Lick Your Neighbor (18 page)

“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 her 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.

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.