Some militant souls then suggested shooting it and a caravan of boats was organized.  A flotilla of men with guns and liquor set out and near to killed each other when the beast nudged [according to local legend] one of the boats over.  The flailing of the men incited a near riot with bullets cleaving the air but no flesh.  In the ensuing pandemonium the only thing safe was the fish.

At noon a delegation from Rosendale arrived claiming they had material information and a solution.  They explained that Eddy, for that’s what they called it, was well known to them.  For some forty years he’s been camped out at the butt end of the town’s sewage pipe, cleaning up what came his way.  Recently he disappeared and when word of the ruckus down stream wafted over they suspected they knew the cause.  They also knew what Eddy was looking for and encouraged guests at Longshore’s to contribute what they could.

At daybreak next some stout residents set out a pipe into the water and deposited into the slow moving creek what has come down to us as the “Longshore cocktail.   Within moments Eddy appeared, seemingly pleased as punch but unaware the repast was salted with liquor, a last minute addition meant as a gift but as it turned out, a fatal contribution.  An hour later he was belly-up.

A meeting was then called and representatives of neighboring communities invited.  Three undertakers debated embalming or taxidermy and quickly established that the Eddy’s penchant for effluent rendered the meat, estimated at five hundred pounds and increasing with each telling, unappealing.  The feast was then offered to Kingston and declined.  An emergency mass was announced; the corpus carried through the town to First Baptist, the book of Mark chapter eight the chosen passage, the story of the fishes and loaves.  Then in short order the Moby was laid to rest in a nearby swale and tastefully covered with soil, the mound thereafter increasing daily so to contain the beast’s scent.