Lick Your Neighbor

by Chris Genoa

  “Let me see this.”

  Randy pushed Dale out of the way and cracked open the barn door. He saw the sea of turkeys, but none of them had the head of one of our Founding Fathers.

  Randy poked his head back out. “Those birds don’t have Ben Franklin heads. It’s the shrooms again, playing with your melon.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “And I know that you still have a hallucinogen in your bloodstream.”

  Randy looked back into the barn. The turkeys in there were of two varieties. Most were the fat, all-white, domesticated kind that one always finds on a turkey farm. But others were clearly wild turkeys like the Mohawk turkey, which was standing at Randy’s side. Their colorful feathers and sharp eyes only emphasized how pale and sickly the others looked in comparison.

  “It’s like a concentration camp for birds in there,” said Randy. “I wonder why all their beaks are cut in half. I suppose that’s so they don’t peck each other to death.”

  “Why would they peck each other to death? They’re all turkeys. Shouldn’t they be friends?”

  “Friends? People are all humans, are we all friends?”

  “Well maybe not friends, per se, but you know…neighbors. Maybe they’re not all buddy buddy, but they live and let live, with perhaps a polite wave or quick head nod from time to time.”

  “Have you ever been on a packed elevator that gets stuck?” Randy asked.

  “Yeah, once. At the office.”

  “Close your eyes, and imagine if everyone on that elevator had sharp, pointy beaks. How long do you think it would take before people starting pecking each other’s eyes out?”

  Dale pictured himself on that crowded elevator, surrounded by his coworkers, all politely avoiding eye contact, as usual. Except this time they all had pointy, bird-like beaks instead of mouths.

  The elevator came to jolting stop. After a few sighs, head shakes, wristwatch checks, and random pushing of the floor buttons, everyone settled down.

  After no more than ten seconds of this quiet stillness, a screaming, vicious, and bloody pecking frenzy broke out.

  “About ten seconds,” Dale reported.

  “Exactly,” Randy agreed. “Love thy neighbor only works when thy neighbor is on another planet. And neither of you have a rocketship.”

  Randy looked down at the Mohawk turkey, which was strutting back and forth in front of the closed barn doors. “Would you look at this bird. At his shiny black eyes. They’re like little universes. Black and endless, with a flicker of chaos in each of them. And look at all those colors on him. Red, white, blue. He’s like a walking 4th of July arts and crafts project. Strutting around like he owns the goddamn place. Proud as hell, even though with that tiny head and floppy red thing hanging from his chin he looks completely ridiculous.”

  “I guess that’s why Franklin called turkeys a true American original,” Dale said.

  Randy nodded. “Yeah. Now I see it. I didn’t before but now I do. You know what? Before we go in there, we need to name this turkey.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are about to go into battle, Dale. And I need to know the name of every soldier that’s going to be in the foxhole with me.”

  “Okay. How about Tom?”

  “Tom? As in Tom Turkey? Does he look like a fucking Tom to you, Dale?”

  “Just name the goddamn bird yourself.”

  “His name is Le Roi du Crazy.”

  “Le Roi du Crazy? Isn’t that what they call Jerry Lewis in France?”

  Randy nodded. “Yep.”

  “I am not calling that bird Le Roi du Crazy.”

  “Like hell you’re not. This bird is a true American original whose country has turned its back on him. Just like Mr. Jerry Lewis. They’re both vain and silly bastards, true, but you know what? They’re true Americans, and they’re also survivors. They’re tough as hell and they can make it in this world with or without your help. Isn’t that right, Le Roi du Crazy?”

  The Mohawk turkey gobbled back at Randy.

  “See?”

  Before Dale could answer, a booming chorus of gobbling rose up from inside the barn. Le Roi du Crazy stood at the door and gobbled back.

  “What’s going on?” Dale asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think they’re answering Le Roi du Crazy’s call. We should let him in.”

  As Randy put his hand on the door to open it, a gunshot rang out and a bullet splintered a hole in the door just above Randy’s hand.

