"I'm Alive", Jason Stark thought as the hues of predawn penetrated his partially closed eyelids. "I'm Alive" he thought again as the boat man dragged Jason's half naked body across the bacteria laden oysters that riddled the south side of the harbor. It was in that moment that Jason realized something was wrong. Besides the burning pain in the back of his head, he now had the pleasure of having the same oysters he had enjoyed with Mike Smelter a few hours ago, raggedly slicing through the back of his legs, buttocks and back. It was enough to lurch him to full alert until the blood that had oozed from his head reminded him that he did not have enough strength to come to just yet. Again, lights out, back to the search for his special place, his place of freedom.
It must have been nearly dawn because the tide was low enough to pass the south channel back to the thick forest of mangroves that would soon engulf the late night patrons of the harbor. The boat man heaved and swayed with his newly acquired luggage. As he sloshed through the channel, he hocked up his own oyster and spat it back to where it seemed to belong, on the oyster bar. The boat man seemed to have acquired a new pungent smell this morning. In addition to his particularly gut wrenching aroma came the smell of marsh, low tide, and the carcasses from last nights feast. The over slot redfish bobbed and swayed back and forth into the oyster bar, its eyes beginning to swell as they do before they dislodge themselves. As is typical with fishy decomposition. The smell of the boat man was awful. Worse than the night before and instead of some of his scent dissipating as he moved through the water, it simply seemed to gain layers of stench. With a mighty heave, the boat man pitched the unmoving, unnoticing body of Jason Stark into his make shift canoe. This is how he liked it. Sabotage the hapless victim's mode of transportation and send the authorities looking for a wanderer, someone who simply left the area to search for help. That's what he counted on to continue his work in private. His grisly, terrifying, beautiful work. As if the sunlight triggered a rush of adrenaline, the boat man began to paddle through the ever narrowing streams that cut through the mangroves like liquid veins. He knew what was to come. He could barely stand the anticipation of his work, the work that began many years ago and has stretched throughout the southeastern US. Nothing ever felt like home to the boat man, not that he knew what home felt like. All the boat man knew was that the urge to complete 'his work" was insatiable. He had gotten every pleasure that can be experienced on this earth from his work. Love, lust, obsession, and desire rounded out the most common emotional experience he achieved. However, at times, the boat man experienced hate, disgust, resentment, and rage. Luckily and in a way most unluckily, Jason Stark had caught the boat man in a "good place" feeling chipper, and jovial. The boat man paddled his canoe slowly and at a rhythmic pace with the flowing water. He whistled a tune that Jason couldn't be sure that he knew. What he did know is that even the faintest breath of a whisper from the boat man's mouth entombed the canoe in a fog of stale, dirty, unfathomable funk.
As they came to end of their trek into the womb of the mangroves, Jason Stark thought to himself, "I'm Alive" as the scent of earth replaced the smell of brackish backwater. He thought again "I'm Alive" as he was hoisted up under the arm pits by the walking stench that was his captor. He opened his eyes to waving pine trees, warm sun, and the sound of wildlife rustling near by. Jason stark said aloud "I'm Al----, unable to complete his statement as another sickening crunch turned his world to black and the sound of soggy boots squishing uphill replaced the serene sound of harmonious nature that had given him just a moments reprieve from the situation that was to come.
