by Chris Genoa
“Of course you do. It’s probably next to the cat o’ nine tails.”
“Hey you’re right, it is!” Randy said as he proudly held up a cat o’ nine tails and wooden stake. “Oh, one more thing you forgot.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re supposed to kill four farmers.”
“Oh boy!” Dale clapped his hands together. “The more the merrier. Let me just look under the seat here and see if I can find my Gatling gun.”
Just as Randy pulled out a red pogo stick and shouted, “Eureka,” Pookie’s neon beetle came to a skidding stop next to the Oldsmobile.
“You’re going to give that to him, right Randy?” Dale asked.
“Yep. I’m either going to hand it to him, or I’m going to shove it down his throat. Either way, he’s a-gettin’ it.”
Pookie jumped out of the car, holding a seltzer bottle and with murder in his eyes. He was about to smash the station wagon’s windshield with the bottle when Randy hopped out of the back holding the pogo stick.
Pookie froze, his eyes on the pogo.
“Easy now, Pook,” Randy said. “I have your pogo stick right here, buddy. Not a scratch on it.”
Pookie snatched the stick away from Randy. He looked it up and down to make sure that it indeed wasn’t damaged. It was fine, except for a generously-sized pair of ladies pink underwear dangling from one of the pedals.
“If it’s any consolation to you,” Randy said, “we both passed out before anything carnal happened. Her gums may have been hovering above a certain appendage of mine when the passing out occurred, but still…the battleship did not reach port, as they say.”
Pookie yanked off the underwear in a huff. Then he marched over to his car, threw the pogo stick into the back seat, and then marched back to the wagon. Without a word, the clown pulled the underwear over Randy’s head, and then sprayed him in the face with the seltzer, emptying the entire bottle.
Dale watched from inside the Oldsmobile. “Here we go again.”
Randy pulled the sopping wet panties off his head and threw them to the ground.
“No one puts wet panties on my face, Pook. No one. Not unless I’m the one who made them wet.” Randy raised his fists. “Time to die, clown.”
Dale stepped out of the car. “Let’s not lose our heads, fellas.” He had his hands up in the universal take-er-easy-fellas position. “Think of the innocent children. Those wide-eyed chubby beauties who look to us grown-ups to help make sense of this crazy mixed-up world we live in. What would they think if they saw two of their most beloved role models, the clown and the uh…well, the lawyer…engaged in fisticuffs? I’ll tell you what they’d think. Nothing. They’d just keel over and die from the heartbreak of it all. Right there on the spot. You don’t want that, do you? To make all the chubby children of the world tip over and die?”
“He’s right,” Randy said. “We have to make peace. Not for ourselves. For the children.”
Pookie put his head down and thought about the children of the world for a moment. He imagined children of every shape, size, and nationality, all gathered together in an open field of emerald green grass, with a soft wind blowing through their hair and glorious sunshine shining down on their soft cheeks. The children formed a circle around Uncle Pookie, holding hands and singing Let There Be Peace on Earth.
And then, while the other children kept on swaying and singing, one by one each smiling child came forward, kissed Pookie on the cheek, and then, with all the might their little bodies could muster, they kicked him in the crotch. With each kick Pookie felt his nuts going further and further up into his body cavity. Sooner or later, they would pop right out of his mouth. And what would the children of the world do then? They’d laugh, long and hard, and Pookie damn well knew it.
Pookie lifted his head, and with one eye twitching, said, “The children of the world can go to hell. And you can go with them, Tinker.”
“So be it.” Randy unzipped his jacket. “I assume you adhere to The Queensbury Rules of 1867?”
Pookie unbuttoned his polka dot shirt. “Of course,”
“That means no hugging,” Randy said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Also, no shoes with springs. Do those ridiculous shoes of yours have springs in them?”
“No.”
“Good. Dale, I suggest you step aside. It’s about to get critical up in here, Marquise of Queensbury style.”
