Autocorrect Killer
AUTOCORRECT KILLER – August 12, 2025 – Rochester, Minnesota, USA
Every half-minute, a fish jumped from the glassy lake and landed with a PLOP. Surrounded by tall trees and with plenty of walkable shoreline, it was a perfect spot for casual fishermen. The summer sun hung low in the sky bathing the water in golden light. The air temperature lingered in a perfectly comfortable range.
Truman and Jaren sat on the lake’s edge in folding chairs, their poles angled toward the water. They had no particular place to be and were not worried about catching their limit or reeling in a record-setter. Both wore flip-flops, baggy shorts, tank tops, and backwards facing caps. They would have looked just as comfortable at a waterpark, watching a baseball game, or tossing beanbags at a cornhole board. Growing up, they had listened to older relatives rave about how fun and relaxing fishing could be, but they had only discovered it for themselves since the beginning of the summer.
Fishing had been Truman’s idea first. That was always the way things worked between the two friends. Since high school, he had dragged Jaren into one new obsession after the other. Before fishing it was pool. Before that it was snowmobiling, mountain biking, and darts. They both still lived at home and their ever-growing list of pastimes meant a collection of equipment accumulated in their parents’ garages and basements.
During the late summer, Truman and Jaren visited the lake three times a week. On weekdays, that meant escaping after work and carrying with them all their workplace gripes. As they waited for something to take their bait, they attempted to one-up each other over who had the worse job. Truman sold tractors. Jaren installed carpet. After years of complaining, Jaren had the edge when it came to back-breaking effort. But Truman clearly had the worse boss.
The tractor sales manager dressed in oversized suits, wore ugly gold-rimmed glasses, and spoke like he was from Brooklyn. He clashed with the Minnesota farmers buying tractors and depended on people like Truman to do the schmoozing and dealmaking. Then he would swoop in and take the credit.
As he and Jaren waited for the sun to set on the lake, Truman complained about a deal he had set up for two expensive tractors. At the end of the negotiations, his boss sent him to deliver keys to another customer while the boss finished up the paperwork. Then he claimed the commission for the sale.
“Same thing happened last month,” Truman said in disgust. “He keeps getting away with it. If he was here right now, I’d drown him.”
Jaren chuckled to show he had heard Truman make the same kind of threat before.
“I’m serious,” Truman continued. “It would be the happiest day of my life.”
At that point, something in the water yanked on Truman’s line. He grabbed his rod and struggled to reel in a good-sized smallmouth bass. When he got it close to shore, he grabbed a net to scoop it from the water. After hauling the fish to dry land, he discovered another tiny green and yellow fish tangled in the net. Truman quickly removed the hook from the larger fish’s mouth and pushed it back into the water. Then he turned his attention to the smaller fish.
“Check this out!” he called to Jaren. “I got a bonus fish somehow. It’s barely the size of my finger. It must have swum by when I put the net in the water.”
“Never seen that happen before. Probably million to one odds.”
Truman looked affectionately at the little fish. “It’s like he wanted me to catch him. Maybe I’ll take him home.” He dropped the fish into a bucket filled with lake water and watched him swim around. “This feels like fate or something. Like I’m supposed to take him home and raise him.”
“You sure about that?” Jaren asked skeptically.
“I’ve got an empty aquarium in the garage. I want to watch him grow up.”
Truman filled the five-gallon bucket with more semi-clear lake water and then filled a second bucket. He lifted both into the back of his truck and drove home. Then he ransacked his garage for aquarium parts. In less than an hour, he had a micro lake environment in his room, including a bubbler. The little fish seemed happy enough as he explored the aquarium corners.
“You’re a good little fishy, aren’t you?” Truman whispered lovingly to his new pet. He took pictures and sent them to Jaren.
Not knowing what to feed a baby bass, Truman stopped at a pet store the next day and talked to their fish expert.
“I would not recommend keeping a bass at home,” the expert warned.
“But let’s say I did, what would I feed it?”
“Not regular fish flakes. I think you need live worms. And a huge tank. Bass grow quick and need room to swim.”
