Man of the Mists

I used to pilot that boat, the Maid of the Mist. Lots of tourists in attractive plastic sacks, lots of happy newlyweds drenched to the bone. It was actually a fun job, except for the Coast Guard cutters.

See, they don’t want you getting too close. The tightrope walks don’t happen upstream any more. No one goes over in barrels these days. Insurance companies, fear of litigation. The marrow has been sucked out of the Falls, really. People with cojones can’t be allowed to make a buck here, not any more.

While I’m stuck here at the bottom, at least the Coast Guard lets boats get fairly (and I emphasize fairly) close to the base. Which is all I need. I’ve got something planned that the lawyers haven’t fortified defenses against yet.

Me and my showy barrel are gonna go up the Falls. At dusk, lights on and glowing like a Christmas Tree, just before the last of the news-and-tourist-cams pack things up to go home. I’ll turn it into a lucrative memoir after they arrest me hovering over the falls. All thanks to this nifty portable gravity polarizer I lifted from the M.I.T. physics lab.

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In response to this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

No image attribution.

 

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6 thoughts on “Man of the Mists”

  1. That sounds like a fun way to change things and make a name for yourself. The legend of the first man to go up the falls! Jail time would be worth it.

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