Lick Your Neighbor (11 page)

12
Birds of Discord

T
HE DARK CLOUDS MOVED IN, READY
to pounce. The wind picked up. A chipmunk, sitting on a tree just outside the Ferdue offices, dashed inside his tree hole home. He came back out holding a tiny umbrella, stolen last summer from an unattended piña colada.

The main doors of the Ferdue building swung open and Dale came rolling out, alone and still lassoed to the chair. He was traveling backward, unable to see where he was going. Hurtling to his fate, Dale had the dull glow of a man who had ceased fighting the inevitable.

The only thing that stopped him from flying off the curb and flat on his back was an outstretched penny loafer.

“I just got fired,” Dale said without even turning around to see who had stopped him. He knew damn well who it was.

“I sensed you would.” Randy said, “I could smell it in the wind.”

“How?”

Randy spun Dale around. Then he reached into the idling Oldsmobile and flicked on the radio. It was a Duxbury AM news station doing the weather forecast. They were calling for rain all afternoon.

“Are you saying I was fired because of cloudy skies and a 90% chance of rain?”

“Hold on, wait for it.”

The weather report ended and the station turned to local news.

It was a grisly scene in the Knightsbridge section of Duxbury this morning. Judy Stitch, caretaker of Gobbling Gus—the longtime beloved mascot of Duxbury High—awoke early this morning to a grisly scene. Gobbling Gus had been brutally murdered in the night. Duxbury correspondent Felicia Richards was at the scene.

“‘The horrifying handiwork of a psychopath.’ Those are the only words police had to describe the crime committed here in Duxbury last night. The most famous turkey in the State, possibly in the entire world, was found hanging by his neck from a tree. The main suspect? The man whose tree Gus was killed on. Dale Alden. Police say they have a strong case against him, and promise that justice will be served.

We’ll be back in a minute with an update on the early morning break-in at the Duxbury Library, as well as breaking news on a deadly fire at the Duxbury Ti-”

Randy turned the radio off.

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Dale asked.

Randy shook his head. “Like I said, you made a crack in the wall, letting chaos into your life. Rules like innocent until proven guilty, and monkey see monkey do, no longer apply to you, Dale. Not until we patch up your crack. Unless of course you’d rather we leave your crack cracked. Some people prefer life that way. With their cracks wide open at all times, and the madness swirling around them.”

“Please stop talking about my crack.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of crack.” Randy scratched his butt. “Although I do appreciate the analogy. Because we all have cracks, through which sometimes bursts, when we least expect it, the most obscene nastiness you’ve ever seen or heard. And it’s up to our buttcheeks, those two soldiers in the war against chaos, to maintain law and order down there.”

“Okay stop,” Dale demanded. “Just stop it. You’re disgusting, and I don’t need your bogus chaos crack theories to explain this.”

“While I admit that my theories are often based on certain assumptions and hunches,” Randy said, “they are never
bogus
.”

“Perhaps you’re forgetting about the time you tried to convince me that the Dairy Farmers of America were using specially trained mercenary raccoons to secretly kill off the entire North American opossum population so that people won’t find out that opossum milk tastes better than cow’s milk.”

“When’s the last time you saw an opossum?” Randy asked.

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Well there you go.”

“You know what? Shut up. Here’s what’s happening. Some no good kids, probably from Plymouth High, thought it would be funny to hang Gus as a prank. I got blamed because they did it in my tree and with my rope. The higher-ups at Ferdue got wind of it and freaked out, thinking it would somehow hurt the company’s wholesome image, especially during the holidays, so they fired me. End of story.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Randy said, “Or, maybe, just maybe…”

“Don’t say it.”

“It’s because you’ve unleashed chaos by trumpeting the Auwaog in the paper!”

“Stop pointing at me like that! It was the Duxbury Times, no one reads it anyway. And besides, Mayflower Jenkins was the one doing all the research. Why wasn’t chaos unleashed on him?”

“Have you spoken to Jenkins today?”

“This morning. He was fine.”

“And since then? Any word from good ‘ol Mayflower? I thought not. So how do you know what his day has been like? For all you know he could have taken a nap and woken up to find himself transformed into a giant, hideous turkey. He could be in his bedroom as we speak, frantically trying to figure out how to open the door with a pair of wings.”

Randy tucked his hands under his armpits and flapped at the car door with his elbows. “Maybe this is why we haven’t heard anything unusual from Mayflower Jenkins. The poor soul can’t even get to a phone!”

Watching Randy flail in demonstration, Dale realized that his brother-in-law was right, at least about Mayflower. If the killing of Gus
was
somehow a response to the article, then Mayflower would have been targeted as well.

“Fine, Randy. You win. Let’s go talk to Mayflower.”

“Now you’re talkin’. Where can we find him?”

“He’ll be at Duxbury Elementary by now. He always gives his Plymouth history lesson to the kids on the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Perfect.” Randy started to untie Dale. “We’ll swing by the pub first and see what the word on the street is.”

“Does finding out what the word on the street is have anything to do with talking to that Mr. Feathers guy?” Dale asked.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“Good.”

“Maybe.”

“No goddamn way, Randy. We’re going to Duxbury Elementary and that’s it.”

Randy stopped working on the knots around Dale’s wrists and stood up, turning his back to his captive brother-in-law.

Dale sighed.

“Fine. We’ll stop by the pub
after
we talk to Mayflower.”

Randy spun around.

“Deal.”

