Lick Your Neighbor

by Chris Genoa

  Dale, Andie, and Randy looked at each other.

  “Well,” Dale said, “shall we?”

  All three of them charged at Judy, each screaming and flailing their arms in their own particularly spooky way.

  “Ahhhhlalalala!”

  “Eeeeeyayayaya!”

  “Harry and the Hendersons, Harry and the Hendersons!”

  Judy Stitch passed out for the third time that day.

  “Murderer! Pervert!”

  Oh goodie goodie gumdrops

  Now the whole world knows

  4

  Roasted Neck of Turkey

  Excerpt from “The Art of Turkey Cookery”

  Take a Turkey and chop its Neck off at the base, being sure that no other Turkey sees you make the kill and thus becomes wise to their Fates. Cut the Head off and discard. Wash the Neck very clean, and Score it with a Knife, strew a little salt on it, and lay it in a Stew-pan before the Fire, that it may Roast. Then throw in a handful of Nutmeg, Cloves, and Mace beat fine, and more Salt; flour it and baste it with ample Butter. When that has lain Some time, turn it, and season it, and baste the other side the same, turn and baste it often, then baste it with Butter and Crumbs of Bread. If it is a large Neck, it will take 2 or three Hours baking; have ready some melted Butter with Pork Fat, some of the Liver of the turkey boiled and bruised fine, mix it well with the Butter, then strain them through a Sieve, and put them into the sauce pan again, with four spoonfuls of Beer, and the juice of a Lemon. Pour it into the roasting Pan and stir it all together, and let it boil; pour into a Basin. Chop the Neck into small pieces and tell everyone at the table they are eating Bald Eagle. Happily, they will not know the difference.

  5

  A Fungus Among Us

  Rain poured down, washing away unpleasant things like splattered egg yolks and blood on the grass.

  The Oldsmobile peeled out, hydroplaning down the street as Skid Row’s “I Remember You” pumped through the stereo. Randy sang along.

  Woke up to the sound of pouring rain

  The wind would whisper and I’d think of you

  And all the tears you cried, that called my name

  And when you needed me I came through

  Dale wasn’t in the mood.

  “Get this piece of shit under control!” he shouted from the backseat, “And turn that crap down. I can’t concentrate with cock rock blasting in my ear.”

  “This isn’t cock rock,” Randy corrected, “it’s a monster ballad.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Cock rock explodes into the world directly from the loins. It is the pure essence of masculinity. Of cock. It is sure of itself, it is relentless in the pursuit of its desires, it is loud, hard, salty, and it is a huge, huge prick. A monster ballad, on the other hand, may start out the same way, born in the loins. But that’s not the end of its journey. The monster ballad leaves the loins and travels up to the heart. Once there, the cock softens. It becomes tender and sweet. It learns how to do feminine things like communicate its emotions through words instead of flatulence, to bring about destruction through a soft stroke instead of a hammering fist, and how to not only embrace uncertainty and chaos, but to spread it to anything it comes into contact with. But make no mistake. While the monster ballad would much rather softly caress your cheek, neck, and inner thighs, if provoked, it will quickly harden and poke your eyes out.”

  Dale wasn’t listening. He had Freedom From What? in his lap and was staring at it intently.

  Randy turned the music down. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “About what?”

  “About cock and such.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll repeat it. It was important.”

  “Please don’t. I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Did you find more clues?”

  “I think so,” Dale said. “Besides all the turkey footprints, there’s the turkey itself. The one on the platter. Look at it.”

  Dale turned the painting around so that Randy could see it in the rearview mirror.

  “What about it?” Randy asked.

  “It’s enormous. Look at it in comparison to the people. And the drumsticks and wings are too big, even for a turkey that size.”

  “Yes. Looks more like the proportions of a child.”

  “And check out the expressions on these people’s faces. I always thought they were just stupid, happy people. But now that I’m really looking at them, they’re all kind of sinister. Like they’re about to do something evil.”

