Attack of the Killer Musky
May 4, 2000
I rented the movie Lake Placid the other night. You know, the one about the giant crocodile that wreaks mayhem on the folks that live on a remote lake. It was actually pretty crappy, but it got me thinking. Water-based horror flicks have long been popular, right? Movies like The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Prophecy, Jaws, Deep Blue Sea, Anaconda. Those all had pretty cool antagonists, but I think it’s time for a killer fish to go nuts and tear up a town.
With that in mind, I started thinking about what kind of fish I’d put in my movie. I’d like to use a freshwater species, but most of those are, in general, not really big enough to put the fear of God into somebody. So, of course, my plot would eventually have to reveal that the monster fish had been slurping some toxic sludge that caused it to grow to ridiculous proportions. But, what kind of fish? A 10-foot trout? Nah, too goofy. A man-eating crappie? Don’t think so. A bus-sized bass would be kinda fun, but you really need to have something with big, bad teeth. Ah, maybe a musky. Yes, muskellunge sport some deadly choppers and also have a pretty nasty disposition. They can grow to 4 or 5 feet long, so a 10-foot, toxic waste-fed musky wouldn’t be too, too far fetched. Okay, a musky it is.
Now that I have my main star, here’s the opening scene for my movie Monster Muskellunge or Killer Musky or The Musky that ate Manhattan or “that really bad movie that went straight to video about that really lame fish…”
Earlier in the day, Alan had felt it. At the time, he didn’t think much of it, but here it was again. That strange sensation you sometimes get when something’s not quite right. A little tingle on the back of your neck, perhaps. Or a twinge at the base of your spine. He probably would have dismissed it the first time he felt it, but now that it was back, he started feeling uneasy. Feeling as if he were being watched, Alan snapped his head around and looked behind him, but saw nothing.
Still, the sense was there and the thought of being out in the middle of Alder Bay, a quarter mile from the nearest dry earth, creeped him out. The water in the bay looked as black as the bottom of a well and was probably over 100 feet deep. Getting more panicky by the second, Alan felt a strong desire to put some shallow water under his keel. He picked up the pace on the oars and pointed the bow of the little wooden boat towards the shore.
To occupy his mind, Alan thought back on the summer that he and his dad spent restoring the boat. They’d seen it in a crusty old fishermen’s yard the year before when they were visiting the coast. The derelict vessel looked pathetic as it laid there in the waist-high weeds, keel skyward and rotting like a piece of roadkill . But there was just something about the 12 footer that appealed to them. They figured restoring her would be a fun summer project, so they knocked on the door and offered the salty mariner who answered $40. The fisherman gave the boat to them for $10 and even helped them load the eyesore into the back of the truck.
Back at the lake, Alan and his father worked through the summer, meticulously repairing each rotten plank, every rusted screw. After several months of dedication, the pair nursed the little rowboat back to life and she eventually transformed into a work of art. When finished, they christened her Osprey and immediately put her to good use catching walleyes and smallmouth bass.
The crisp white coat of paint they had given Osprey that summer had since faded, but the vessel still performed well on the lake and had proved to be quite the fishing machine. These thoughts eased Alan’s mind, and by the time he reached the shallows near the wooded shore, his nerves had calmed. He started felling silly about getting spooked out on the bay. It was probably nothing. So, he broke out his rod and started casting a chartreuse spinnerbait towards the weedline — he’d come to the lake to fish anyway. As he worked the shoreline shallows, Alan picked up a couple nice smallies and a pickerel. The day was a pleasant one, but Alan knew he should probably start heading back to the house. A good breeze often kicked up out of the south in the afternoons and that would mean he’d have to row against it the entire 3 miles back home. But he just couldn’t pull himself way. The bonzebacks were on a good tear now and they were jumping on his lure every other cast or so.
The fishing was so good that Alan completely lost track of time. He finally gave up on the bass and started pulling on the oars for home as the sun was just slipping over the hills on the western rim of the lake. As the blazing orb disappeared from view, the sky tuned an amazing red — as if somebody had poked a giant hole in the sun and allowed its brilliant hues to run across the heavens like the yoke of an undercooked fried egg. As he worked the oars, Alan remembered an old sailing adage his father had taught him for predicting the weather: “red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” At least it would be a nice evening for a boat ride.
With the sunset bleeding off and the sky turning pale, Alan could see that he was going to be treated to a full moon. He knew the lake intimately, but there was nothing wrong with having a little extra light by which to navigate, he thought. The evening was warm and still and Alan began to wonder why he hadn’t spent more time on the lake at night in the past. The water was absolutely sparking like a million diamonds under the moon and he could hear the loons calling out from somewhere in the dark. He was glad to be on the water.
But then something made the hairs on the back of his neck go stiff. In the silver moon-lit surface behind the boat, he swore he saw a giant fin slice through his wake. He eventually convinced himself that nothing in the lake, not even the largest sturgeon or musky, could have a fin like that. He had to be hallucinating. He certainly was tired from fishing all day and rowing several miles. And maybe he’d been in the sun too long…
Alan continued to row at a brisk pace and made the Alder Bay crossing without any more fin sightings. He rounded Gardner’s Point and could see the lights of his house twinkling in the distance. Just seeing his home port made Alan feel good. He knew that in another 10 minutes, he’s be pulling Osprey up on the beach and walking up the garden path to the back porch. He could almost taste the cold beer that he was going pop as soon as he got to the house and he smiled at the thought of a couple fresh bass fillets sizzling in hot oil on the stove. As he imagined how good the crispy, golden brown fish was going to taste, he saw the big fin appear again just 30 feet off his stern. He blinked his eyes wildly in an attempt to make the image go away, but the big fin wouldn’t disappear. It just kept coming.
Frantic, Alan rowed as hard as he could, but he couldn’t shake it. At 30 yards, he was sure his heart was going to leap out his chest, and when the creature closed to within 10 yards of Osprey’s square end, he felt the blood rushing out of his head. Then the fin dipped below the surface as quickly as it had appeared and the water was again still.
Dizzy with fear, Alan streaked for the beach. In the two minutes it took to cover the distance to the shore, the fin never resurfaced. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy when the nose of Osprey was just a few feet from the kissing the beach. In an instant, he’d jump out of the boat safely onto tierra firma. But that creepy feeling he’d had earlier in the day came rushing back suddenly. It was then that Alan noticed a huge dark shape lying in the shoreline shallows between the boat and the beach. Waiting for him. The water exploded and everything went to hell. The killer musky had headed him off at the pass and was now airborne. The great snapping jaws, lined with icicle-like teeth came down on his shoulder like a wrecking ball and he briefly looked into the horrific baseball-sized eye before everything went black.
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