Truman thanked the expert for the advice and bought a plastic tub filled with small worms. When he dropped them into his aquarium, the little bass sucked them into his mouth like spaghetti. It made Truman laugh. He sent more pictures to Jaren.
Things seemed to go well for the next week. Truman dropped more worms into the tank and the little fish swallowed them up. He already looked bigger and Truman thought about finding a larger tank. He also thought about names for the fish. He had almost settled on Mario because it sounded appropriate for a fish who ate food like it was spaghetti.
And then tragedy struck. Truman came home to find his fish floating lifeless in the aquarium. He tapped the glass and whispered, “Wake up.” When that did not help, Truman dropped worms next to the fish hoping that would revive him. No movement.
“I’m sorry little friend. I guess I should have left you in the lake,” Truman said in grief. He had to commiserate with someone. He grabbed his phone and texted Jaren, “Bro, I think I killed my bass.”
Truman did not notice that his phone autocorrected “bass” to “boss”. It was a natural response by the phone. Truman had sent hundreds of texts about his boss and this was his first ever text about a bass. He continued to type, “I guess it was a bad idea after all.”
Jaren was searching for snacks in his kitchen cupboard when the text arrived. He read it three times growing more worried each time. He was not sure how to respond but he needed to say something. He managed to type, “Huh?? What happened?”
A reply came back almost instantly. “Not sure. Probably something he ate. I must have poisoned him.”
Jaren had a thousand questions about why Truman was feeding his boss and what poisonous substance he might have slipped into the ingredients. Instead of asking about the food, he wanted to make sure there was not some kind of misunderstanding. He typed, “Maybe it was an accident. Are you sure he’s dead?”
Truman looked at his fish and typed. “He’s not moving. Gotta be dead.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“You went home? Shouldn’t you call someone or take him to the hospital?”
Truman shook his head at the last message thinking Jaren was trying to be funny. “Ha ha. I don’t think that will help.”
“You have to do something.”
“Why? It’s sad but not that big a deal.”
Jaren read his friend’s reply in stunned silence. He figured Truman was in some kind of irrational shock. “Are you alright? You’re acting weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are your parents there?”
“No.”
“You need to talk to somebody. I’m coming over.”
“If you want. What should I do with the body? Take him to the lake? Dig a hole?”
“Don’t do anything until I get there!!”
Jaren jumped into his truck and raced to Truman’s house. On the way, he wondered about being an accomplice to murder. What would it take for him to also be in trouble? And maybe Truman was simply joking. Nothing he texted sounded real. But maybe that was because he finally lost it with his boss. Everyone has a breaking point.
When he arrived at Truman’s, Jaren opened the front door without bothering to knock. He called for his friend before spotting him in the backyard holding a shovel. He stood next to a one-foot-deep hole in the ground next to the back fence.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you think this is deep enough?”
“For a body? No. You can’t do this. You’ve got to call the police. If you don’t, I will.”
“What for? You didn’t call the police when your cat died.”
“That’s totally different. We’re talking about a human being. There are laws against killing them. We’re best friends and everything and I want to help, but I’m not going to jail with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Right and wrong.”
“I just want to bury my fish. What’s so wrong about that?”
“You killed your fish too?”
“What do you mean ‘too’? What else do you think I killed?”
“Your boss.”
“My what?”
Jaren scrolled to the beginning of their text thread and held it up so Truman could read.
“That’s supposed to say my bass! Stupid autocorrect.”
Jaren looked down at his phone. His breathing slowed down. “Well, that makes more sense,” he said in relief.
They both laughed hard. Truman dropped his shovel when he doubled over.
“You showed up here thinking I was dumb enough to shove my boss in this little hole?”
“I didn’t know what you were thinking.”
“And you were ready to rat me out? I thought you were a better friend than that.”
“You were acting stupid and digging holes. There was no way you were getting away with it, even with my help.”
They finally stopped laughing. Jaren looked at his friend and said, “It’s still pretty early. You want to do something? Maybe the lake?”
“The lake? I don’t think so. It’ll make me think of Mario. But I’ve got something else for us to try. Birdwatching. Everybody’s doing it. And no one gets hurt.”
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