Cutbait

"Cutbait" is the story of a fisherman, a town and it's Mayor who would stop at nothing to win a fishing tournament. The book records their downward spiral into the depths of immorality, fueled by greed. The setting is backwater coastal Alabama, where rivers run dark and sluggish, and the mood is grim. The protagonist is an unrefined, disturbed individual named J.M.Teredos. Included in the unsavory stew is his alcoholic fishing partner, Zeke; Roland Stark, the sadistic hate filled Police Chief; Becky Youngblood, the promiscuous secretary; Joe Cotton, the crooked Mayor, and the millionaire antagonist, Erik Lindstrom. Together, they "flesh out" the "bones" of the story. Central to the narrative is Teredos' cutbait, a gruesome concoction born of vileness and depravity. "Cutbait" paints a picture of disparity between the "haves" and the "have nots." It's about flawed human nature and how easily the thin veneer of civility is stripped away to reveal a side of ourselves that we prefer not to think about . Coated with a healthy dose of twisted humor, Cutbait's rancid core is sure to test one's palate. It's a tale of dysfunction and guaranteed to appeal to your darker sensibilities.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CutbaitBy Kimo LedbetterAuthorHouseCopyright © 2009 Kimo LedbetterAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4389-5393-9Chapter OneA FINE PAIR The blackened finger broke the surface of the water and slowly descended towards the murky bottom. Small shiners quickly congregated around the rotting digit, trying unsuccessfully to rip mouthfuls of putrid flesh from it's severed end. The activity caused the remaining trace fluids to drift off in wispy contrails and be carried away towards the Gulf of Mexico with the outgoing tide. Along the edge of a shallow grass bed, a twenty five pound redfish was on it's nose, searching for crustaceans and other edibles. Suddenly, it sensed something foreign in the water. Something that triggered a deeper hunger, a vicious urge. The first molecules of human blood had reached it's sensory organs. Primal instinct took over. The fish frantically swung it's powerful body in the direction of the scent. It's tail carved the water so forcefully that the surface boiled in a geyser of silt and sea grass stirred up from the shallow muddy bottom. The redfish approached it's target from out of the darkness so rapidly, that the shiners busy nibbling on the finger had no time to scatter, and died instantly as a result of the impact. Their mangled lifeless bodies reflected the diffused sunlight as they drifted like delicate silver leaves, towards the bottom, and the multitude of hungry crabs that scrounged about in the gloom. The number six stainless steel hook that protruded through the fingertip had found it's home, deep within the redfish's gullet. Instinctively, the fish reacted by making a run towards the refuge of deeper water. The 10 lb. monofilament line was tested to it's limits as the fish sought relief from the searing pain in it's throat. Copious amounts of blood poured from the wounded fish, past it's gills, leaving a contrail in it's wake. The harder the fish fought, the more damage was inflicted, as the hook imbedded itself deeper into the flesh. Soon enough, the battle would end, as the fish's life literally drained out. For now, it was nothing but survival that ruled the moment. In the blood trail, the shiners darted about hoping to luck up on pieces of expelled tissue. Like ambulance chasers, they hungrily followed. Little silver maniacs in a feeding frenzy, unable to comprehend that just ahead of them, the large fish was in it's death throes. The battle had been a gallant effort, lasting just over fifteen minutes. A lifetime for the doomed fish. A great time for the man topside. Johnny Mack Teredos was a course unkept fellow who knew little else except how to fish. In that area, he was top dog. As a person, he was excrement and possessed few redeeming qualities. Teredos fishing partner was an equally talented angler, and like Teredos, an otherwise wasted union of egg and sperm cells. His name was Zeke Thibodaux. Together, they formed a formidable fishing team. Zeke wasted little time hauling the prized catch on board. The large gaff hook was shoved roughly into the redfish's gill slat, causing further damage to the delicate tissue. With a loud thud, the fish hit the deck, where it flopped around like a decapitated chicken, spewing blood in all directions. A wooden baseball bat used