  “You’re right,” Randy agreed, “they all have mean little eyes. Those folks are about to do something nasty. I wonder what it could be? It’s like the eternal question of what Mona Lisa was smiling about. Some say that true happiness only lasts as long as it takes to eat a single cookie. Is that what she’s smiling about? The anticipation of a brief moment of pure cookie bliss amid the misery? Did Leonardo promise Mona Lisa a biscotti if she sat still for ten hours? We’ll never know. It’s the same question with these folks. Except with them, judging from their expressions, they’re probably about to have a wild orgy with that turkey carcass.”

  Dale turned the painting around. “Okay you’re done looking at the painting.”

  “Wait. Who’s that guy out the window?”

  “What guy?”

  “There’s a man standing in the shadow of the tree.”

  Dale looked closely at the window behind the dinner table in the painting. It looked out on a yard, and in that yard was an old maple tree. Standing in the shadow of that tree there was a man, dressed in black.

  “See him?” Randy asked.

  “Oh yeah. Barely.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I can’t tell. It looks like there might be some detail in his face, but it’s too small to see. I need a magnifying glass. Damn. Come on, Silas. What were you trying to tell us?”

  The wagon came to a stop sign at a fork in the road. Randy looked to the left, toward the center of town and, more importantly, The Thirsty Pilgrim.

  He flicked on the left turn signal.

  Dale looked to the right, toward Duxbury Bay, where Mayflower’s home was. He reached over the seat and flicked the turn signal to the right.

  Randy squinted into the distance. “The allure of the ocean, I know it well. One could say that we are all chicken of the sea. It is our birthplace, our cradle, and She calls to us. But sadly, in life, the answers we seek reside not where we came from, but from where we’re going. To the pub.”

  “We’re not going to the ocean. We’re going to the Bay to break into Mayflower’s house.”

  “Yes of course. But we’re working with a very small window here.” Randy checked his watch. It was just past two. “Mr. Feathers will only be sober for another hour at most.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Turn right.”

  “Fine,” Randy said as he hit the gas and headed toward the bay, “but you’ll regret this when Mr. Feathers is passed out in your crotch.”

  * * *

  Mayflower Jenkins lived on River Lane, a short road that cut off from the main road that ran up and down the Duxbury coast. The houses on River Lane faced the bay, shielded from the road by a small wooded area. To be extra stealthy, Dale and Randy decided to park the car in these woods, and approach the house from behind, using the trees and bushes as cover.

  Dale stood next to the car, wearing a trash bag poncho and holding Freedom From What? close to his chest. It was also wrapped in trash bags to protect it from the rain.

  Randy was in the back of the wagon, burrowing through the mountain of trash like a groundhog. He soon emerged, also clothed in a makeshift poncho, triumphantly holding a crowbar in his hand and a Moon Pie in his mouth.

  Dale clenched his fists and glared at Randy from beneath dripping brows.

  “What’s wrong?” Randy asked, using his teeth to tear open the Moon Pie.

  “You made me wait in the rain while you got a cookie?”

  “Cookie
? I’ll have you know that thanks to your bizarre grudge against The Thirsty Pilgrim this tender morsel is my lunch. It’s all I have to stave off starvation. And be warned, it will bide us some time, but sooner or later I must have a proper meal. Just because we’re busy doesn’t mean we have to act like savages. And it isn’t a cookie, it’s a pie. A Moon Pie.”

  Dale felt his stomach rumble at the mention of pie. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but until now had been too preoccupied to notice how hungry he was.

  Randy took a bite, turning the full circle into a perfect crescent. “You see, if you eat it properly, as I am now, it goes through the complete lunar cycle. That’s why it’s called a Moon Pie. That, and because when it comes to taste, it’s out of this world.”

  Dale watched the white glob of cream on Randy’s lip dance up and down as his brother-in-law chewed happily away. “Could we just get moving? We don’t have much time.”

