Lick Your Neighbor (23 page)

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 tangled 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.”

“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.