specifically for caving in the heads of dying fish put an end to the nasty dance. Teredos stood over Zeke, studying the carnage. "Shit Zeke. Look what a mess you made. " Zeke glanced up, his weathered features highlighted by a mixture of sweat, blood and fish crap. Overall, it was quite an improvement to his looks. "Mister, you got one goddamn mess to clean up. Get a move on before we slip and break our asses." "Sir, yessir." Zeke saluted mockingly. "Keep on Zeke and I'll turn you inside out from your pecker hole with that fancy gaff of yours." Teredos threatened. Zeke feigned a horrified look, could not contain his amusement, and broke out in a fit of raspy laughter. Cheap booze, hand rolled cigarettes and a lifetime of hard living had taken it's toll on the old man's body, but not his spirit. He felt the need to keep the verbal jabbing going. "Hey Capt'n, when that big red run like it did, I thought I was gonna have to jump up and piss on yer reel, just to cool it down, know what I mean?" Zeke's hysterical laughter turned into a full blown coughing jag as he choked on his own spit. "You ever even think about doing that and your crank will be bumpin' along the bottom instead of that cutbait, know what I mean?" Teredos expression meant that he was dead serious. "The only drawback would be that that shriveled up pecker of yours would kill all the sea life from here to Pensacola and I'd have to go back to working on weed wackers for a livin'. Then I'd surely have to filet your scrawny ass." While Zeke busied himself cleaning up the redfish's carnage, Teredos struggled to retrieve his prized bait. It took serious effort and a needle nose pliers to free the rotting finger from the big fish's craw. "Damn, this hook is buried ..." Teredos grunted as he tried to dislodge the hook. "Don't look at me for help mate. I ain't touching that shit." Zeke made no secret of his disgust for the bait, despite it's remarkable effectiveness. Finally, the hook straightened out and gave way. Teredos carefully placed the finger in it's special container next to the other well used pieces of bait. Teredos could hardly afford to waste or lose any of the prized digits. After all, fingers were hard to come by. He couldn't just traipse on down to the fishing section of the local super center and pick up a fresh pack of fingers. Teredos was down to three fingers and would need more soon. He had acquired his current stock from corpses pulled from the river over a long period of time. Originally, there were half a dozen of the decomposed digits. All were worn out through normal use while a couple others were simply lost through fishing errors. Thankfully, the "cutbait", as Teredos referred to them , were tough as rawhide and had a fairly long lifespan. By this time, Zeke was done scrubbing the deck as Teredos placed the redfish in the cooler on top of the rest of the day's catch. It was getting late and the cooler was filled to capacity. "What's say we call it a day Zeke?" "Sounds like a plan to me, bitch!" Zeke sputtered between long drags from a freshly lit hand rolled cigarette. Teredos smiled to himself and replied " Watch your language mister, or I'll keelhaul your cranky ass." "I'm shakin' capt'n." "You're shakin' 'cause you're a goddamn alcoholic." Teredos and Zeke had been fishing partners for as long as anyone could remember. They talked trash, but mostly it was harmless and in jest. To the unfamiliar, it sounded like a fight was fixin' to break out at any moment. Truth was, they were as fond of each other as any two men could be without being queer. Teredos cranked up the johnrude. The old two stroke outboard puked out a thick bluish oily cloud of smoke that coated the water with a kaleidoscope of colorful streaks. The motor settled into a loppy idle and Teredos let it run a minute before throttling up. Zeke got his footing as the bow raised up high in the water prior to planning out. Home was just over an hour north and it would be well past dark thirty before they reached their destination. Both men were very familiar with the bay and all of it's many tributaries and backwaters. They knew it as well as they knew each other, and respected it in the same manner. From just off the grassy point where they had hooked the last redfish, the northern shore was several miles away. All that was visible of it in the fading late afternoon sunlight was a faint dark ribbon on the horizon. Soon, the fog would settle in, obscuring the shoreline completely. The fog posed a problem to the