Shrimp, Scams, and Poor Decisions

Got it—quirky crime, Florida chaos, oddball characters, and some satirical bite. I’ll channel that Hiaasen vibe.

It began with a man staring at the sky, trying to decide whether the buzzards were circling him or just the rusted-out shrimp boat he’d tied himself to.

The man’s name was Dale P. Wickers, though he insisted on the middle initial because, as he liked to say, “There are a lot of Dales in the world, but only one with a P that stands for Prepared.” This was objectively untrue—Dale was rarely prepared for anything—but he found comfort in the idea.

He stood barefoot on the warped deck, shirt unbuttoned, a plastic grocery bag tied around his head to keep off the sun. The bag read THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING SMART MART, though Dale had stolen it during what he later described to police as “an aggressive misunderstanding about self-checkout ethics.”

Above him, the sky was an indifferent blue, streaked with thin clouds that looked like scratches. The buzzards tilted lazily in the air.

“They know,” Dale muttered.

The shrimp boat, formerly named The Salty Marianne and currently renamed The Salty Marianne II (Despite Legal Issues), creaked ominously. It had not been seaworthy in years, but Dale had been assured by a man named Rickey-Bob that “water is mostly optional if you believe in the boat.”

Rickey-Bob was now missing, along with most of Dale’s money and the only functioning life jacket.

Dale checked his watch, which had stopped at 3:12 two days earlier. “Right on schedule,” he said, because he had no idea what else to say.

He was waiting for a drone.

Not just any drone—a high-end, GPS-enabled, camera-equipped delivery drone that, according to the Craigslist ad, would be arriving “precisely at noon, weather permitting, or vibes permitting.” Dale had sent $2,300 via a combination of gift cards and something called crypto tokens shaped like cartoon lizards.

He had also, in a moment of entrepreneurial brilliance, pre-sold “exclusive aerial shrimping experiences” to three tourists from Ohio who were due to arrive tomorrow.

Dale had never flown a drone. He had never caught a shrimp. But he had a laminated badge that said CAPTAIN, and he felt that counted for something.

The buzzards dipped lower.

“Back off,” Dale told them. “I’m not dead yet. I’m just… temporarily paused.”

Fifty miles inland, Officer Marisol Vega was staring at a very different kind of sky—the fluorescent flicker of a gas station ceiling light that made everything look vaguely haunted.

She stood at the counter of a place called GatorFuel & Taxidermy, holding a receipt that was three feet long and contained, among other things, twelve cans of whipped cream, a machete, and a novelty license plate that read I BRAKE FOR MANATEES.

“This is your purchase?” she asked.

The man in front of her nodded enthusiastically. “All business expenses.”

His name was Leonard “Lenny” Krubb, a self-proclaimed “eco-influencer” whose social media channel, SaveTheSwampz (with a Z), had recently gone viral after he accidentally filmed himself being chased by a raccoon.

Officer Vega tapped the receipt. “You paid for all this with a stolen credit card.”

Lenny frowned. “Stolen is such a harsh word. I prefer ‘found in a spiritually ambiguous context.’”

“It belongs to a woman in Boca Raton.”

“Oh, her!” Lenny brightened. “She left it on a yoga mat. That’s basically a public offering.”

Behind the counter, a taxidermied alligator wearing sunglasses stared blankly at the exchange. A hand-lettered sign above it read: DO NOT TOUCH GARY.

Officer Vega pinched the bridge of her nose. This was her third bizarre call of the day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Earlier, she’d responded to a report of a man trying to teach a pelican to fetch beer, and before that, a dispute involving a lawn flamingo and a restraining order.

“Mr. Krubb,” she said, “you’re under arrest.”

Lenny raised a finger. “Quick question—can I livestream this?”

“No.”

“Counterpoint: it would be great for awareness.”

“For what?”

“For the injustice of the system.”

“You bought a machete with someone else’s credit card.”

“For awareness of machete safety.”

Officer Vega reached for her cuffs.

“Wait!” Lenny said. “I can explain everything. It all ties back to a shrimp boat.”

By late afternoon, the shrimp boat was still not moving, the drone had not arrived, and Dale had begun to suspect he might have been scammed.

This realization came as a shock, given that the seller’s username—TotallyLegitDroneDealer_99—had seemed so trustworthy.

Dale paced the deck, which wobbled in a way that suggested it was considering collapse as a lifestyle choice.

“Okay,” he said, thinking out loud. “Plan B.”

There was no Plan B.

There was, however, a cooler full of warm soda and something labeled “experimental bait,” which Dale had purchased from a roadside stand run by a man with three teeth and a sign that said GUARANTEED TO ATTRACT SOMETHING.

Dale opened the cooler. The smell that emerged was both aggressive and philosophical.

“Maybe I don’t need a drone,” he said. “Maybe I am the drone.”

This was the kind of sentence that, in Dale’s life, often preceded a regrettable decision.

He found a length of rope, tied it around his waist, and secured the other end to a railing that was already half detached. Then he picked up a bucket of experimental bait and, with a deep breath, climbed onto the edge of the boat.

“Think like a shrimp,” he whispered.

There was a pause.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

He jumped anyway.

Officer Vega did not want to drive to the marina.

The marina was where bad decisions went to retire and reproduce.

Unfortunately, Lenny Krubb had insisted—while being placed in the back of the patrol car—that he had “critical information about an ongoing aquatic scam of moderate importance.”

“Define moderate,” Vega said.

“Potentially felony-adjacent,” Lenny replied. “Also, there might be a guy tied to a boat.”

That last part had gotten her attention.