Both Randy and Pookie took off their pants.
“Is there a reason why you two are getting naked?” Dale asked.
Pookie scoffed and Randy shook his head.
“If you have to ask,” Randy said, “Then you wouldn’t understand. It has to do with being a gentleman.”
Dale looked at the two men standing before him. One wore nothing but a pair of polka dot boxers, neon green socks, huge clown shoes, and an orange afro wig. The other had on penny loafers, black socks pulled up to his knees, and a pair of tighty whiteys which were far too heavy on the “tighty” and far too light on the “whitey” for Dale’s liking.
“I’ll be in the car,” he said.
Pookie raised his fists. “Let’s do this.”
“By all means.”
The two scantily clad fighters circled each other, bobbing and weaving, each throwing occasional air jabs.
“Is this really what you want, Pook?”
“Don’t call me Pook, Tink.”
“Nobody calls me Tink, Pook.”
“Tink.”
“Pook.”
“Tinkle!”
“Poopy!”
“Tinker, you are a drunk, a loafer, and a menace to all the good, hardworking people in Duxbury. And it’s about time someone gave you your comeuppance.”
“You’re out of your league here, Bozo. I feel it’s my duty to inform you that in another life I was “Gentleman Jim” Corbett, heavyweight champion of the world in 1892. A very credible street psychic in New Orleans informed of this in the early 90s. Corbett’s fighting spirit still rages within me. So you’re not just fighting me. You’re fighting Gentlemen Jim too. I put your chances of victory at zilch.”
Pookie landed a hard right to Randy’s gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the ground.
Randy got his breath back and staggered to his feet yelling, “Time out! Time out! I said Queensbury Rules, damn you! No hitting below the neck!”
“That’s not one of the rules!”
“Like hell it isn’t. I just happen to have an official copy of the Queensbury Rules in my car. Here, I’ll show you.”
Randy opened the back door and grabbed the first piece of paper he saw. With much harrumphing, he uncrumpled it and shoved the wrinkled sheet into the clown’s face.
“Look closely at Rule #8. No hitting below the neck.”
Pookie put on his reading glasses and surveyed the paper in front of him. All he saw was a series of doodles, all depicting stick figures engaged in various sexual positions. At the top was the title “Randy’s To-Do List.”
“These aren’t the Queensbu—”
Randy punched through the paper and hit Pookie in the nose, sending the clown staggering backward, clutching his face. When Pookie took his hands away, they were covered in blood. His nose had erupted, and blood was streaming down onto his lips and into his mouth, staining his teeth red.
Randy danced around, throwing shadow punchs. “Take that, you cheater.”
Pookie bared his blood-soaked teeth, raised his hands like they were claws, and hissed.
Randy stopped dancing and dropped his fists. After another hiss from Pookie, Randy turned around to face the car, and, as calmly as possible, said, “Dale, let me in.”
Eyes locked on the bloody, hissing Pookie and mouth agape, Dale slowly shook his head no.
Randy jiggled the door handle and banged on the window. “Let me in, damn you!”
With a running start, Pookie leapt into the air like a tiger and landed on Randy’s back. He wrapped his legs
tightly around Randy’s waist and then bit down hard on Randy’s neck, like a vampire.
This sent Randy into a wild, screaming, arms-flailing fit. “The beast is going for my jugular! Kill it, kill it, kill it!”
Dale watched as Randy twisted, bucked, and spun himself back and forth in front of car, trying to shake the clown loose. But it was no use. Pookie was locked on tight, riding Randy like a bull.
Randy soon ran out of steam and collapsed face first on the hood of the car, with the bloody-mouthed clown draped over his back, yelling “Yeeeehaw.”
“Nightmares,” Dale said, “this is definitely going to give me nightmares.”
Randy got his second wind. He shoved himself off of the hood with all his might, which sent him stumbling backwards. With the weight of Pookie on his back, Randy lost his footing on the mud and both of them went flying to the ground.
