Making his way through the thickets and trees, old wind worn Wendell wound his way down through the woods to his favourite fishing hole, armed with only his fishing pole - and a jar of stink bait. Leaning back against a tree and resting his pole on his knees, Wendell wiped the tobacco that had dribbled down his stubble, and then pulled from the pocket of his faded coveralls the greasy, slimy jar of stink bait. And giving the stubborn lid a twist there immediately arouse such a stench that every nose in the county was opened, and for a mile around all the leaves turned brown. With his face streaming tears and his sinuses perpetually cleared, Wendell told himself that without a doubt, "That's the most powerful stink bait I ever sank a hook into!" So seated comfortably on the bank with the water suffocating the stink that the stink bait stank, Wendell let his line out.

"Ya gots to go deep when yer usin' stink bait," Wendell told his reel as the line went winding down. Down past the flowing reeds and the swaying moss and the rusting cans and the little fish swimming in rows, down past God knows what, that stink bait sank. And the line kept winding down, down even deeper, past where the bubbles bibble and waves waff, deeper and deeper into the dank, where that stink bait still stank a stifling stench. And finally it had gone as far as it could go, and it came to rest on the nose of that thing - whatever it was.

And without hesitating or even thinking twice, it gave a swish from its mighty tail and a push for this little feet, and that thing - whatever it was - headed for the top, all forty-six tons (most of which were teeth). Wendell saw the water bubble and boil and churn, and then it turned a dark bluish gray, but Wendell never saw that thing - whatever it was. He only saw the teeth. They never found Wendell, nothing, no trace, no clue, no tobacco stains. All that thing - whatever it was - left was that jar of stink bait.