  Dale and Randy trudged through the squishy ground and prickly brush. The tree cover provided them with some protection from the rain, but not much. Their shoes became caked with mud and, despite their trash bag ponchos, they both reached that level of wetness where even their socks and underwear were soaked.

  Mayflower’s home was four houses down River Lane. An old yellow cottage.

  Dale checked his phone. “Andie hasn’t called yet. Judy must still be out cold, or Andie is somehow distracting her from going to the police. Either way, we need to get in there, find the diary, and then get out. No fooling around. Got it?”

  “Got it. I’m going to head for the back door and see if I can get it open with this crowbar. You go around front and keep an eye out. If you see somebody coming, make a bird call.”

  “I don’t know any bird calls,” Dale said.

  “Just do a raven. Like this. Cawww! Cawww!”

  “Do I have to flap my arms like that?”

  “No, but it helps.”

  “Okay.” Dale turned to go but then stopped. “Wait, have you done this before?”

  “Broken into someone’s house? Of course I have.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine. I do it all the time. My landlord has a funny habit of changing the locks every month. Why do you think I keep a crowbar in my car?”

  “You keepa blowgun in your car, Randy. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a catapult in there.”

  Randy looked at the ground guiltily and shuffled his feet.

  “Tell me you don’t have a catapult in there.”

  “Just a small one. But there’s a perfectly good—”

  “No, no. Save it. I’ll be around front, trying to forget that you have a medieval siege weapon in your station wagon.”

  Dale trudged around to the front of the house, increasingly worried that his closest ally in this mess was a complete lunatic.

  The Bay was throwing a hissy hit. From the choppy water beating against itself, to the billowing clouds overhead, Dale gazed on a scene of tumultuous grey. He could barely make out the long peninsula beach in the distance.

  The rain had eased up, and since he was already completely soaked, Dale took off the poncho. He made his way to the small dock jutting out into the bay in front of the house. It was a weather-beaten old thing, with a small row boat tied next to it that must have belonged to Mayflower. Dale pictured the old man in his little boat, rowing into the bay to fish, sitting on his ass all morning, farting and dozing off, never catching a damn thing, and happy as could be.

  “You should have stuck to fishing, Mayflower,” Dale said to himself. “At the very least, you’d still have your head screwed on tight.”

  He walked out to the edge of the dock and peered out into the mist. In the middle of the Bay he could see a lone boat being tossed about on the waves. It was an old sail boat with old-fashioned rigging and varied sails like a very small pirate ship. It appeared to be headed in, most likely getting out of the storm.

  “Morons,” Dale muttered. “Only an idiot would sail in this kind of weather. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The headache that had began that morning behind his eyes was now spreading and growing worse. The lack of food, and cold wet clothes on his body, certainly weren’t helping. He tried pinching the skin between his thumb and index finger, hoping to distract his brain from the pain. But his brain wasn’t fooled, and was actually quite insulted that Dale thought it would fall for that old trick. The headache grew worse.

  Dale turned around to glance at the house to make sure the coast was still clear for Randy. There was no one around, but something else caught his eye. A few feet down from the dock there was a tree, its branches hanging out over the bay.

  A weeping willow. Wasn’t aspirin made from willow trees? Or was it penicillin? No, that came from moldy cheese. So maybe aspirin came from some kind of mold or fungus that grew on willow trees. That sounded right…ish

  Dale left the dock and went over to the tree. There was some moss growing on the trunk, but Dale was pretty sure it wasn’t mold. He broke off a small piece of bark to look underneath it, but found nothing. He tossed the bark aside. Then he looked down and saw some mushrooms growing on the base of the tree.

  “Fungus. Bingo.”

  Pleased with himself, Dale reached down and plucked a mushroom. He sniffed it and examined it so closely he could have been appraising a diamond. It was far too small and innocent looking to be poisonous, he thought. Polka dots, or perhaps a lounging caterpillar smoking a water pipe would be cause for concern, but not this cute little button of a mushroom.

