by Chris Genoa
As one of the ninjas cupped his hands around his eyes to get a better look inside, Dale felt a strange warm tingling in his head. It was almost as if his brain was melting, but in a somewhat pleasant way.
At that same moment, Dale’s headache disappeared completely.
“The penicillin,” he said.
“The what?” whispered Randy.
“The penicillin. It’s working.”
“Oh good. Glad to hear it. Now your head won’t ache anymore. Until it’s bashed to pieces by the ninjas of course.”
Dale chuckled like a mischievous child. Randy raised an eyebrow.
Dale’s face flushed, his skin broke out in goosebumps, and his pupils expanded to the size of quarters. The walls and floor of the house seemed to ripple like waves. He looked out the window and the heads of the ninjas turned into huge cartoon heads in neon-bright colors, with insanely bulging eyes and elastic expressions that would have made Daffy Duck proud.
Still giggling, Dale slid away from the door and rose to his feet. He stumbled across the floor as if he was in a moon bounce as he made his way to the window. With a big grin on his face, Dale pressed his head against the glass to stare at the funny cartoon men outside.
The beakmen all cocked their heads curiously at the sight of Dale’s face. They took a step back and looked at each other.
Randy whispered tensely from the other side of the room. “What in the name of God’s bunion are you doing?” He then watched in shock as Dale pulled up a chair and sat in front of the window with his head in his hands.
“Watching cartoons,” Dale replied. “What are you doing?”
“Cartoons? Have you lost your melon?”
“I think that maaaaaaybe those mushrooms weren’t aspirin.”
“Mushrooms? What mushrooms?”
“The cute little ones by the willow tree. The ones I gobbled right up.” Dale giggled. “Gobble, gobble, gobble!”
“By the bald head of Saint Alfrick, you’re shroomin’!”
Dale suddenly leaped out of the chair and slammed his body down on the hardwood floor. Lying on his belly, his face flat on the floor, he asked, “Did you just say something?”
“Yes,” Randy said, “I said you’re high on magic mushrooms, you fool.”
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. Not you. Him.”
“Him who?”
“Him, him. What did you say, Mr. Ant?”
A few inches from Dale’s eyeball stood a common house ant.
“I said,” said the ant to Dale in a deep baritone, “How doth the little turkey improve his shaking tail. And make gentle love, to his good friend Dale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his legs. And welcomes the dinky prick of flesh in, with a crotch that smells like autumn dew.”
Dale stared at the ant for a moment with a furrowed brow, running through the poem in his head.
“Dinky prick of flesh,” he echoed. He looked up at Randy. “Does that sound like an insult to you?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Dale pointed a stern finger at the ant. “Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Ant? Eh? Some kind of tough guy?”
The ant nonchalantly picked up a white crumb that was twenty times its own body weight, lifted it over his head, and said, “Who am I? Who are you? Who are we?”
“Me? I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your thorax in, pal.”
“Now, now,” said the ant, “keep your temper.”
Meanwhile, the ninjas had disappeared from the window. Although Dale’s antics were worrisome, to be sure, impending violence is always more terrifying than temporary insanity, and Randy was far more troubled by this new development than by Dale’s conversation.
Randy took a few ginger steps closer to Dale, trying not to disturb the turkey on his head.
“Dale, listen to me. Listen to me, goddammit! We need to get out of here. Those ninjas out there, the ones you think are cartoons, are going to come in here and jab extremely pointy objects into our faces.”
Dale sat up and with a faraway look in his eyes said, “Oooooooooo that sounds baaaaaaad.”
“That’s because it is bad!”
With a crack and a thud, the front door shot off its hinges and hit the floor. Standing in the doorway was one of the ninjas, his leg still raised in a kick. As the dust from the door settled, the other three beakmen slid in beside him.
There was a moment of indecision on all sides.
Randy wanted to run, but he was worried that the turkey on his head would freak out and dig its feet further into his skull.
