Lick Your Neighbor

by Chris Genoa

  The squirrel began to dig into Mayflower’s neck. He appeared to be burying an acorn.

  “I don’t like this, Randy. Where the hell are you guys anyway? You need to get back here soon.”

  “We’re on our way to meet up with an important informant. He could break this whole thing wide open. That reminds me, did you find anything in that cookbook?”

  “Depends on what you mean by anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there’s a lot of turkey beating going on. Some of the recipes actually instruct people to pound live turkeys with a mallet. Kind of like torture. It also seems like they really didn’t like the taste of turkey and tried to mask it. Every recipe is loaded with butter and salt, and a bunch of them are geared toward making turkey taste like mutton or bald eagle of all things. Does any of this make any sense to you?”

  Randy glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the turkey staring back at him.

  “Yes. Strangely, it is starting to make sense.”

  “Do you mind cluing me in here?” Andie asked. “Because right now this all seems like a bunch of nonsense.”

  Up ahead, Randy spied the black and tan wooden sign for The Thirsty Pilgrim.

  “In life,” he opined, “there are only two things that make absolute perfect sense. Birth and death. All this running around in between is complete and utter nonsense.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t get into it now. We’re at the, uh, informant’s place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Downtown. Gotta run!”

  “Downtown? Wait, are you at that goddamn pub?”

  Randy slammed the phone shut and tossed it onto the dash as he pulled into a parking spot in front of The Thirsty Pilgrim. He reached over, ripped off Dale’s sock blindfold, and said, “Ta da!”

  Dale blinked at the pub’s rotting sign. “You son-of-a-bitch. I told you I didn’t want to come here.”

  “That’s my boy! Welcome back to the real world!”

  Dale held his palm up to the window. “What’s this neon-blue flame around my hand?” He waved his hand back and forth quickly, trying to put out the imagined flame. “It won’t go out.”

  Randy sniffed. “Make that, welcome halfway back.”

  “Seriously, Randy, why are we here?”

  Randy rolled up the back window. “Because only one man can help us put the pieces together. Here’s in there, and we desperately need to get to him before five.”

  “What happens at five?”

  “Happy hour.”

  * * *

  Andie left the laundry room and returned to an empty kitchen.

  “Judy? Where are you?”

  Through the window Andie saw Judy outside by the maple tree. Standing face-to-face…well, face to neck, with Mayflower’s corpse.

  The mug in Judy’s hand shook, sending tea splashing over the edge. Her right eye twitched. The squirrel, who was now neck deep into Mayflower’s neck, looked back at Judy and blinked innocently.

  Andie’s hands clenched on the sill. “Oh God. Just pass out again, Judy. Go ahead. Just faint. Faint, damn you. Faint!”

  The seesaw that was Judy’s mind wobbled for a moment between blacking out again and running away screaming bloody murder. This time it chose the latter.

  Judy shrieked and dropped her mug, bolting like a spooked horse towards her house.

  Andie, cursing to herself, quickly dialed Dale’s cell again. There was no answer. Andie dialed again. And again, and again.

  Dale’s phone sat on the dashboard in the Oldsmobile, mournfully playing the Super Mario Brothers theme song over and over for an audience of one.

  The Mohawk turkey sat in the back seat, staring out the back window at the winding two-lane road which lead to the Thirsty Pilgrim. The road was empty, but the bird, like all creatures who have known Chaos, seemed to be expecting something.

  9

  Bird Boy

  Excerpt from the diary of John Alden

  February 4, 1621

  Everyone has fallen asleep, and I finally have time to record the circumstances of our encounter with the Savage Boy. It happened the moment we decided to head back to the Village from our expedition. As we turned around, we saw an Indian Boy standing behind us. The little Devil must have been following us! He was a tanned, fit child, with Bird feathers in his hair and the blackest of mud smeared across his face in a decorative pattern. The only clothing he wore was a small brown cloth, which barely covered his prick and the crack of his arse.