Now, as she pulled into the cracked asphalt lot overlooking the water, she saw exactly what she had feared: a collection of boats in various states of disrepair, a flock of seagulls engaged in what appeared to be a territorial dispute over a sandwich, and, in the distance, a man hanging off the side of a shrimp boat, yelling.

“That him?” she asked.

Lenny squinted. “Yep. That’s Dale.”

“You know him?”

“We collaborated once,” Lenny said. “On a project about biodegradable flip-flops. It ended in a small fire.”

Officer Vega parked the car.

“Stay here,” she said.

“Can I at least narrate?”

“No.”

She stepped out into the heat, the air thick with salt and the faint scent of something that had given up on life days ago.

“Hey!” she called. “You on the boat!”

Dale, who was currently waist-deep in water and losing an argument with the rope, looked up.

“Officer!” he said, with the enthusiasm of someone who had not fully considered the implications of police involvement. “Great timing. I’m conducting a shrimping operation.”

“It looks like you’re drowning.”

“That’s phase one.”

“Get back on the boat.”

“I would love to,” Dale said, “but I appear to have underestimated both the rope length and my upper body strength.”

The railing gave a small, suggestive creak.

Officer Vega glanced around for something—anything—that resembled proper equipment. There was a life ring nailed to a post, but it had been painted over with the words NO FREE RIDES.

She sighed, kicked off her shoes, and waded in.

The water was warm and unpleasant.

“On three,” she said. “One, two—”

The railing snapped.

Dale, the rope, and a significant portion of the boat’s dignity plunged into the water with a splash that startled the seagulls into temporary silence.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then Dale resurfaced, still clutching the bucket of experimental bait.

“Good news,” he said. “I think I found the shrimp.”

Behind him, something large and very much not a shrimp moved in the water.

Officer Vega froze.

“Dale,” she said carefully, “what exactly is in that bucket?”

“Mostly fish parts,” he said. “And maybe some chicken. And one thing the guy called ‘mystery protein.’”

The water rippled again.

A head broke the surface.

It was not a shrimp.

It was an alligator.

Back in the patrol car, Lenny Krubb had gone live.

“Hey, Swamp Squad,” he whispered into his phone. “We are currently witnessing a real-time example of human-nature conflict, which I like to call ‘Tuesday.’”

The camera zoomed in on the water, where Officer Vega and Dale were now engaged in a careful, synchronized retreat from the alligator, who appeared both curious and mildly offended.

“Notice the body language,” Lenny continued. “The gator is asserting dominance, while the humans are expressing what experts call ‘regret.’”

A comment popped up on the screen: IS THAT GARY???

Lenny frowned. “No, Gary is taxidermied,” he said. “Different guy.”

Another comment: THROW THE BAIT!!!

“Oh, that’s good,” Lenny said. “Crowdsourcing solutions.”

“Throw the bucket,” Officer Vega hissed.

Dale clutched it tighter. “But it’s my investment.”

“You’re about to become the investment.”

Dale considered this.

“Fair point.”

He hurled the bucket as far as he could. It landed with a splash several yards away.

The alligator paused, then turned, gliding toward the new source of interest with the smooth efficiency of something that had never once doubted itself.

“Move,” Vega said.

They moved.

It was not graceful, but it was effective. They reached the shallow edge, scrambled onto the dock, and collapsed in a heap of wet clothes and poor decisions.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Dale said, “So… you here about the drone?”

Officer Vega stared at him.

“What drone?”

“The one I bought,” he said. “It’s supposed to revolutionize shrimping. Or possibly surveillance. The ad was a little vague.”

“You got scammed.”

Dale blinked. “No.”

“Yes.”

“But the username—”

“I don’t care what the username was.”

Dale looked out at the water, where the alligator was now investigating the bucket with what could only be described as professional interest.

“I had a whole business plan,” he said quietly. “Aerial shrimping experiences. Branded merchandise. A slogan.”

“What was the slogan?”

“‘We aim high so you can eat low.’”

Officer Vega closed her eyes.

From the patrol car, Lenny’s voice drifted over. “Hey! The chat wants to know if you’re going to arrest the gator!”

“No!” Vega shouted.

“Okay, just checking!”

Dale sighed. “So… what happens now?”

Vega opened her eyes and looked at him—really looked at him. The plastic bag hat. The soggy determination. The complete and utter lack of a backup plan.

“You’re going to come with me,” she said. “We’re going to figure out who scammed you. And then you’re going to stop doing… all of this.”

Dale nodded slowly.

“Can I keep the captain badge?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They sat there for a moment, watching the water.

The alligator finished with the bucket and slipped beneath the surface, leaving only ripples.

Above them, the sky had begun to change, the blue deepening into something richer, streaked now with orange and pink. A few clouds caught the light and held it, like they were reluctant to let the day go.

Dale leaned back on his hands.

“You ever notice,” he said, “how the sky looks different when you almost get eaten?”

Officer Vega considered that.

“Everything looks different when you almost get eaten,” she said.

“Yeah,” Dale said. “Makes you think.”

“About what?”

He watched a bird glide overhead, steady and certain.

“Maybe I should get into something safer,” he said. “Like real estate.”

Vega snorted. “Let’s not get crazy.”

From the car, Lenny shouted, “Hey! We just hit ten thousand viewers!”

Vega stood up. “I’m turning that off.”

“Wait,” Lenny called. “They’re asking for a catchphrase!”

Dale brightened. “Oh! I have one—”

“No,” Vega said firmly.

They walked back toward the car, the dock creaking behind them, the boat settling into its slow, inevitable decline.

Dale took one last look at the sky.

The buzzards were gone.

“Probably found something easier,” he said.

“Smart birds,” Vega replied.

And for once, Dale P. Wickers didn’t argue.