Dale was too terrified to move. The once goofy cartoon heads had turned menacing, with gnashing teeth, burning red eyes, and foaming drool pouring between razor-sharp teeth.
The turkey ninjas, for once, seemed taken aback. Their eyes were glued to the Mohawk turkey.
It was the ant who broke the silence by clearing his throat. “Ahem, ahem.”
Dale looked down.
The ant was standing on top of the crumb, rolling it around in circles with its feet, like a circus bear on a ball. “Behold the fat dodo,” it said, “sitting there like a fool. With his mouth hanging open, I could swim in this nincompoop’s drool. Does he not realize, his sad life will soon be done? Unless his Lilliputian brain tells him that the time has come…”
The ant hopped off the crumb, jumped up onto Dale’s leg, and then onto his nose. With Dale looking at him cross-eyed, the ant shouted with the power of an earth-rattling sonic boom.
“TO RUN!”
Dale shot up onto his feet like a soldier at attention. The sudden movement caught the attention of the already edgy beakmen. They turned to look at Dale with their fists raised. Dale snapped his arms into a running position and lifted one knee high into the air. He held this position for a moment, as if winding up. Then with a burst he was off, sprinting for the back door, and past Randy, with the quickness.
Now Randy was alone with the ninjas. As they pulled out their weapons, he decided that ninjas removing his entire head were a bigger threat than a turkey gouging his eyes out. Whistling a happy tune in an attempt to lull the ninjas into a false sense of ease, Randy grabbed the desk with both hands and flipped it over, sending books and papers flying everywhere.
Huffing and puffing, Randy bolted down the hall toward the back door. The turkey, after nearly tumbling off in the initial burst of speed, grabbed on tight to Randy’s greasy wet hair and held on for dear life.
The back door burst open and Dale galloped through. Randy came out soon after, and they both ran for the trees.
Randy risked a quick look over his shoulder and saw the beakmen pour through the backdoor. They ran single file, moving like a long serpent, and at a much greater speed than Randy and Dale could ever hope to match.
Between huffs and puffs, Randy called out, “Dale! They’re gaining on us! Prepare to defend yourself!”
“I’d love to help you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment!”
Dale zigzagged, hurdled, and dodged his way through the forest, even though there was nothing for him to zigzag, hurdle, or dodge away from.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Randy asked.
“Trying not to get eaten by these tree monsters! What the hell do you think I’m doing?”
“There are no tree monsters!” Randy shouted. “It’s the schrooms! They’re making you hallucinate!”
Just then a tree monster’s hand brushed through Dale’s hair as it missed grabbing him by inches. Dale jumped up and grabbed onto the monster’s finger, breaking it off. The monster howled in pain.
“What do you call this then?” Dale asked as he threw the monster’s finger at Randy.
“A twig!”
“It’s a finger!”
While Dale and Randy argued about whether it was a finger or a twig, the sword-carrying ninja had managed to get within striking distance of Randy. He held up his sword and leapt high into the air.
Just as Randy
was about to be sliced in half from head to crotch, the Mohawk turkey shot off his head like a cannonball and slammed into the ninja’s stomach. The ninja went flying backward, passing over his three friends, who gaped up at him. The furious bird drove the ninja into a tree, slamming him against the trunk with a loud thud.
The thud got Randy’s attention. He stopped running and turned around in time to see the ninja slide down the tree and hit the ground. It was then that he noticed that the turkey was no longer on his head. The bird was now on the ground, surrounded by the other three ninjas.
Randy’s turkey extended its long neck toward the sky and trumpeted a booming gobble that echoed through the trees.
The three ninjas slowly circled around the bird, none of them seemed willing to make the first move. The bird had its eyes closed and appeared to be either sleeping or meditating.
“Why don’t they just run it through?” Randy murmured. “It’s just a turkey. Surely three ninjas can handle one stupid—”
One of the beakmen stepped forward, snapping a twig on the ground beneath him with a loud crack. The turkey’s eyes popped open.
