draped over the girl’s shoulder and neck, pitching her head forward.
Arty and Jim watched the film with a delight few knew. At times they became hysterical with laughter; other times they fell mute and gaped wide-eyed with a paradoxical awe at the pleasure and torment they had created.
When the girl on screen had finally passed out, and when Jim brought her back around by squirting an old-fashioned seltzer bottle into her face in true Three Stooges fashion, the two brothers nearly fell out of their chairs.
“I’d forgotten all about that!” Arty cried.
Jim jumped out of his chair, turned to his brother, and wiped alternating hands down his shaved head while spewing “nyuck” after “nyuck” from the side of his mouth—a spot-on impersonation of the late Jerome ‘Curly’ Howard that would have been worthy of a standing ovation amongst devoted fans world-wide, all things considered.
Arty had full-fledged tears dripping from his eyes. He wiped them away, straightened his posture, and donned a playful frown. “Spread out, you knucklehead,” he said in his best Moe voice.
Jim dropped to the floor, rolled on his side, and began using his legs to spin himself around and around like hands on a clock: a classic Curly Shuffle, complete with “Woo!” after “Woo!” after “Woo!”
Arty wiped away the last of his tears, bent forward and grabbed a second video from the base of the TV. He tossed the cassette to his brother.
“Which one’s this?” Jim asked, catching the tape before getting to his feet.
Arty hit eject, pulled the snake tape out and set it aside. “That’s the one with the yuppie at the bar who wouldn’t shut up about his golf game. The one with the nail gun and the…ahem…new handicap we gave him.”
Jim smirked before turning his nose up and speaking in a haughty manner. “I’m sorry, Arthur, but that was an absolutely atrocious pun. However, that particular gem of a video is easily in my top three, so I’m willing to let it pass.”
“Thank you, James,” Arty replied, his tone equally pretentious. “Now toss it back so I can pop it in. In fact, if the mood should strike you, I’ve even got a few more treasures we can peruse after this to truly set a fitting tone for the evening’s festivities that await us.”
“Bravo, Arthur. Bravo.”
18
“We’re still going to dinner I hope?” Patrick asked Amy.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you still freaked out about the finger?”
Amy, who was rifling through random drawers in their bedroom as a means to pacify her mind rather than actually pack, replied, “You’re not?”
Patrick chuckled. “Not in the slightest. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I question whether the damn thing was real.”
Amy turned and left a drawer hanging open. “Huh?”
“Well, we didn’t exactly take it to a lab and get it analyzed, honey. The damn thing was probably a rubber prop or something. Some kid at the bait shop probably slipped it in there as a joke.”
Amy shut the drawer. “It looked real to me.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see—and you’ve seen how many severed fingers in your lifetime, baby?”
She folded her arms across her chest and squeezed as if trying to hold onto her convictions. “If it was rubber and not…meat, then why did Oscar eat it?”
“Because he’s a dog, baby. When I was growing up our dog used to go into the cat’s litter box and eat its shit for Christ’s sake. Dogs are loyal and obedient but not too terribly bright, especially when it comes to choosing their cuisine.”
Amy looked off past her husband. There was a decent pause before she blinked. “So you think it was a rubber finger then? A stupid prank from a kid?”
To lie or not to lie, Patrick thought. Amy had a good point about the dog eating meat. Dogs will eat anything, but rubber would have likely been chewed up and spat out. Maybe. Still, the rubber finger theory had come to him in a flash, and if he could, he would have literally patted his own back for thinking so quick on his feet. So for the time being, he would nurture that spontaneous gem he’d concocted, convince his wife it was a rubber finger. A harmless prank.
As for him? Just ask the hairs on the back of his neck—the ones he was constantly patting down and giving zero chance to rise up and speak freely. Those hairs felt the finger was real. Very real and very fucking mysterious. Because if you suspect the