After a few moments passed in which neither of them got up, Dale got out of the car. There he saw Randy sitting on the ground holding the bite mark on his neck. Uncle Pookie lay next to him, motionless, blood seeping from the back of his head, which sat comfortably on top of a large rock.
“You killed him!”
“He’s not dead,” Randy replied, trying to catch his breath. “Look, his chest is moving.”
“What if he’s faking?” Dale asked, “He could lunge up at any moment and go straight for our crotches.”
“No, he’s out cold. And probably will be for awhile. So our crotches are safe. For now. However, we can’t leave him lying out here in the open like this. Someone might spot him from the road. Let’s throw him into his car.”
Randy tried to open the Volkswagen’s door, but it was locked. Through the window he could see the keys dangling from the ignition.
“The idiot locked his keys in the car. We’ll have to put him in the wagon. Help me carry him.”
“But what about the turkey? We can’t leave them both alone together. What if he pecks his eyeballs out?”
“No need to worry. The turkey is coming with us.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s got something that you and I lack,” Randy replied. “The warrior spirit.”
Dale turned around and saw the turkey standing in front of the gate, eyes locked on the long red barn at the end of the dirt road.
Mad bird at the gate
Ready to fight to the death
And me? Scared shitless.
5
We the People
Excerpt of John Alden
February 15, 1621
This morning, at sunrise, we were visited by an Indian war party. Perhaps our knotty-pated mess of a bundle didn’t go over so well.
We awoke from the night’s slumber to the sight of more than forty Savages, standing on a near hill, their faces painted in red and black and all armed with bows, arrows and clubs. One of their member, the smallest of the group, came forward unarmed.
To our great surprise, instead of speaking complete gibberish, this little Indian spoke only partial gibberish.
“I Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe,” he said. Then he pointed back to his friends on the hill. “We the Auwaog.”
“By God’s dangling earlobes,” said Standish, “the little Savage speaks English.” He pointed at himself. “I Captain Miles Standish. We the People.”
“We the People too,” said the Savage.
“No, no, no. You the Indians. We the People. How you know English?”
“English Fishman teach Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe.”
“Fisherman? Ah, I see. What you want from us, Shoemoomookakalakacheehcee?”
“Name is Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No. I Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe. Means wolf with high back. You say ‘Shoemoomookakalakacheehcee.’ That mean wolf with tongue in own ass. Big difference.”
“How about I just call you Shoe?”
“What Shoe mean?”
“Shoes are what we wear on our feet. See?” Standish held up his foot to show the Savage the mud covered boot which he had just been nicknamed after. “Shoe.”
“You call me Shoe, I call you Linto. That fair trade.”
“What does Linto mean?”
“That mean dog.”
“Ah.”
“Shoe come to tell Linto that Auwaog Chief want you move. This our village we live in warm month. You take land and no ask. You burn homes. You dig up bones of Auwaog ancestors. We angry like Thunder.”
“The thing is, Shoe,” said Standish, “We were here first.”
“No. Wampanoag here first. They other tribe. Many moon ago Wampanoag live here and call village Patuxet. Many them die from sick, brought by you the People. Now Wampanoag small tribe, no need Patuxet. We the Auwaog get Patuxet from Wampanoag in fair trade. Now you the People take from us with no fair trade.”
“We were going to give you something in return,” said Standish. “This!”
Standish pulled out a large tangled ball of bracelets and necklaces from his pocket.
“What that?” asked Shoe.
“They’re called trinkets,” said Standish, with an eye-popping flourish.
The Indian took the tangled trinket ball over to the rest of his people on the hill. He showed them first to the largest Savage among them. A man who towered over the others and, with legs like tree trunks and arms like cannons, he looked like two men rolled into one.
“Do you think they’ll go for it?” asked the Reverend.