  The Boy stared at us with his bright eyes. He had a small bow and arrow in his hands, but it was more like a toy than a weapon. Nevertheless, I was terrified. We all look so pale and sickly, as if we’re all at Death’s door, while the Boy looked so marvelously suntanned and fit. Further, unlike us, it looked like he truly belonged in this Land. As if he grew from the very soil beneath our feet. His odd appearance may have looked silly and strange to us, but much like the Turkey, he is as much a part of this Land as the trees, wind, and streams are. While we are like lumps of coal in a bowl of cream.

  The Savage Boy approached us and poked at our armor and sniffed our arms. While he was deeply sniffing my knee, Captain Standish took a step forward, snapping a twig. The sound frightened the Boy, and sent him scurrying back. He let out a loud screech that was more Bird than Boy.

  We stood there looking at this Boy for some time, unsure whether we should take him hostage, pat him on the head like a dog, or blast him to pieces. It was Reverend Brewster who finally broke the silence. He pulled out his Bible, knelt down and spoke.

  “My child, I’d like to talk to you about Jesus.”

  The Boy was off and running in an instant.

  We gave chase through the Forest, being careful not to follow too closely in case the Boy was leading us into an ambush. As the Boy looked back at us over his shoulder, his foot hit a rock and sent him tumbling. He hit his head against a tree, knocking him out cold.

  In the near distance we saw a clearing. There was smoke rising above the trees, and we assumed that the Boy’s Tribe must be there, waiting for his return.

  “If the Boy’s Elders see him like this, we are finished,” said Standish. “They will blame us for his injuries and seek unholy Revenge.”

  “All is not lost,” said the Reverend. “If we simply leave him here in his current defenseless condition, he will most certainly soon be eaten by a giant wandering Sea Monster. Then we’ll be off the hook.”

  “A man of the Church hoping for a Creature of the Night to save him,” Mr. Ely whispered to me. “Perhaps the Holy Angels are too busy fanning away the Lord’s farts to devour this child for the good Reverend.”

  Luckily no one but me heard Ely say this as Giglet spoke over him. “But Reverend,” he said, “We crossed the Ocean and saw not one such Monster.”

  “That is not true,” said the Reverend, “I saw several of them with my own eyes. At night, whilst everyone was asleep, I would often look out into the Ocean and see many such Creatures. One was bigger than the Mayflower itself. Another had what appeared to be a mustache under its massive, fire-breathing nostrils. How its mustache didn’t catch fire I’ll never know. I even saw one Monster wearing a saddle like a horse. And on that saddle was Satan himself, riding the Beast through the waves and laughing hysterically. I suspect the Beasts were all witches, turned into these hideous creatures by their Dark Lord. I told no one of these sightings because I did not wish to incite fear and despair amongst our member.”

  “That was very wise and kind of you, Reverend” said Standish. “You never cease to amaze me with the Compassion and Kindness you show towards your fellow man.”

  “As the Good Lord says, love thy neighbor as thyself,” said the Reverend. “Now, does anybody have any rope? We should tie the Boy to a tree to make it easier for the Sea Monsters to eat him.”

  “I have some rope,” said Ratsbane.

  “Good. Tie one end around the Boy’s a
nkle and the other to the tree. We should also gag him so that he can’t scream as the Monsters feast on his entrails.”

  “Reverend.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Boy is gone.”

  The Boy was off and running through the forest again, and was almost to the clearing by the time we saw him. There was no way we would be able to catch him.

  “All right,” said Standish, “Time for Plan B. Everybody take a deep breathe…calmly turn around…and run until your arses fall off! Out of my way, fools!”

  We ran faster than the wind, dodging between trees and leaping over rocks, only stopping occasionally to catch our breath. We thought for sure that the Indians would be after us with arrows flying and tomahawks chopping. But, by the grace of God, we made it back to the Village without further incident.

  I suppose that now it is only a matter of time before the Indians come after us. I only hope there are enough of us still alive to meet them. Because we are in some serious fobbing shite, and despite the sorry state I find myself in, I do not yet want to die.

