The Bottomfeeder
Episode 88 of The
Scene: The River
The river wasn’t really a river anymore. It glowed an unnatural green, thick as syrup, slow as regret. People said it used to be water — real water — but that was before the factories collapsed, before the sky dimmed, before the world started leaking.
Now it was just the Runoff.
And crouched at its edge, fishing rod made from a stick, boots worn thin, hat pulled low, sat the Bottomfeeder.
He tugged on the line. Something heavy resisted. He reeled it in with the patience of someone who had long ago stopped expecting good things.
An old boot surfaced, dripping with luminous sludge.
He sighed.
“Dinner, I guess.”
The Post
Behind him, nailed to a rotting post, hung the official decree:
THE BOTTOMFEEDER’S POST
Scavenging Rights by Decree
It was the only law still enforced in this part of the ruins. Not for justice. Not for order. Just to keep people from fighting over the scraps.
The Bottomfeeder had earned his title the hard way — by being the last one willing to kneel beside the poisoned river and see what the world had left behind.
Two black birds perched nearby, watching him with the judgmental patience of creatures who had adapted far better than humans ever did.
The Catch
He shook the boot. Something clattered out — a rusted spoon, a cork, a bent fork.
He tossed them into the bucket beside him, already half‑filled with similar relics.
Cutlery. Corks. Bits of metal. Things no one wanted, but someone might trade for.
In the ruins, value wasn’t about usefulness. It was about possibility.
He cast the line again.
The green water hissed where it touched the air.
The Memory
As he waited, he glanced at the broken skyline — the skeletal buildings, the leafless trees, the sky that never quite decided on a colour.
He remembered when the river had been clear. When people had laughed here. When he had been someone else.
Someone with a name.
Now he was just the Bottomfeeder.
A title. A function. A reminder.
The Visitor
Footsteps crunched behind him.
He didn’t turn.
Most people didn’t come this close to the Runoff unless they were desperate or foolish.
A voice spoke — soft, uncertain.
“Is it true? That you can find things down there?”
He kept his eyes on the water.
“Depends what you’re looking for.”
The figure hesitated.
“A memory,” they said. “A good one.”
The Bottomfeeder finally looked up.
The river glowed brighter, as if listening.
He sighed.
“Those are the hardest to catch.”
He cast the line again.
The water rippled.
Something tugged.
Hard.
The Ending
He braced himself, pulling with both hands. The rod bent. The line strained. The green glow pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then — slowly — something rose from the depths.
Not a boot. Not a fork. Not a scrap.
A small glass jar.
Inside it, swirling faintly, was a warm, golden light.
The visitor gasped.
The Bottomfeeder handed it to them without a word.
They held it close, eyes shining.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, already casting his line again.
The river hissed. The birds watched. The ruins waited.
The Bottomfeeder kept fishing.
Because someone had to.
Dickensian.