Because we were still about 5 feet above the surface of the river, I had to continue my journey downriver with this mighty guy. I soon was stumbling over boulders, and could no longer hold onto my stick without ending up in the river with the fish. That would have been bad. Really bad. So I handed the stick to my friend so he could pull it out and we could figure out what to do with it. He was able to finally get it onto shore, but the carp was flopping around so much that he couldn’t get hold of it. I don’t know that I would have wanted to try to wrestle with it. The thing could have taken on mr. hulk Hogan and probably win. In hulk’s prime wrestling days.
The next thing that happened, I’m not sure I want to share with you all, but I will. I’m claiming right now a disclaimer that it was not me who actually did this, and I do not take responsibility for my friend’s actions. The next thing I knew I was holding my fishing stick, as my friend picked up a huge log-sized stick and began whacking this huge, defenseless, innocent carp over the head. I screamed for him to stop, but he insisted that it would be the only way we could ever get it home. I told him there was no way I was bringing that ugly thing home, and more importantly, there was no way I was going to try to eat that thing. It came out of the missisippi, for goodness sakes! In south Minneapolis! No way! No how! Nuh-uh! Not this girl. But he continued the brutality until the carp laid there, still and lifeless. Either it was a good faker, or it was dead. As a doornail. Poor thing. I kinda felt bad for it. Kinda.