  —John Alden

  PART III :

  Turkey on the Plate

  1

  Dr. T’s Sarsaparilla

  The Thirsty Pilgrim. A dim light, attracting all the sad solitary souls of Duxbury and beyond.

  Randy opened the door, sending a flood of light into the dark bar. The handful of men inside covered their eyes like vampires. One of them even hissed.

  “You’re late, Tinker.” The bartender poured a creamy pint of dark stout from the tap. “And you look even crappier than usual. And by crappier I mean that now there appears to be actual crap on you. Is that bird shit in your hair?”

  “Turkey shit, most likely,” Randy replied. “I’ve had a rough morning, Twitchy.”

  “I figured you would have.”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that? What have you heard? Or, should I say, what have you felt in your loins?”

  “I haven’t heard or felt a thing worth a damn down there since the doctor slapped my newborn ass,” Twitchy said. “It’s just that when you left here last night you had a women older than my dead grandmother around your arm, a gallon or so of beer and whiskey in your belly, and a pogo stick in your hand. I can’t be certain, but from the fading springy sounds I heard after you stumbled out, I’m guessing you hopped home on the pogo stick with that granny riding piggyback.”

  Randy squinted. He furrowed his brows ruminatively. Then his eyes went wide as he had a flash of himself hopping down the street on a red pogo stick with an old woman on his back. The woman was alternately kissing Randy’s neck like a vampire and then throwing her head back and laughing manically. At one point when she did this her dentures popped out.

  Randy shuddered.

  Dale eyed him warily. “He’s kidding, right?”

  “Of course he is,” Randy replied as he took a seat at the bar. “I mean, where would I get a pogo stick?”

  “You stole it.” Twitchy slid Randy a beer. “From Uncle Pookie.”

  “Uncle Pookie?” Dale asked.

  “He’s a clown,” Twitchy said. “His full name is His Majesty Uncle Pookie van Doodles. He does kids’ parties around town and then comes here to get plastered. Your pal Randy here got into a fight with him last night over an old broad named Hazel. Bless her heart, that woman did her best with the caked on make-up and fancy clothes, but she kind of looked more like a clown than Pookie did. But beggars can’t be choosers, and Uncle Pookie flashed his wad of cash from the kid’s party and before you knew it she was all over him. That is, until Randy here got a few more beers in him and decided to move in.”

  Sitting at the bar, Randy massaged his temples, bringing more of last night’s happenings to light. He saw himself prancing atop the bar, a beer in one hand and a mop in the other. He was nonchalantly using the mop to fend off a fury of vicious blows from a broom-wielding clown.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Randy said, “it was a fair fight. As always I abided by the fencing rules of the esteemed Fédération Internationale d’Escrime.”

  “I don’t know much about that Escrime stuff,” said Twitchy, “but I have a feeling that Randy here was out of line when he pulled Uncle Pookie’s pants down around his ankles, pushed him to the ground, and then beat on his bare butt cheeks like they were a couple of bongo drums while singing Tears of Clown.”

  Dale gave Randy a look.

  “What?” Randy raised his hands. “It’s a good song.”

  “I finally had to step in and call the match,” Twitchy continued. “Then Randy walked out of here with the woman…and Pookie’s pogo stick.”

  Randy raised his glass. “To the victor goes the pogos,” and he downed the pint in one gulp.

  “I want to say something here,” Dale interjected. “I feel like something needs to be said. But I’m having trouble concentrating with all these ladybugs flying around my head singing Tiptoe through the Tulips.”

  As Dale swatted at the air, Twitchy turned to Randy. “What’s with your friend? He seems kind of funny in the head.”

  “He ate some wild mushrooms and has had a rather rough trip. He needs a good three fingers of Dr. T’s to set him straight.”

  “Say no more.” Twitchy reached down under the bar.

  Dale focused for a moment. “What’s Dr. T’s?”

  “Dr. T McGown’s Sarsaparilla and Iodide of Potash.” Twitchy held up a dusty brown bottle with some ceremony. “The great blood purifier and health restorer that the drug companies don’t want you to know about.”

