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At the Salmon Cowboy: A Found Letter

at the salmon cowboy a found letter

Estimated reading time — 5 minutes

I fear that by the time you read this . . . it will be too late. Forgive me, Vanessa. I am so sorry. As you are reading this, your fiancé is lost—caught in an act of obsessive compulsion that I, too, have fallen into. There was no malice in my intention—to take him away was not my intention. We were only going to try it once. My hands are shaking as I type. Staying calm, maintaining some semblance of composure is only possible because I know that when I fulfill this promise I will be able to join your Intended and writhe in ecstasy—before too long joining with him in a greater pleasure addicts of this sort strive to achieve. I promised him I’d explain. He cannot. He is busy.

We had gone to Canada to fish for the running salmon. You knew this. Your betrothed and I had no further intentions. After several hours of fruitless fishing, we left the river disappointed. We drove into town to have a beer, perhaps two. We parked in front of a bar called “The Salmon Cowboy” and exited the vehicle. The whole town smelled like fish. Our disappointment, therefore, was compounded. Where did the fish come from? Who was catching them? Can you believe that our disappointment was further compounded when we entered the bar and found that it was not a bar? There was no beer. There were only fish piled high upon on the floor, some of them still flopping. Others, those closest to the bottom, in various states of decomposition. There was no evidence of a fishmonger—or any type of clerk for that matter. The room was vast and dark but for a single circle of light emanating from a bulb directly above the fishpile. We did not want to buy fish. We wanted to catch them. I wanted to see you smile, Vanessa, when Thad, your intended, presented you evidence of his love in the form of a beautiful Chinook Salmon.

Thad is moaning, Vanessa. I am sorry. He is screaming that it is better than sex and he will never stop. I am excited by the length of our Salmon Rope—I will get to that.


First, I have to tell you that you would not have believed how angry we were that there was no beer at “The Salmon Cowboy”, that there was only a large pile of fish. We were going to leave but we heard this moaning towards the back of the “The Salmon Cowboy.” Perhaps, we thought, if we followed the sound of the moaning, we would find someone who could tell us where we could find some beer.

Vanessa, I hope you are okay. I know how much you adore Thad. I regret that we found that man at the “The Salmon Cowboy.” I wish we would have left instead of asking him what he was doing. Were I able to turn back time I would go back in time and tell Thad and I not to enter “The Salmon Cowboy.” Also, I would have told us that there would be beer elsewhere. It is Canada, after all.

But I cannot go back in time, Vanessa. So, it remains that we followed the moaning to the back of “The Salmon Cowboy.” The moaning stopped as we neared. The sound of sniffing replaced the moans. We could see nobody until we were very close. We found there, several men and women, sitting cross-legged with their backs against the wall. Nearly all of them held pink fillets of fish against their noses. Their heads nodding. Their eyes rolled back.
Do you know how strange this was? No, you could not know, Vanessa. You also could not know how strange it was when from somewhere behind us we heard:

“Come to this fishpile and rip from the fish a slab of meat. Experiment with the firmness and consistencies. Each of us has our own particular preference.”

We turned around and you would not believe what we saw, Vanessa. There, standing in the light of the fishpile, was a man. It had to have been the moaner. He must have flanked us in the dark. Do you know what hung from inside his nostrils and dropped out of his mouth? No, Vanessa, you could not know that it was a long pink rope strung up through his nostril, down through his nasal cavity and then out of his mouth. Each end reached nearly to the floor.
I wish you knew how beautiful his salmon rope was, Vanessa. Such a glistening wonder, morning strands of spider silk. What diligence and discipline! How he snorted the salmon fillet long enough so that it stretched into his skull and back out his mouth I do not know.
The roper’s voice was nasal but clear. “It is obvious that you admire my salmon rope. Stay and perhaps you can create one like mine.” He took each end of the rope in his hands, craned his neck towards the ceiling. He pulled the rope away from his nose with his left hand, thereby lifting his right. He then pulled the rope out of his mouth with his right hand until his fist was against his nose. The roper, again, moaned in ecstasy, gurgled with pleasure as he drew the salmon rope back and forth through his nostril and mouth. He fell to his knees, collapsed backward into the fishpile and began to jerk the rope fast and hard.
“Let me try!” Thad screamed, his hand already reaching down his pants. I was scared. With such honesty, such shame, I must let you know that it was not the roper’s display or Thad’s enthusiasm that frightened me but the prospect of Thad getting to the rope before I could—robbing all the pleasure before I had my go at it. The roper seemed to read my mind. He rose to his feet and said:


“You both, come here. We can share.” So Thad and I approached the roper, one of us on each side of him. The roper placed the nose side of the rope into my hand, placed the mouth side of the rope into the hand of Thad.


“Now, men, take the rope into yourselves and link us.” I do not think I could tell you why, Vanessa, but we listened to the roper. I brought the rope to my nostril and sucked in with a great deal of force, the rope drove up my nose and through my nasal cavities. I gagged as it tickled the back of my throat and the end that had entered my nose ejected from my mouth.
The Roper smiled. I smiled too when I saw that Thad had done the same as I with his end of the salmon rope. Almost instantly, Thad and I were swooning. Oh, Vanessa! Do you know that I forgot about sex when the Roper took the ends of his rope from Thad and me and began to pull them slowly through my skull, Thad’s skull and his own?

Vanessa, we are still connected as such, and I fear that we shall never disconnect. We are nourished by the slight shavings of salmon that fall into our stomachs. Our thirsts are quenched by the saliva that runs along the rope. As the rope lengthens, people leave their places against the wall and join us.


Thad asked me to tell you this. He asked that I invite you but I can not invite you. We waste away here in fishy decadent bliss. Do not come to us. No longer am I able to write. Another has joined us, and we are pulling the rope again.

I write this with Love from Thaddeus and warnings from me.
Your dear friend,
Gelatin A. Smith

Credit: CR Dobson

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