the remarks I want to make…  or maybe this just speaks for itself.

But gosh look how content Rusty’s face is as he cradles and nurses Oscar… Andy looks on approvingly…

Read the Curmudgeon’s take on this:

The cruelty of Nature is well documented, but the cruelty of Mark Trail, Man of Nature, retains its power to shock. Blissed-out Rusty nurses his otter and dreams of fishing, but mere days from now he will have neither otter, nor fishing, nor any last shred of hope. Mark just twists the knife, while Andy’s mind is all on dinner. Say — maybe they’ll have fish! 

 

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