  The headache, perhaps catching the scent of willow and getting antsy, was now pounding against Dale’s temples as if they were bongo drums.

  “This is no time for a migraine,” Dale admonished as he brushed the specks of dirt off the mushroom and popped the whole thing into his mouth. It tasted bitter but not too gross. “Well since I usually have two or three aspirin I guess I’d better eat two or three mushrooms.” Dale popped two more in his mouth and chewed them up quickly.

  From behind him a voice called out, “Hey what are you eating? Gimme some!”

  Dale turned to see Randy standing in the open front door, holding the crowbar over his shoulder.

  “It’s aspirin in the raw. I have a headache.”

  “Oh. Well, good thing you brought some aspirin. We need our minds in tip top shape.”

  “I didn’t bring any. I found these mush—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, you have got to see this place. It’s a library. No, it’s a museum. It’s both. A hodgepodge. There’s Pilgrim memorabilia, stacks of old books that reach the ceiling, weird Native American artifacts, and lots of antique nautical gear, which may in fact be pirate stuff for all I know.”

  “Pirate stuff?”

  Dale turned and cast a wary eyebrow back out over the Bay. The sailboat was still there, swaying in the rough sea. Only now it was closer to shore. The boat looked even more like a little pirate ship now that Dale could see a small black flag waving from the top of the ship’s main sail.

  Black flag in the wind

  Strange fungus in me belly

  Shiver me timbers

  6

  Toot, you say?

  Excerpt from the diary of John Alden

  FEBRUARY 3, 1621

  Yesterday, Captain Standish took Mr. Ely, the Reverend, Ratsbane, Giglet, and myself on another expedition to try to meet and befriend the Savages. Along the way we saw a stunning Eagle soar overhead. With a wingspan of at least ninety inches, long black feathers on its body, and a snow white head and tail, it was possibly the most beautiful Creature I have ever seen. Never have I felt more Free than, with all of us gazing up at the powerful Eagle gliding proudly over this untouched New World, Captain Standish lifted his rifle and shot the bugger right out of the sky. Perhaps the bird forgot that Pride is one of the most deadly of Sins. Now if only Standish would do the same with Governor Bradford, himself, and all the other dewberries of prey in our group then maybe things would get bette
r.

  Famished from our long hike, we cooked and ate the Eagle right then and there, and I tell you it was delicious. It tasted just like Mutton. I imagine those sinfully proud and yet utterly delectable Birds will become a staple of our diet.

  Whilst we ate, some confusion arose when Mr. Ely removed his hat. It was the first time the other men had seen Mr. Ely’s marvelous head in full, as he wears the tricorn hat night and day, and even sleeps in it. Naturally I have seen him many times unhatted, because what’s a little hatless fun between friends? Nothing, that’s what.

  The moment Mr. Ely’s mane of black hair was set free from the hat, the good Reverend wiped Eagle juice off his mouth and asked Mr. Ely where he lived before joining the crew of the Shiteflower. Mr. Ely told the Reverend that he hailed from Sussex.

  “Did you say Essex?” the Reverend asked, leaning in so close to Mr. Ely that he almost touched his nose.

  “Sussex,” Mr. Ely repeated.

  “Without your hat on you look somewhat familiar to me,” the Reverend said, “I could be wrong, but didn’t I see you in Essex just this past August?”

  Mr. Ely told the Reverend that he has never been in Essex in his entire life.

  “What business did you have in Essex, Reverend?” asked Standish, an Eagle’s foot dangling out of his mouth.

  “I was sent there to observe a group witch trial.”

  “Fie! I hate witches,” Giglet said.

  “Me too,” Ratsbane chimed in, “A witch killed not one, not two, but three of my sheep with her spells.”

  “Did she cause them to fall ill?” Standish asked.

  “No. Even more devious than that, she made me forget to feed them. And as if that wasn’t enough devilish harm, she also made me toot in church.”

  “Toot, you say?”