We Have Your Redfish

Jefe. We have your redfish.

If you wish to see them again, leave the following in the bed of a rusted El Camino parked in the back lot of Marker 37. Let the air out of the left rear tire so we can tell which Cami it is. Maybe you'd better let it out of the right front as well. Just in case. Hell, just put a sign on it. But no authorities.

Anyway, leave the following:

Ten 5-gallon cans of gas
Two full propane tanks
A big-ass cooler of ice
Nine cases of bottled water. No store brands.
One case each of Corona, PBR, Coors Light, and Lonestar
Make that two
Two gallons of tonic water
One gallon of Gilbey's gin
Make that two
A nickel bag of black marabou
A quart of Bullfrog Quick Gel
A bottle of Pepto and a tube of Neosporin. Original.
Eight pairs of earplugs
Tortillas. Lots of tortillas. No fucking whole wheat.
Fish seasoning and a clove of garlic
Four bags of Kingsford
Amber Heard's phone number
300 feet of tippet material. 15-20lb floro. None of that mono shit.
An impeller kit for a Suzuki DF25R
A case of Charmin
Make that two

Do it. Every day you delay another black drum gets Weberized.

Oh. And do something about the crap 3G signal out here. Seriously.

We're watching you, Jefe. We're watching.

Do it. Or your redfish are toast.

Do it.