When the River Whispers at Midnight

Mosquitoes hummed a war chant around my ears as I stepped onto the muddy bank. The Mississippi's dark water lapped at my waders, its current carrying the earthy scent of decaying leaves. My heavy-duty fishing rod felt alien in hands still remembering last week's failed expedition. 'Third time's the charm,' I muttered, baiting hooks with rancid chicken livers that glistened under my headlamp's jaundiced glow.

For ninety-seven agonizing minutes, the only action came from diving bats and my twitching eyelids. Then it happened - three sharp tugs followed by dead weight. My line sliced through black water as something primal woke in the river's belly. The rod bent double, its guides singing a high-pitched aria. 'Talk to me, old girl,' I crooned, thumb burning against screaming drag.

When the monster surfaced, its whiskered mouth gaped like a submarine hatch. We measured stares in the moonlight - me clutching a landing net, it thrashing with the fury of a wronged deity. As I released the 22-pound flathead, its tail slap left a mud tattoo across my cheek. The river chuckled, washing away another fisherman's arrogance.