average boater, but Teredos and Zeke actually enjoyed the solitude that it brought. With Teredos at the helm, the tackle stored away, and the catch iced down, all that was left for Zeke to do was kick back and enjoy the ride. This was the best part of the day. The cool evening air felt good against his leathery skin. The water was typically glassy this time of day and the boat skimmed the surface like a skater on ice. "Miller time, ain't it Capt'n.?" Zeke shouted above the din of the tightly wound motor. Teredos nodded in agreement, just now realizing how thirsty he was. A cold beer or three would really hit the spot. Twenty minutes and four beers later, the boat raced past Gator Point Marina, the last sign of civilization on the north end of the bay. From a mile off Gator Point, flickering lights from R.V.'s at the campground were barely visible. Columns of smoke from campfires among tall pine trees drifted up several hundred feet before hitting a slight breeze that carried it in a southerly direction. The smoke fanned out in the damp gulf air where it would soon mingle with the advancing fog. The mouth of the Perdido River lay just ahead. Several minutes later, the marina faded from view as the two fishermen passed a small island of marsh grass in mid channel. Just a few more miles and they would be home. A pale moon was on the rise, casting a dull yellowish tint on the dark hued junipers and giant cypress trees that lined the banks of the river. The night air had stilled, and with the humidity approaching one hundred percent, visibility was beginning to deteriorate rapidly. The moon would soon be completely obscured as the fog thickened. Teredos throttled back and the boat slowed. Rounding a bend in the river, the remains of a derelict forty two foot Criscraft came into view. It's battered hull bore testimony to the fury of a hurricane that placed it there decades ago. As Teredos boat passed, it's wake disturbed the rotting planking causing the old wood to move slightly like skeletal fingers beckoning them to come closer. The wreck always gave Teredos and Zeke chills, although they would never admit such a thing to each other. Neither man spoke as they passed the shipwreck, both silently waiting for the ghostly image to disappear in the dense fog. It wasn't much further to the confluence of the Blackwater and Perdido rivers. Although visibility was now down to just a few yards, Teredos had no trouble staying in the channel. He steered the boat with surgical precision, careful to maintain his course in mid channel. The Blackwater River is appropriately named. It's water is coffee colored from the high concentration of tannic acid that leeches into the river from the surrounding swamps and marshes. It is also a navigational nightmare due to the many cypress stumps that have rotted off at the waterline and are invisible for the most part. Many a boat has had it's hull ripped out by either submerged stumps or waterlogged debris that collects in it's sluggish stagnant water. Darkness naturally multiplies the many dangers. Over the years, the Blackwater River has claimed it's share of victims. Most were local fishermen who confidently thought they knew the river better than they actually did. Teredos and Zeke had on occasion reluctantly participated in search and recovery efforts. Visions of bloated rotting corpses pulled from the river's murky depths haunted the men. The last recovery had been a friend of theirs named Marlon Fisher, an old crabber who had worked the area for going on forty years. Fisher's skiff had hit a submerged stump one evening. Everyone considered it a freak accident because Fisher was well acquainted with the river and it's dangers and never took any chances. On this particular evening, Fisher may have been in too much of a hurry to get home. It was determined that the old man was thrown from his boat into an overhanging juniper who's jagged skeletal limbs peeled his face back like a sardine can lid. Pieces of his clothing and a portion of scalp were found in the blood encrusted limbs of the old tree. Fisher's body wasn't located for a week, although his boat was found the next day a short distance downstream from the accident site. A gator had stuffed his corpse under some cypress roots. Only when it bloated sufficiently to dislodge and float to the surface, were the remains discovered. What meat the gator had left, the turtles worked over. Fisher was a mess and almost unidentifiable as a human being. He was cremated. The ashes could have