Shall we be thus, then? We? Craven souls whose passions are so enthralled by the ghost-flash of sub-aqueous silver things that feed and writhe, that we would whore ourselves for the slightest chance of the briefest glimpse? Do we forget food? Deny ourselves drink? Doff little babies into tired mothers' arms, the better to cradle hard, brittle contraptions of graphite, cork, epoxy and aluminum - even by the coldest, iciest riverside? Do we exchange the warm, comfortable hearth for this most inhospitable alternative?
Behold! and lo!
And down in the gullets of the ravenous trout do all thoughts born of conscience find their untimely end. What feeble flame of god-fear flickered in our hearts, what self-doubt that might have belied our mad egocentric rapture, has been blown out, erased, eradicated, extirpated by the hurricane, the insane desire for the coveted chrome-thing that vaults and catapults its body in so many directions, seemingly almost all at once, and which so voraciously devours the offering that pleases it. Into the wide, gaping maw of this blackest chasm of obsession, do we throw ourselves willingly, cackling with obscene Lovecraftian delirium, we seers who touched therein the unseen, cyclopean, hoary source of that rarest of things, the lodestone; the mysterious Why that so propels us on this lunatic path.
Despair, ye wives and girlfriends, ye mothers and acquaintances, and yea even ye good friends - for against this which thou perceivest as foe, there can be no victory. Not by force of arms, nor by strength of morals or convictions have you any hope to bring this Thing to heel or subdue it to thy will. For it is wild and moves whithersoever it will, effortlessly and completely - seize it! But then open thy hand to peer at its indefinable colour, and it has escaped you and now lies hidden where? You cannot guess!
And so it will come to pass that the seven mad men, The Seven, the Chrome-magnum (magnon?) Crew, the Heptametron of Steelheaders - mayhap joined by an eighth - shall cross long leagues, over hill, field and water, to unite in the Hollow of the Fox and there cast about them what mad Chromic, mykissian destruction their darkest fancies compel to. Yet...
Very nearly did the seventh forfeit his place within this lascivious lot, for he is caught in the grip of vile and reprehensible Responsibility; which counts each hour spent fishing tenfold and exacts thereby a high tariff. And as despair crept into his heart at the hopelessness that denied that he too should raise his rod at the fox's hollow - lo! Inspiration! He unfurled the Chroma Carta and before She who ruleth did he prostrate himself and then did shamely utter this incantation,
O great and beautiful She who rulest my heart and my life, who ownest my will down to the very last thought [exeunt Sincerity] and upon whose Grace resteth all my Hope; grant that I may join the Seven for two trajectories of the Sun over thy Queendom, and I do solemnly vow to ride forth neither before nor after on like errands [disclaimer: _until the fourth Saturday in April]!!!
And lo! By the absence of violent retribution did the Seventh know that his gambit had succeeded! And again by the growl this morning, when otherwise a short foray might have been in order, "I need you to get the groceries before you go to work for your late shift," whereby she presseth her advantage - yea even by this did he know that the blissful path to the delectable Madness of the Six - now Seven - lay open at his feet!
Thus did he forsake pride, sell honour, mortgage short, chrome-full tomorrows - that he might join in the maniacal gargantuan Oncorhyncus orgy that will take place in a few hours more than two weeks hence.
And you, brave souls, you Seven; you know who you are! Prepare then, the pagan altar, the forsaken Hall at the Hollow of the Fox, and at the appointed time, raise your graphite and your Demarcoes with me; swear with me fealty to the "passtime" that bears us down into this temporary, seasonal insanity - and let us fear no nightly noises, no not even the unwonted passing of the short hours thatour union is alotted, O mighty anglers, fearless beer drinkers and imbibers of Appleton's. Flies, you fools! Flies and beads!