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I was just about to fall asleep when the ringing of the telephone made me jump out of my skin.

“Hello,…”

“Yes,…”

“Fleche? It’s Freddy…”

“Yes, Freddy from VIVAL, the little grocery store… in Barjac.”

“Well, let me tell you something, I have the scoop of the year. You remember that enormous wild trout that has rendered me insomniac for a time now? Well get ready, are you ready? Yesterday I discovered her address… Exactly, my friend. I know where she sleeps! I even saw her nose: ENORMOUS she’s the mother of all the trout… I’ve never seen a fish of this size. One would think that she was raised on steroids. I swear! Fleche! What do you think about our going together and have a little conversation with her?…

“OK.”

Let’s meet 10 a.m. at the “Penalty” Cafe.

I’ve known Freddy for quite awhile. He’s an advanced 30 something, well-groomed, elegant (in spite of a prematurely expanded little paunch) and has become completely obsessed by big trout. Kinda like those guys who prefer obese women; the only ones who can give them an orgasm… Freddy is like that. Big Fish: that’s what gives him a hard-on… so monumental that the rest of the world disappears into the most profound space, the smallest, quietest corner of his cortex.

So, the next day I was there at the appointed time ready to discover the trout of the century.Without a word, Freddy drove his “2 chevaux” along the quiet mountain roads; after perilously rappeling down the gorge (steeper than those of Russ Meyer), we finally reached the river.

A few hundred meters upstream Freddy pointed his fishing rod in the direction of a riverbank covered with bushes and brambles toward some fallen rocks where the sun rarely penetrates.

“That’s where she lives” he murmured.

He added in a whisper: “Patience my friend we’ll have to wait, she won’t come out before nightfall. To have grown to this monstrous size, you can bet your bottom dollar that not only is she very clever, but that she doesn’t take any risks.”

It was around 9 p.m. that the beauty deigned to open the door and put her nose outside. Freddy had not lied. It was a fish unlike any other. A dark skin, almost black, built like a Kenyan athlete; a trout of extravagant beauty. Me neither, I had never seen anything like it. Freddy was, that night, ready for the fight and when the trout grabbed the “pheasant tail nymph”, I had the impression that some jerk was throwing cobblestones into the river. The combat didn’t last very long… maybe two minutes. The fish ran upstream, dove down, wound the line around a rock and… Freddy howled like a wolf. The battle of the Titans was over. My friend reeled in his line; his dream vanished.

The return home was sinister, as you might of guessed. Freddy was on the verge of tears and my bad jokes didn’t even produce the shadow of a smile. There was nothing to do.

A year passed.

One day, just a short time ago, I passed by the charming village where Freddy lives, wanting to have a few laughs with Sarah and Louisa (the two little sluts on rue du Temple) before going to chow down. In front of the door to “La Potee Ardechoise” a guy was sitting on the step begging. I dug into my pockets searching for change then leaned to give some money when I saw the face of the poor guy.

My god! It was Freddy. Not the Freddy of a year ago, dashing and full of life, no; the man in question resembled an old man, grey haired, almost bald, dirty and repugnant. His clothes would have made any bum feel ashamed, his rags were in tatters. He, also, raised his eyes and recognized me.

“Fleche, my buddy, I’m really glad to see you!”

“But Freddy, what happened to you? I barely recognized you.”

“Fleche, buy me a drink; let’s go the “Penalty” bar and I tell you the whole story.”

Sitting in front of our glasses my friend poured it all out.

“Certainly you remember our failed visit to that bloody trout. Well, try to imagine this: on returning home I was greeted by Gisele M. who screamed at me with such distasteful language, so vulgar, all the while throwing a whole set of dishes at me. I don’t know if you knew her but we had been together for several months and had decided to get married. Well, hold you hat my friend, the day of our wedding was scheduled for that same day that we went fishing. I was so obsessed with that fish that I absolutely forgot about the wedding. So, Gisele in her wedding gown and all of her family waited for me, in vain, at the courthouse. The wedding dinner was canceled etc., etc., etc. Needless to say, from one day to the other, I became the pariah of the village. No one in the village would talk to me. Of course, I took a hatchet and cut up my fucking fly rod into little pieces; it was responsible for all my misery and today I am reduced to begging.”

Maybe you think that I shed a few tears over the grievous destiny of this sad cretin? Not the least! (I have a sacred horror of whiny jerks!) Not only was I dry as a kipper in the sun, but moreover, I ordered another double whisky “Glenlivet” and took an immense pleasure leaving him with the bill.

Then, very proud of myself, I took Elsa (the little hooker of Puy-en-Velay) to the restaurant. The meal, as usual, was splendid. The trout with almonds was cooked to perfection and the bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse was an incomparable nectar and beneath the table Elsa, on the whole, deserving of her fame.