  Panicked, Randy and Dale hit the ground and put their hands over their heads. Randy grabbed Le Roi and shielded him with his arms.

  Fanned out across the farm, four men wearing overalls, dark sunglasses, and straw hats ran toward them. One came from the west, one from the east, and the other two from the north. They all closed in on the barn. The two from the north had shotguns, and the other two waved wildly at Randy and Dale. They were all shouting something, but were too far away for Randy and Dale to hear what they were saying.

  “Quick, open the doors,” Randy said.

  “Then what? What if all those turkeys come rushing out, hell bent on revenge? They outnumber us at least ten to one.”

  “I’ll take those odds over two to two to two.”

  “Two to what?”

  “Two unarmed fools to two farmers with two shotguns.”

  “That was just a warning shot,” Dale said. “It’s not like they’re trying to kill us.”

  Another shot rang out. This time, the bullet sliced through Le Roi du Crazy’s tail feathers, cutting two of them in half.

  “Okay they’re trying to kill us,” Dale conceded. “Into the barn!”

  He threw open the barn doors and one of the farmers shouted, “Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “What did he say?” Randy asked.

  “He said you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Well he’s right. But that never stopped me before.”

  Randy stepped into the barn and immediately the ground beneath the barn started to rumble.

  “Perhaps the farmer was right.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Randy turned around and stepped out of the barn, but before he could get any further, a column of yellow light shot up through the ground. The light hit Le Roi du Crazy, went through him, and burst a hole in the barn roof, shooting high into the sky. Randy looked down at the now illuminated turkey in his hands, and felt the bird being gently pulled away from him. The light was somehow drawing the turkey upwards, like an alien tractor beam.

  One of the farmers screamed, “All is lost! The light has returned!”

  “Stop him!” yelled another.

  As the farmers converged in front of the barn, Randy felt like things were happening in slow motion. One of the farmers squeezed off another shot as he ran. The bullet grazed Dale’s neck, tearing a slice of flesh off as it whizzed by. Dale grabbed his neck and screamed as he dove into the barn for cover. Just before he left his feet, in a final desperate maneuver, he threw the hammer with every bit of strength he could muster. The hammer spun end over end and hit one of the unarmed farmers square in the forehead, and the man dropped to the ground like a stone.

  With a belly flop and face plant worthy of the chubbiest kid at the community pool, Dale landed inside the barn.

  Randy looked down and was surprised to see the turkey looking back at him with his little black eyes.

  “Toss me,” said the turkey.

  Randy was flummoxed. “My God. The bird can talk.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Toss me.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything before now? Why keep silent when you could have helped us?”

  “What should I have said, Randy? That you are a useless sack of flesh who needs a fowl to fight his battles for him?”

  “You talk too much, bird.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now toss me.”

  “Toss you where, Le Roi?”

/>   “Into the barn,” said the turkey, “And do it with all your might, you gallant true-penny.”

  Randy swung the bird back and forth, preparing to give him the old heave ho.

  The farmers, with frantic terror in their voices, all yelled “Noooooooooooo!” as Randy tossed Le Roi du Crazy into the barn.

  Le Roi du Crazy hurtled deep into the barn, with the light still locked on him. Two of the farmers collapsed to the ground. The fourth one ran to the barn, pushed Randy out of the way, and slammed the door shut, locking it with a key. Then he, too, fell to his knees.

  There was a moment of relative calmness as the farmers caught their breath. It was broken when the farmer with the hammer lodged in his forehead threw off his hat in disgust. He grabbed hold of the hammer and pulled it out of his skull with a quick tug. The wound closed and healed up instantly, not a drop of blood spilled. As the farmer stood up he tossed the hammer aside and walked over to Randy.

  “You beef-witted dewberry! What have you done?”

  “You should be dead,” Randy pointed out. “But you’re not even hurt. It’s impossible.”

  “It can’t be impossible if it just happened.” The farmer took off his sunglasses and regarded Randy with weary, bloodshot eyes. The same eyes that had burned through Dale earlier that morning in his bedroom.