“I have no doubt, said Standish, “I have heard stories that these Indians would trade their firstborn for a handful of trinkets. I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw in some animal furs and food as well.”
Just as Standish finished saying this, the large Indian violently grabbed the trinkets with one of his thick hands, looked at them closely, and then, after letting out a loud scream, proceeded to stuff them all down Shoe’s throat. The other Indians intervened, all of them together struggling to hold back the massive man, and Shoe was saved certain death.
After taking a moment to compose himself, Shoe came back over to us.
“That no go so well.”
“Did he want more trinkets?” asked the Reverend. “Because that’s no problem, we have plenty. Here take my bracelet. I made it out of those bones we dug up over yonder hill.”
“No! No more trade. You have five moons to go. If still here, Megedagik swear to tear off heads.”
“Who is Megedagik?”
Shoe pointed to the massive Indian on the hill.
“Him Megedagik. Name means ‘Strong man who make many men scream like baby and beg for life before he kill them with bare hands and sharp teeth and then drink them blood.’”
“Ah.”
The Indians left directly after this threat, leaving us, the brave colonists of Plymouth, to devise a plan of attack. I was the first to offer a suggestion.
“So then…last one back on the Mayflower is a spongy foot-licker!”
We all started running, nearly tripping over each other as we darted for the Ship. But we were stopped when we saw Governor Bradford standing before us with his arms crossed and an angry look on his face. Having been in bed for many days, he was weak, and supported himself with a long stick. He was dressed only in his soiled undergarments, which I had been refusing to change for him for many days.
“Where do you dewberries think you’re going?”
“Governor,” said Standish, “shouldn’t you be in bed? You don’t look well at all.”
“Well, Miles, I was in bed, resting comfortably in my own filth, until all that Indian whooping and yelping woke me up. I heard what that Savage said, and I’ll tell you what…I didn’t like it. You milk-livered wagtails make me sick! You’re going to let a bunch of naked, stick-wielding Savages tell you what to do? Cowards! Oh we are staying. For this is our home. Look at this place. Just as a tree spends its sad, lonely life wishing for a logger to come along and give it a purpose, it is as if this tangle
d Land was just sitting around waiting for us to arrive and unravel it. And the Rock, the glorious White Rock. We cannot forget that. I want everyone to look at it.”
We all looked towards the White Rock on the beach.
“We’re not about to abandon that piece of Heaven itself to be desecrated by a bunch of Savages. Walking all over it with their filthy bare feet. Footprints on a piece of Heaven? Ha! No sir! Now Make haste to build up our fortifications. When the Savages return we will unleash the full fury of our muskets upon them and drive those devils into the sea. Are you with me, men? Or are you against all that is good, decent, and Holy?”
I no longer know what I am for or against. But I know this. I fear the Governor more than I do the Savages, and I have no choice but to stay and fight.
—John Alden
6
Le Roi du Crazy
With a hammer in hand, Dale poked his head into the barn on Wild Willie’s farm. Inside he saw hundreds of turkeys packed together so tightly they couldn’t even open their wings. There was an overpowering odor of ammonia from all the turkey crap on the ground, but that’s not what really bothered Dale. What bothered him was the fact that on top of every single one of those turkey necks was a miniature Benjamin Franklin head.
The bald head. The droopy chin. The beady little eyes. The pursed lips. They had it all. The turkeys even wore tiny old timey spectacles. And one of the Franklin turkeys, standing in the center of the barn, was flying a tiny kite, with a key dangling from the string.
Dale slammed the door shut.
“What is it?” Randy came up behind him, fully dressed again and holding his cat o’ nine tails in the ready position. “What did you see?”
“Turkeys.”
“That’s it? Then why does it look like you’re about to pee your pants?”
“You don’t understand,” Dale said. “They’re Ben Franklin turkeys.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Their heads, Randy. They look exactly like teeny tiny Ben Franklin heads, stuck on top of a turkey’s body. They have little bifocals on and everything.”