That’s Saturday’s story.

The trash talk started at the bait shop.

Robert’s at the counter already chewing jerky like it owes him money — loud smacks, bits flying.

Steve’s sipping coffee so hot steam’s rolling off his scruff like a busted radiator.

Mike’s leaning on a rack of crankbaits, griping about the price of gas louder than the outboard we haven’t even started yet.

The clerk doesn’t even look up from spooling line. “Shad are in the backs,” he shrugs. “Or not. Depends who you ask.”

Robert taps the counter. “We’ll find ’em. Lake can’t hide forever.”

Steve blows steam, deadpan: “Lake’s been hiding from you for years.”

I’m already laughing, and the sun ain’t even up yet.

Ramp’s slick as a greased pig. Mike backs the trailer in sideways and we nearly baptize the boat before we even launch. Robert’s still chewing. Steve mutters prayers.

Finally, we’re off. Water temp reads 64. Magic number or superstition — either way, we all stare at it like it’s about to confess something.

“Today’s the day,” Robert says, jerky crumbs rolling down his hoodie.

Steve shakes his head. “You said that last time.”

“And I was right until we started fishing,” Robert fires back.

First cove? Dead.

I get a bluegill the size of a Pop-Tart. Robert reels in a bass so small it’s still got training wheels. Steve flips perfect into cover, sets hard, and drags back… a stick.

“Nice catch,” Mike says. “Carved me a new lure.”

Robert grins. “I’m gonna mount mine. World record: smallest fish with the biggest mouth.”

We howl. She’s quiet. Just watching.

Then she speaks up. “Mind if I give it a try?”

The boat goes silent for half a beat, then Mike smirks.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Maybe try Barbie’s Dream Jig.”

Robert chuckles, mouth full of jerky. “Yeah, tie on a corn-dog. Might get more action.”

Steve doesn’t even look up. “Careful. Bank’s that way. Windows are expensive.”

She doesn’t blink. Ties on this ridiculous thing that looks like a snake.

Robert nearly spits his jerky. “What are we fishing for now, Tarzan?”

Mike shakes his head: “Hell, toss that in the wrong swamp and you’ll have the game warden writing us up for reptile season.”

Steve finally cracks a grin. “Better keep that thing away from my ankles.”

She smirks, never looking up. “Don’t worry, boys… this snake’s bigger than anything you’ve held in your own hands. And it never lets me down.”

Robert chokes on his jerky, coughing so hard he nearly drops his rod.

Mike’s drink sprays across the deck in a half-spit, half-laugh.

Steve just lowers his coffee, deadpan as ever: “Snake’s got more game than you weekend warriors.”

She doesn’t crack. Loads up. Sidearm cast.

Thunk. Nails a branch. Hauls back a salad bar.

The boat loses it.

Mike doubles over: “Hell yes — new PB, personal best lettuce wrap!”

Robert’s wheezing: “Somebody get her ranch dressing!”

Steve deadpans again: “Window’s still intact.”

She just smirks, clears the weeds, and fires again. Cast after cast — awkward, snagging grass, taking the ribbing.

And then it happens.

One twitch. The lake explodes. A big old bass is airborne. Rod doubles like it’s tied to a truck.

Reel screams.

Boat explodes.

Mike almost spills his drink diving for the net. Robert stops chewing for the first time all morning and barks, “That’s a donkey.” Steve’s glasses fog like a sauna as he leans over the side.

Chaos. Shouting. Cussing. The works.

And when she hauls it over the gunwale, it’s the biggest large mouth bass we’ve seen in years. Ten, maybe fifteen pounds of green-backed humiliation.

The boat goes dead quiet.

Steve deadpans “Whole damn carpet-cleaning crew can’t buy a bite.”

Finally Robert whispers, “Beginner’s luck.”

She smiles “Don’t worry boys… stick to shampooing rugs, you’re good at it. I’ll handle the fish.” then casts a few more times. 

And sticks another.

By the time we hit the dock, she’s out-fished us five to one. She’s already scrolling through her phone, asking us which pictures to post on socials. Our egos? Empty.

I finally cave. “Alright, I’ve never seen you pull fish like that. What’s the deal with that lure?”

She laughs, unlocks her phone, and sends me a text message link with the words staring back at me:

The World’s Most Savage Fishing Lure — Independently Tested

She pockets the phone and shrugs. “Figured it was a gimmick. Guess not.”

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