  Randy pointed at the farmer. “You’re Sarah Josepha Hale.”

  “Do I look like a woman to you?” the farmer asked.

  “No. But neither did Sarah Josepha Hale. She looked like John Ferdue, as do you. You’re him, aren’t you? You’re all of them. John Ferdue, Sarah Josepha Hale, and John Alden.”

  The farmer looked at Randy and then spit on the ground. “Well shite.”

  “I knew it! And you.” Randy pointed at another farmer. “You’re William Bradford, aren’t you? I’ve seen your portrait at the courthouse.”

  The farmer tore off his sunglasses and hat. “That’s Governor Bradford to you, you flap-mouthed pignut.”

  Randy pointed at the other two farmers. “And you two. Reverend Brewster and Captain Standish, right?”

  “The fool knows who we are, John,” said Farmer Standish. He raised his rifle and took aim at Randy.

  “What does it matter?” John asked. “Now that the monster has returned, it’s over. All of it.” He started walking away from the barn.

  After a moment of indecision, Standish lowered his gun and began walking away as well.

  “I’d advise you to step away from there,” said Farmer Brewster to Randy. “Things are about to get spongy.”

  “But what about my friend?” Randy asked. “You locked him inside the barn.”

  “Good. That frothy elf-skinned maggot-pie can act as the welcome party.”

  “Welcome party for who?” Randy asked.

  “For the beast.”

  Turkey in the light

  Spinning round and round and round

  Hooray! Time to die.

  7

  Blinded by the Light

  Trapped in a corner of the Thirsty Pilgrim, Mr. Feathers was doing his best to deal with a ninja who was delivering a machine gun’s worth of kicks to his gut.

  “This isn’t going well at all,” Shi remarked. His head was no longer floating but was now lying on the bar, surrounded by empty wine coolers. “Twitchy, another round of the ipple.”

  Twitchy rose up from the bar floor. “The what?”

  “The yipple. The oypple. The ayeyapple. Goddamit you know what I mean, you son of a bitch.”

  Just as two of the ninjas were about to deal Feathers a mighty tandem blow to his face, the front door to the Thirsty Pilgrim burst open and an explosion of yellow light shot into the bar, as if the sun itself had knocked down the door and barged in.

  * * *

  Across town in Dale’s kitchen, a flashlight shined into Andie’s blinking eyes. Officer Ainsworth sat backwards in a chair across from her, a toothpick hanging from his bottom lip. Truax stood next to him, shining the flashlight into Andie’s eyes and chewing a wad of gum.

  “Could you point that light somewhere else?” Andie tapped the ash off her cigar. “It’s giving me a headache.”

  “Police procedure.” Truax smirked. “Just following standard protocol.”

  Ainsworth leaned forward, perilously close to tipping the chair. “We’re not dumb, lady. We’re smart. Real smart. We know, okay?”

  “You know what?”

  “We know that you know that we know what you know we know.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes we do!”

  “Where’s your husband?” Truax interjected.

  “I already told you, I don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach him. Here, call his cell.” Andie slid her phone across the table to Ainsworth. “See for yourself.”

  Ainsworth spun the phone around and tapped it twice with an accusing finger. He looked up at Andie. “Maybe I will.”

  Andie took a big puff on her cigar and slowly let it out. “Maybe you won’t.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Maybe. And then again maybe you won’t.”

  “He might do it,” Truax said. “I’ve seen him do stuff before. Lots of stuff. He’s capable.”

  “All I’ve seen from both of you is all talk and no action.” Andie took in a big puff and smoke and slowly let it out. “So I’m sticking with maybe he won’t.”

  Ainsworth jumped out of the chair and flipped open the phone. He held out one finger threateningly over the keypad. “I’m telling ya I might, lady!”

  “Now you did it,” Truax said. “He means business.”

  “I can tell.” Andie crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair.

  “Aren’t you going to try to stop me?” Ainsworth asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You are being very difficult!” Truax shouted.