The bird spun into the air and, in rapid-fire succession, hit all three ninjas in the face repeatedly, going from one to another like a pinball racking up some serious points.
After several rounds of blows, the turkey landed and once again closed its eyes. All three beakmen staggered back a few steps, tired to raise their weapons, and then collapsed.
Randy didn’t stick around to see what happened next. He turned and darted off to catch up with Dale.
* * *
When Randy reached the station wagon he found Dale cowering in the back seat. Randy got in and reached back to put his hand on Dale’s shoulder.
“It’s okay, Dale. The turkey took care of the ninjas. Now there’s a sentence I’d never thought I’d say.”
“What about the tree monsters? Did the turkey take care of them too?”
“Oh yeah,” Randy said, “he got those bastards good.”
“So if I look outside there won’t be any more of them trying to eat me?”
“Not a one.”
“Okay I’m going to look now.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Holy hell!”
“What is it?” Randy asked, “A ninja?”
“That tree has a knife and fork!”
“Oh boy.”
“He’ll cut a hole in our bellies and eat our intestines like spaghetti for sure!”
As Dale started to hyperventilate, Randy reached under his seat and rooted around, quickly returning with a long black sock in hand.
“You don’t want my intestinal spaghetti, Mr. Tree!” Dale shouted. “It’s mushy! Nowhere near al dente! So go eat someplace else. Why not try the Olive Garden? Their pasta only tastes like shit. Mine is full of actual fecal matter, Mr. Tree! Human fecal matter! The filthiest kind!”
“This is for your own good,” said Randy as he leaned over the seat and tied the sock around Dale’s bugged out eyes.
With the sock blindfold on, Dale immediately went quiet. His mouth hung open.
“Wow. Suddenly I’m like, totally free floating through the universe. I’m a satellite.”
“Is that so?” Randy asked as he rolled down the window to let some of the cold air hit Dale’s face. “What’s it like up there?”
“The universe is like…it’s like…I can’t put it into words. But maybe I can describe it through song.”
“That would be lovely, Dale.”
Dale began to sing in a raspy voice.
Winter’s cold, spring erases.
And by the calm away the storm is chasing
Everything good needs replacing
Look up, look down all around, hey satellite
“Yep,” said Randy, “That’s the universe all right. Pretty as hell, and completely fucking meaningless.”
The Oldsmobile peeled out in the mud and took off down the road. They turned back onto the main road and sped inland, away from the Bay.
As Randy was flooring it through a yellow light, the Mohawk turkey came down from the sky and flew in through the open back window. It landed on the backseat, right next to Dale.
Randy peered into the rearview mirror at the bird. He saluted.
The bird answered with a gobble.
“What was that?” Dale asked, his hands moving as if he was swimming.
“It was a space turkey, Dale. He just flew in on the solar winds. He’s here to guide you home.”
Dale reached out and felt the Mohawk turkey’s feathers. He wrapped his arms around the bird and rested his head on its breast. The turkey, after a moment of indecision, allowed it.
Space turkey in flight
Like a flare in the night sky
Show me the way home
8
The Squirrel Man Cometh
Judy Stitch stared blankly into her mug. The wisps of steam that rose to her face weren’t much unlike her hazy recollection of the past few hours. She remembered seeing a sword, but not where she saw it or what its purpose was. She also recalled screaming, but not what she screamed at. Then there was this strange desire to watch Harry and the Hendersons.
Andie sat across the kitchen table from Judy, keeping one eye on her neighbor’s furrowed brow and the other on The Art of Turkey Cookery, which she was finding to be a very odd cookbook.
