Chapter 218: Eel-Catching Contest

Chapter 218: Eel-Catching Contest

There are five of them.

Farm girls. Big arms. Hometown pride. Hair tied back like they mean it. Barefoot in the mud, sleeves rolled up, faces painted with fish guts and determination.

And then there’s me.

Hungover. Bra-less. Anklets still on. One sandal lost somewhere by the pie stall. Mud up to my knees. Hair down, tits half out, and already slipping into the drained fish pond like it’s a bathtub full of bad decisions.

The pond is alive. Squirming. Black ropes of slime and muscle twist under the waterline. It stinks of river rot and desperation. One girl makes the sign of the Sea Mother. Another cracks her knuckles like she’s about to choke a god.

I wink at her.

The bell rings.

We lunge.

Eels explode in all directions. It’s chaos. Arms flailing. Screams. Someone takes a bite to the wrist. I go straight for the deep end, plunge both hands into the muck, and yank.

Nothing.

Godsdamnit. They're slippery little sex toys with eyes.

“Get in the mood,” I growl to myself. “Think of Gregory.”

And I do. Grinning like a madwoman, I wrestle an eel the length of my forearm into a wooden bucket at the pond’s edge.

One.

Another wriggles past my foot. I pounce. Slip. Land on my ass with a slap that echoes off the bathhouse wall. Crowd roars with laughter. I flip them off and grab the damn eel with my toes. Two.

The farm girls are ruthless. Elbows in ribs. Hair yanked. One grabs an eel the size of a small child and gets dragged halfway across the pond before she recovers. Another shrieks when it slaps her across the face and lets go.

Me? I bite the next one.

Yes. Teeth. Right behind the gills. Don’t judge me.

Three.

Four.

Five. I’ve got eel slime in places I didn’t even know I had. My thighs are basically an oil slick. My braid’s unravelled. A child watching from the edge screams, “She’s part fish!”

I blow him a kiss.

One minute left. Clock’s running dry. Everyone’s panting. Muddy. Bloodied. One girl looks like she’s seen the inside of a war. Another has given up and is just cradling one eel like it’s her childhood trauma.

Final sprint.

I dive. Hands out. Legs flailing. Land flat on my belly, slide like a goddess of poor life choices, and grab two writhing bastards in a single squelch.

Seven.

The bell rings.

Silence.

I stand, hair dripping eel guts, one boob definitely out, mud running down my thighs like river silt. I raise my hands in triumph.

“Seven!” the judge yells.

The crowd erupts.

One of the farm girls cries. Another tries to punch me and misses. I’m crowned with a wreath of damp reeds and handed a smoked eel on a stick as a prize.

I take a bite. Chew thoughtfully.

“Too salty,” I declare. “Like your tears, sweetheart.”

Barony sports. Absolute dignity killers. Ten out of ten. Would win again.