  “For the love of Saint Josaphata Michaelina Hordashevska, show some interest here, woman!” Ainsworth said. “Your husband is a murder suspect. You are an accomplice suspect. We are giving you a brutal interrogation. Don’t just sit there like some kind of ice-hardened stoic. Come down off the mountain, Mrs. Alden! Participate in life!”

  Andie put out her cigar. “You want me to play along with your stupid game? Is that it? Fine. How’s this? Maaaaybeeeeee you two are the dumbest, most clueless, most idiotic cops to walk this planet in the long and storied history of dumb, clueless, idiotic cops.”

  Truax slammed the flashlight down on the table and got right up in Andie’s face, no more than an inch from her nose. He chewed his gum purposefully a few times. He looked her up and down. He snorted. “Maybe we are.”

  Right then the windows shattered and a blinding yellow light burst into the kitchen. Andie covered her face and ducked under the table, while Ainsworth and Truax drew their weapons. With their eyes closed against the glare, they fired blindly, each emptying an entire cartridge. Into nothing.

  Andie squinted from underneath the table. She saw that the light had punched a hole through the front door and gone back outside. In the direction of Wild Willie’s farm.

  8

  Dancing in the Moonlight

  Excerpt from the diary of John Alden

  February 16, 1621

  All is lost.

  Earlier tonight, the Reverend had a dream about that witch trial he attended in Essex. During the dream he vividly saw the face of the one man amongst the many women who was on trial. It was the witch who escaped the noose by way of devil-possessed flying goat. Upon waking in a dreadful sweat, the Reverend realized the witch was none other than our beloved Mr. Ely.

  The Reverend shook me awake shouting, “Jasper Eberly! Jasper Eberly!”

  “You’ve got the wrong bed! There’s no Jasper here. Try next door.”

  “Not you, John. Mr. Ely. He’s Jasper Eberly, I tell you!”

  I immediately slapped the Reverend for saying such a foul thing about my dear friend. The Reverend in turn slapped me back, as was his God-given right as ou
r Reverend. That done, he sat down and explained to me how he connected Mr. Ely’s face with that of Jasper Eberly, the escaped witch.

  “It certainly would explain Mr. Ely’s sudden flight from England,” I said. “Not to mention the matter of the talking grampus who said he was William Button.”

  “What’s this now?”

  “During one of our early expeditions, we came across a dead grampus on the beach. When the others left, the carcass spoke to me. It told me his name was William Button and that a bird with the head of Mr. Ely had transformed him.”

  “By God’s teeth, I knew it!” the Reverend shouted. He then grabbed my arm and dragged me with him to awaken Captain Standish and tell him the news. But when we reached Standish’s bed, it was empty. The Captain was standing by the window, looking out into the moonlight.

  “Captain,” said the Reverend, “We have monstrous news. It would seem that Mr. Ely—”

  “Is a witch,” said Standish, pointing out the window. The Reverend and I crowded around him to see.

  In the light of a full blue moon, with a soft snow falling down around them, there stood a bare-chested Mr. Ely, engaged in a most graceful Basse dance.

  That alone would be enough to accuse Mr. Ely of witchcraft. For only the devil dances with his nipples showing. However, the case against Mr. Ely was made quite stronger seeing as his dance partner was a large deer.

  Ely and the doe danced so beautifully together that I wondered if there was music playing out there. My question was answered when I saw a beaver sitting on a rock near them. The little critter was playing a hornpipe.

  The Reverend rubbed his hands together excitedly and said, “Right then. I’ll gather the wood, you two round them up. We’ll have the witch, the deer, and especially that cheeky beaver, all roasted to a crisp by dawn. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Standish.

  “Wait,” I said, “Mr. Ely is a good man. He is my friend. Perhaps we are judging him too quickly. Perhaps there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. We should talk to him. Let the man explain himself.”

  Outside, Mr. Ely and the deer had left the ground and were now twirling around in the air, like a pair of love birds.