  Twitchy poured a double shot of Dr. T’s and then slammed the bottle down on the bar. The liquid had the consistency of maple syrup and the color of dark coffee. The faint yellow wisps of fumes that rose from the surface gave off the distinct aroma of black licorice, sour cherries, peppermint, and rotten eggs.

  “Bottom’s up.”

  Dale looked closely at the bottle. “The date on this is April 4, 1886. I have a feeling if I drink it I will either die or throw up. Possibly both. And in that order.”

  “Nonsense,” Twitchy said. “I have a shot of it every morning and I’m as healthy as a dead mule.”

  “A what?”

  “A mule,” said Randy. “He’s as healthy as a mule.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that mules were especially healthy.”

  “They don’t have singing bugs flying around them, that’s for sure.”

  Dale looked down at the ladybugs. All seven of them had landed on the bar and were arm in arm, humming and dancing the cancan.

  Dale held his nose. “Bottom’s up.”

  He downed the tonic. Dale’s stomach tried to send the stuff right back up, but his throat was able to cut it off at the pass.

  Dale dropped the glass on the bar and staggered back a few steps. He looked at Twitchy with a pair of pinhead-sized pupils and opened his mouth.

  “Wow.”

  Dale’s eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the ground like a sack of flour.

  “He’ll wake up in no time feeling like a new man.”

  “And thank God for that, Twitchy,” Randy said. “The world is strange enough without hallucinogenic fungi coursing through the old blood pipes. Now, on to the matter at hand. Twitchy, there’s a mighty disturbance in the air.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you just farted?”

  “No. Well, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s bigger than that. There’s chaos in the air, and you know what that means. I need to speak with Mr. Feathers, post haste. Is he in yet?”

  “Of course he is, where else would he be?”

  Randy spun around on his stool and saw no sign of Mr. Feathers. When he came back around he saw Twitchy pointing up at the ceiling.

  Randy looked up and saw a small, smartly dressed older man in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat sitting on one of the two long ceiling beams that ran the length of the bar, drinking scotch through a straw. He looked like someone out of a silent
film.

  The man tipped his hat to Randy.

  “Mr. Feathers, fancy seeing you here,” Randy called out through cupped hands. “How’s the weather up there?”

  Feathers flared his nostrils and took in a mighty snort of air. “Wretched at best.”

  “Ah, why not come on down then? The weather down here is fair to middling. Come now, I’ll buy you the finest meal known to man. A pickled egg and a shot of scotch.”

  “I’ll have them both up here,” said Feathers. “If you want me to come down I’m afraid you’re going to have to shoot me out of the sky like a bird. Either way is fine with me.”

  Twitchy pointed at a ladder leaning against the wall. “Looks like you’re moving up in the world, Tinker.”

  “Yes. Quite.”

  Randy climbed the ladder holding a glass of scotch in one hand, another scotch in his shirt pocket, and a small plate of pickled eggs balanced on his head.

  “You know you could have made two trips,” Twitchy commented from down below.

  “That would be cheating,” Randy said. “In life you only get one trip.”

  Randy sat down next to Mr. Feathers and placed the eggs and scotch between them. “Why the lofty perch?”

  Mr. Feathers closed his eyes. “I saw a blackbird this morning, sitting high atop a McDonald’s golden arches. This little blinking creature looked down curiously at the world below him. At the parade of foolishness. From time to time the bird would lift up its rear end and let out a little dollop of poo. Plop, plop, plop. Right on top of the heads of the people mindlessly carrying their sacks of grease. I thought to myself, there he is. The last soldier of the sane. So now I am trying to become more like that bird. Because after the pooing blackbird, then what?”

  Twitchy’s ears perked up. He sighed as he grabbed a dirty yellow bucket, walked out from behind the bar, and plunked it down on the floor, directly underneath Mr. Feathers.

  “Soldier of the sane my ass,” he said.

  Randy picked up an egg and held it before him. “To the pooing blackbird. May his aim always be true.”