Lick Your Neighbor (22 page)

3
Step Back, Repulse Monkey

Andie Alden sat at the kitchen table, sipping a martini as she gazed blankly out the window. She watched as Officers Ainsworth and Truax cautiously approached the maple tree. They could only see part of Mayflower Jenkins’ right shoulder and leg sticking out from the backside of the trunk. Not his head, or the lack thereof.

With Ainsworth standing by, hand on gun, Truax reached out and poked Mayflower’s shoulder with his police baton.

“Sir? Sir, are you okay? Do you need assistance?”

After the fourth poke, Mayflower’s body fell over, and his severed head rolled out of his lap and into view. Truax threw his baton into the air and screamed like a little girl.

Ainsworth took evasive maneuvers. He drew his gun, rolled onto the grass, and took aim at Mayflower’s head.

“Freeze!”

Glancing to the left, a few yards away from the tree, Andie saw Judy Stitch and Officer Gilly doing their best to ignore all that. They were doing Tai Chi. Andie believed they were in the middle of movement #21, “Step Back, Repulse Monkey.” However, since she hadn’t done Tai Chi since college, she could have been wrong.

Andie picked up the phone and dialed Dale’s number again. His voicemail answered. After polishing off her martini, Andie texted Dale the following message:

Tai Chi in our yard

A skull rolls, making grown men squeal

Time? Ha! Little left.

4
The Marquise of Queensbury

The Oldsmobile sped past a faded billboard for Wild Willie’s Turkey Farm. The sign was overgrown with the surrounding bushes and trees, but the red and black lettering could still be read.

Wild Willie’s Turkey Farm!
1 mile on the Right!
Proudly serving Duxbury for over 100 years!
Famous Turkey Pies! Scrumptious Turkey Jerky!
Free Turkeyback rides for infants!

“Could you repeat that last part?” Dale asked.

“We have to kill the farmer,” Randy obliged. “And by kill I mean make dead.”

“I know what kill means.”

“Oh really? Ever killed anything before, Mr. Iknowwhatkillameanos? Interesting last name you have there by the way. Is it Greek?”

“Shut up, Randy. Of course I’ve killed before.”

“Oh yeah like what?”

“You know…bugs and stuff.”

“Ha!”

“Hey man life is life!”

The Oldsmobile pulled up outside the rusted iron gates of Wild Willie’s. Randy turned the car off and immediately crawled into the back, tunneling through the mountain of junk. The turkey was back there with him, keeping watch out the rear window.

Dale laid back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling. “Let me make sure I have all this straight. That man who was spinning around kicking the mutants knew Silas?”

“That’s right.” Randy held up a crown of thorns, raised an eyebrow at it, and then tossed it aside.

“And somehow your Dad,” Dale continued, “who was working for Ferdue, and Feathers, who was working for the U.S. Poultry & Egg Association, were able to piece together this Auwaog mystery. Or at least bits of it. And in doing so they made the farmer guy mad, and he sent the Psycho Assassins after them.”

“Bingo.”

“Furthermore, the ninjas are the 386 year-old sons of William Bradford, John Alden, Miles Standish, and Edward Brewster.”

“Indeed.”

“And the farmer might be John Alden.”

“Yep.”

“So basically…I have to kill one of my ancestors.” Dale sat up. “Won’t that mean I would never have been born?”

“We’re not traveling back in time, Dale. That would be ridiculous.”

“Oh yeah because none of this is ridiculous. Did this Mr. Feathers character say anything about having to shove a wooden stake through the farmer’s heart?”

“No,” Randy said. “But I imagine it wouldn’t hurt to bring a steak along just in case. I have one back here somewhere.”

“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