Turkey Delight
Recipe fromThe Art of Turkey Cookery
Beat a live Turkey soundly with a Mallet for an hour or until you tire. Then, kill it as you like. For good measure, beat the dead flesh for another half an hour to ensure you have gotten the Devil out of it. Then Feather the Bird and salt the flesh. Boil it on a simmering Fire about an hour, with as much water as will cover it till it be tender, then take it up, and put in butter, eggs, and Mustard champed together. Otherwise take 6 potato, boil them very tender, and then skin them. Chop them, and beat up the Butter thick with them, and put it on the Turkey and serve them up. Some eat the potatoes and leave the Turkey for the Dog. Others don’t. The latter are fools.
Andie shook her head and muttered, “Why does she want you to beat the poor thing with a mallet while it’s still alive?”
Judy raised her head. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“You said something about beating with a mallet.”
“Oh that.” Andie slammed the book shut. “It’s this cookbook. It seems they had some very peculiar cooking methods in the 1600s.”
“Ah.” Judy took a sip of her tea. “Any good recipes?”
“Well, there’s this one here for turk—”
“Turk?”
Don’t say turkey, don’t say turkey, Andie thought furiously. That’s all I need is for her to start remembering stuff.
“Yes. Turk,” Andie replied casually. “It’s a recipe for Roasted Turk with Rosemary and Potatoes.”
“What’s Turk? Isn’t that what they call someone from Turkey?”
Andie sipped her tea. “Yep.”
“There’s a recipe in there for how to cook Turkish people?” Judy stood up and walked around the table. “Let me see that book.”
Andie clasped the book against her chest and shouted, “Oh my God!”
Judy looked around the room nervously. “What? What is it?”
“Do you smell that?”
Judy sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s coming from the laundry room.” Andie got up and backed out of the room, still clutching the book. “It smells like…my bras.”
“Your what?”
“My bras, Judy. It smells like they’re…on fire.”
“Why would your bras be on fire?”
“I intend to ask the dryer that very question. I’ll let you know what it says. You stay here and uh, be thankful.”
“For what?”
“That your bra isn’t on fire.” Andie raised an eyebrow. “Or is it?”
Judy looked down at h
er breasts and was relieved to see that they weren’t smoldering. When she looked back up, Andie was gone.
* * *
As the station wagon idled in front of a red light, Dale’s phone, sitting on the dashboard, burst to life with the sound of the Super Mario Brother’s theme song.
“Mario? Luigi? Is that you?” Dale asked querulously. “Are you guys hitching a ride with the space turkeys too?”
Randy grabbed for the phone. “Yes, Dale, its-a me, Mario, and mya brother Luigi. We came to tell you to shudduppa you face.”
“Okay fellas. I’ll shut my face up, if you say so.”
Randy flipped open the phone. “Randy Tinker’s car, Randy speaking.”
“Randy? Where’s Dale?”
“He’s…”
Randy looked over and saw Dale lying back against the seat with his mouth hanging open, a stream of drool slowly making its way down his chin. Quietly, and in awe, Dale whispered, “Oh my God, Luigi, it’s full of stars.”
“…taking a nap.”
“How can he sleep at a time like this?”
“Don’t be so hard on him, Andie. The man’s had a rough day. How’s Stitch?”
“She’s awake, but she can’t remember a thing. I think she’s in shock.”
“Excellent. But it won’t last forever. Try to keep her inside, away from anything that would jog her memory.”
“How long am I supposed to babysit her? I can’t keep her here forever.”
“Just keep her there as long as possible. In fact, ask her to sleep over. Say you’re throwing a big slumber party. Entice her with promises of hot buttered popped corn, laundry fresh pajamas, the warm glow of a flashlight, and an Ouija board. Tell her you’re going to try to contact the ghost of Saint Theodosius the Magnificent.”
“Who’s Saint Theodosius the Magnificent?”
“The patron saint of properly groomed genitalia.”
Andie sighed as she looked out the small laundry room window. Outside she saw a squirrel dart up Mayflower’s body and stand on his neck. From afar, it kind of looked like there was a creature with the body of a man and the head of a squirrel leaning against the tree.