Behind Randy, Dale thought he saw a black figure streak between two parked cars. Whatever it was, it was big and moved remarkably fast. Dale looked around the parking lot. There wasn’t another soul in sight, and what with the darkening sky and creaking trees swaying, Dale got a bit freaked out.

“We should get out of here,” he said. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”

Randy stood up and looked around. He sniffed the air. He licked his finger and held it up in the wind. It was quiet. A little too quiet.

“This was the last place my dad was seen,” Randy said. “He came out of those doors and just disappeared. His car never made it out of the lot. Sometimes…I wonder if
he
ever made it out.”

Randy and Dale quickly hopped into the wagon and headed to the parking lot exit. When they got there they found the black and white checkered gate closed, and the booth next to it empty.

“That’s weird,” Dale said. “There’s supposed to be an attendant here twenty-four hours a day.”

“He was here when I came in.”

“What are we supposed to do? Sit here until he comes back?”

Randy and Dale sat there and stared at the gate for awhile.

Dale scratched his chin. “Hmmmmmm. This is a dilly of a pickle. Should I get out and, I don’t know, try to lift the gate?”

“You might set off an alarm. The last thing we want to do is draw attention to us. Is there another way out?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe you should honk your horn.”

Randy honked twice. Nothing happened.

“Is it one of those gates where you need to inch up to trigger a sensor?” Randy asked.

“It never worked like that before.”

“Maybe they put in a new one.”

“Maybe.”

“Huh.”

“Hmmmmmmmmm.”

“You know what, I just remembered something.”

“What?”

“This is exactly where they found my dad’s car,” Randy said, “idling in front of the gate with no one at the wheel.”

Randy and Dale stared at each other for a moment. They both shivered.

“We have to get out of here,” Dale said. “Now.”

Randy looked around for another exit. Glancing out the back window, he gave a little jump and whipped his head back around. He stared straight ahead, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” Dale asked.

“We have a problem.”

“I know. This gate thing is making my brain hurt.”

“Not that problem. Big problem.”

“What could be worse than the gate?”

“You’ll see.”

There was a sudden sickeningly wet crunch at the back windshield. Dale spun around in alarm. “What the hell was that?”

A hailstorm of eggs came raining down on the car. Covering the windows in a mess of shells, yolks, and goo in a matter of seconds.

Dale whipped his head and back and forth, trying to find the source of the attack. It was hard to get a good look outside with so much egg running down the windows, but through the streaks he could just barely make out their attackers. Four large men, all cue ball bald, dressed in severe black suits, red scarves waving in the wind. Even more oddly, each sunglassed goon stood astride a canary yellow Vespa.

Dale squinted through the goo. “Holy hell.”

“What? What is it?” Randy tried to get a look, but his side of the windshield was completely covered in egg. “Tell me, man! What do you see?”

“They have…they have…beaks!”

“They have
what
?”

“Beaks!” Dale shouted. “Like birds!”

“Where do they have beaks? In their hands? I can’t see shit!”

“On their faces!”

Randy leaned across Dale’s lap and looked through the windshield goo. Dale was right. The men all had pointy tan beaks where their mouths should have been. There was also some sort of short bright red appendage attached to the top of the beaks. It was like a skinny tongue, and it flopped from side to side as the men moved around.

Randy sat bolt upright. “Let’s not lose our heads here. They must be wearing some sort of disguise. Afraid to show their true identities to us. Ha! A bunch of cowards is what they are! Show yourselves, sissies!”

The men had the car surrounded. In one arm each cradled a pile of eggs. With the other they threw them in a rapid-fire fashion with what appeared to be superhuman speed and accuracy.

The attacker who took up position in front of the car was the first to run out of eggs. After throwing his last missile, he crouched down low to the ground.

Dale clutched his seatbelt anxiously. “Where’d he go?”

“My God he disappeared. Just like the potato shredder.”

“The what?”

“First Dad, then the shredder, now this beakman. The cloud of chaos around us is thicker than I thought. Thicker than even I have ever experienced. Who knows who or what will disappear next. Could be one of us. Hold on to me, Dale.” Randy wrapped his arms around Dale’s head, crushing Dale’s face against his chest. “Hold on tight.”

“Stop. Please.”

“Hold me close. Closer! They can’t get us if we increase our mass. Gravity is the key. It’s the only thing strong enough to protect us from chaos. Our bodies must merge to become one solid anchor of flesh, bone and…hang on. False alarm. The beak guy is just squatting down.”

Over the hood of the car, the top of the crouching man’s bald head could just barely be seen.

Dale pushed and slapped Randy away from him.

“It kind of looks like he’s taking a dump,” Randy remarked.

“Oh God.” Dale ducked down. “He’s going to throw it at us. I just know it.”

“He wouldn’t dare. Fecal restraint is the only thing that separates us from the apes.”

With a sudden burst the man leapt into the air, going up so high that Randy and Dale lost sight of him over the windshield. Randy counted to five, and with the bald man still airborne, he knew that things were even worse than they seemed.

“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick!” Randy exclaimed. “That’s no ordinary man.”

Dale grabbed Randy’s coat and shook him, shouting, “He’s a bird! He’s a huge fucking bird!”

“Impossible. His arms aren’t nearly wide enough to generate the proper lift.” Randy shook his fist at the roof. “You’re violating the laws of aerodynamics, buddy! Chaos or not that is a serious offense!”

The bald man landed feet first on the hood of the station wagon with a thud that rocked Randy and Dale out of their seats. With his beaked face right up against the windshield, the man took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of beady black eyes.