Celebration Banquet

Curiosity killed the cat—Henry had known that since before he crossed over. The lessons of peeing yourself from gossip or helping someone up only to get blamed for causing the accident were way too unforgettable.

Besides, he'd been in this world for twenty years, locked up in an underground research facility, and had only been in Alaska for a little over two months. Henry didn't believe he'd managed to offend anyone.

Except maybe that town sheriff, who never let his guard down around him. But even he held back, never making any overly aggressive moves.

So Old Tom's guests targeting him was less likely than one in ten thousand.

Under those circumstances, there was no need to let paranoia run wild, insisting on snooping into what they were up to or suspecting they were plotting against him.

That kind of behavior was no different from a black supporting actor in a Nineties horror flick, going against the main group, splitting off, and acting alone.

If the movie didn't show the killer butchering that guy, it'd be a waste of the director building up that character and giving him all those shots.

If he let his curiosity get the better of him, chased after them, and ended up exposed, he'd be as stupid as someone seeing a whirlpool right in front of them and jumping in anyway.

Anyway, after finishing his talk with Tom, Henry drove back to the northern town, to Old John's bar.

The next two days passed quietly. Those two strangers he'd met once hadn't had their story spread to this town.

The locals still only came to Old John's for a drink at night. The rest of the time, Henry was glued to the classic movie channel.

Until the King Crab season ended, he went out with Old George three more times.

The last trip was only a few days—they came back without a full hold. They had to get the catch back to port before the season officially closed.

If they returned late, the fines would be so high that the whole trip would be for nothing, or they'd even lose money. In serious cases, they could have their license revoked.

So on that final run, everyone wasn't paid a fixed salary—they got a share of the catch after costs.

Luckily, King Crab prices were high enough that everyone still made a profit, just a bit less than a normal trip. But the work hours were shorter too, so no one complained.

The end of November wasn't the end of the crab season—it just meant no more King Crabbing.

Next up was Armed Deep-Sea Crab, in a different area. But most crab boats didn't fish back-to-back, because parts of the Bering Sea froze in December, making it hard for small boats to navigate.

Captains planning to go after Armed Deep-Sea Crab would wait until January of the next year. That gave them about two months of work, just like with King Crab.

Still, there were boats like Old George's that specialized in King Crab. As long as you worked hard and nothing went wrong, it was enough to feed the whole family and have fun for the year.

But after that last trip, since the work hours were short and he was still full of energy, Old George dragged everyone to the Club for some fun.

It was a kind of Celebration Banquet for the end of this year's crab season—celebrating the harvest and everyone's safe return without any serious accidents. Other boats hadn't been so lucky.

Drunk, Old George couldn't help slinging an arm around Henry's neck and complaining, "You're right not to stay in this business. Crabbing's getting harder and harder.

"Those old farts limit the fishing season, and now I hear they're gonna set individual catch quotas. Say they're afraid of overfishing, ruining the ecosystem.

"King Crabs are practically taking over. If the Bering Sea weren't protecting them, they'd have gone extinct a hundred years ago. What overfishing?"

Spitting out alcohol fumes and griping, Tom had the air of someone cursing heaven and earth.

Henry suspected it was because everyone else had crowded around the Stripper's stage, while he was the only idiot still sitting at the outer tables, drinking with George. That's how he got caught by a drunk who needed to vent.

Remembering what Old Tom had said, Henry laughed. "Maybe it's because more and more people are getting into this business, buying boats to fish for King Crab. If they don't set limits, who's to say you won't one day see crab boats covering the whole Bering Sea?"

George jolted in shock and cursed, "Fuck, that could actually happen."

But then he added, "But do you think crabbing's really that easy? A few random guys get a boat and think they can hit the Bering Sea and rake in the cash."

Henry went along with it. "The lesson we learn from history is that we never learn any lesson. If they haven't smashed their heads bloody, tell them crabbing on the Bering Sea is dangerous—how many would believe you?"

George kept complaining. "Yeah. Tell them the truth, nobody believes it. Ignore them, and the victims' families accuse us of being cold-hearted. You know how it is out at sea. If something happens, who dares to help?"

"Radio the shore rescue team for them. Besides big helicopters, who can get close enough to save anyone?"

George put on a mysterious look. "Come on. I'll tell you quietly—our air rescue team is just for show in this weather.

"Nobody who falls overboard lasts long enough for a helicopter to save them. We lost a few boats this year, a dozen guys never came back. And that's just here, not counting other areas."

"So not hopping on anyone else's boat and sticking with you, boss, was a pretty smart move, wasn't it?" Henry buttered him up.

That flattery clearly hit the mark with Old George, who laughed happily. Then he started mumbling nonsense, his words all jumbled—even Henry's super brain couldn't make sense of it.

In the end, George's wife showed up like clockwork and hauled him away.

You had to hand it to a woman living in a place like Alaska—she was every bit as tough as the girls from back home in the Northeast.

George started throwing a drunk tantrum, refusing to go. One slap shut him right up, and she half-dragged, half-carried him off obediently.

None of the Club's bouncers or George's crew dared to step in. Everyone could tell whether it was a grudge, a brawl, or a wife picking up her man.

Jumping in at a time like that would just be asking for trouble.

The girls didn't even need to be mentioned. Sharp-eyed, they'd already cleared out of that danger zone, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

With the captain gone, there was no one to buy the next round. Some people finished their drinks and called it a night.

Of course, there were those exchanging glances with the strippers, hoping for a brawl after their shift. Those guys stayed.

Henry left too. Not being able to get drunk made drinking boring. And the ladies here were all...

Well, let's just say having too good eyesight wasn't always a blessing.

New book—Request for follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thanks~