easily fit into a Prince Albert can, but his widow smartly opted for a cute little pewter urn which she kept perched on top of her T.V. set in the living room. Fisher would have approved. They had a good relationship. It was nearly 8:00 p.m. when the two men reached their destination. Both were dog tired. Teredos cut the throttle as they approached the sagging pier. The boat drifted the final few feet as Zeke readied with the bow line. Swarms of mosquitos and other assorted flying insects congregated around a dangling light fixture mounted at the end of the pier. They were waiting for their next meal, which had just arrived. "Damn it, I hate these blood sucking bastards" Zeke muttered, as he batted at the incoming parasites. He was too exhausted to offer much resistance. It wasn't long before all of his exposed skin was peppered with the ravenous creatures. As aggravating as the insects were, the men didn't let them interfere with their tasks. Each man had their unloading routine memorized and in a matter of minutes, the boat was secured and unloaded. They slowly made their way up the heavily worn trail leading from the river to Teredos house. "Go get some sleep Zeke, I'll catch you in the morning." "10-4 Kingfish, have a goodun." Replied Zeke, with a fresh rolled cig dangling between his cracked lips. The cigarettes lit end twitched in the foggy darkness as he spoke. Zeke carried his gear to his truck and dumped the stuff in the old truck's bed. The equipment was lost among the empty beer cans, liquor bottles, miscellaneous plastic containers and other garbage that had collected over the years. The 1974 Chevy C-10 was the mechanical equivalent of Zeke. In other words, it looked like shit and smoked like a freight train. The truck and it's owner were equally weathered through years of exposure to the harsh corrosive Gulf Coast elements. The old Chevy had long ago fallen prey to the rust monster that devoured it's body like flesh eating bacteria. Zeke's creative and liberal use of duct tape, bondo and bailing wire was it's salvation and only reason the truck was still in use and not rusting away under a live oak. The truck wasn't lacking in character. Bumper stickers of all types covered the majority of it's surface and added color to the rust streaked vehicle. Zeke unwired the sagging drivers door, slid in behind the bent steering wheel, rewired the door shut, and fired up the rattletrap. The six cylinder sputtered to life, it's dangling exhaust pipe belching smoke like a Pittsburg steel mill. Zeke gently tried to ease the truck into second gear, since first gear and reverse were stripped out. When the gentle approach failed to work, he jammed the shifter back violently. Miraculously, it went into gear without exploding like a hand grenade, although it did protest by making an obscene grinding noise. "Shut the fuck up." hollered Zeke, as if cussing out the old wreck would make it work properly. The one functioning headlight hung from it's socket by the electrical connections and more duct tape. The headlight was about as effective as a streetlight in a hurricane. It magnified every little bump in the road, sending nervous arcs of light from one edge of the pavement to the other. Zeke was proud of his ride. The locals knew better than to make fun of the old man's truck. He was a battered old coot but could still kick significant ass when needed. (Continues...) Excerpted from Cutbaitby Kimo Ledbetter Copyright © 2009 by Kimo Ledbetter. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Half Japanese, half Caucasian. Equal parts Hawaii and Alabama. Pacific Ocean and Gulf of Mexico. Poi and grits. Sashimi and fried catfish. Liberal and conservative redneck. Born in Honolulu in 1953, Kimo Ledbetter moved to Alabama in 1974 at the ripe age of 21. Alabama continues to be his home. Married, with two children, Kimo lives in a quaint rural river town on the slopes of an ancient meteor crater. His hobbies include painting, drinking import beer, dirtbiking, writing scathing letters critical of politics to the local newspapers, and drinking domestic beer. Did we mention drinking beer? "Cutbait" is his first attempt as a novelist, but providing this book sells a copy or two, other books are forthcoming. New ideas are constantly incubating and hatching in the dark recesses of his cerebral cortex. (That's brain to all you yoo hoos.) Kimo hopes this book grabs your attention where it hurts. Buy it. He needs the money.

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