Lick Your Neighbor (24 page)

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 our 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.

“How does one explain that, John?” the Captain asked.

“Perhaps the Good Lord, in his infinite wisdom, created a flying deer,” I said.

The Reverend stuck his finger in my face and said, “You listen to me, you gleeking clotpole. Burning that witch is what the Good Lord wants us to do. This is well documented in the Bible. Luke 3:12, for example. And I quote…how does that passage go again? Oh I remember. Burn, burn, burn. Burn them all! All of them! Every man, woman, child, or beast who shakes hands with the Devil, burn them good with the Holy Fire. Do not waste too much time worrying if they are innocent or guilty, for I shall sort out their roasted souls. The innocent souls shall be cleaned of all the burnt bits, given a firm handshake, and then sent to play with a hoop and a stick in the Elysian Fields for all Eternity. The guilty souls, however, shall be slapped across the face, spread with rotten gooseberry jam, and then slowly eaten by flatulent demons for all Eternity.’ So you see, burning Mr. Ely is our only right course of action.”

A voice boomed from behind us. “You will do no such thing!”

It was Governor Bradford, standing in the shadows with his hands on his hips. He was wearing a flowing white woman’s chemise. “The Good Lord has sent that witch to us. He is our Savior.”

“Governor, that sounds highly improbable,” said the Reverend, “Not to mention highly blasphemous.”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” said Bradford. “Before I slumbered tonight, I prayed to the Almighty, asking Him to save us from those Savages who will be here in the morning, outnumbering us in the hundreds. I asked the Lord to send us a Savior. I tell you He has heard my prayers and delivered this witch into our hands. We shall restrain this Jasper Eberly and tell him that in exchange for his life, he must cast a spell over the Savages.”

“What kind of spell?” asked Standish.

“The witch turned William Button into a fish,” said the Reverend, “We should command him to do the same to the Savages.”

“But are not these Savages our neighbors?” I asked. “Did not the Lord say, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself?’”

“And that is precisely what we are doing,” said Bradford. “Those Savages behave like animals, with their wild nakedness, their sexual promiscuity, and their constant hooting and yelping about. Turning them into Beasts will be doing them a favor. For then they will be able to continue with their beastly ways, without worrying about burning in Hell. Because as we all know, animals do not go to Hell. Nor do they go to Heaven. Instead they go inside our stomachs, which to them is Paradise. It is where they want to be. So look at this as an act of Compassion and Love. God Himself will look down upon our actions and he will be proud of his Children. He will turn to Christ His Son and say, ‘Now there are four Men who truly know the meaning of Love thy Neighbor. They love their Neighbors so much that they are kind and strong enough to force them, by any means necessary, to stop sinning.’”

With Standish and the Reverend nodding along sagely to this nonsense, I had no choice but to go along with Bradford’s fobbing plan.

—John Alden

9
The Man with No Flap-Dragon

Dale Alden found himself in the less-than-desirable position of being facedown in a pile of moist hay covered in turkey feces. The smell of ammonia shot through his nostrils, and sent Dale springing to his feet.

With a sea of turkeys surrounding him, Dale didn’t even notice that Le Roi du Crazy was floating in the middle of the barn, supported by the column of light.

The barn turkeys had done their best to scatter when Dale came flying in, but with little space to move to begin with, they now filled in the area around him. Within a few seconds he could barely move his feet an inch without stepping on one of the birds.

“Shoo. Shoo birds.”

Dale did his best to control the growing urge to just start kicking the birds away from him with all his might, but he knew he could only restrain himself for so long. The birds would keep getting closer, and sooner or later, despite common sense screaming at him not to do so, he’d pick up one of the turkeys and punt it across the barn. After that, who knows how the other birds would react. Probably en masse. And probably with violence of the eye-gouging variety.

Dale swung around and tugged on the door. It was locked.

Dale pounded on the door. “Let me out, let me out, let me out!”

“Hang on, Dale!” Randy shouted from outside. “I’ll get you out of there, buddy!”

Dale heard the sounds of metal banging on metal. Like someone was hitting a lock with a hammer. After three bangs, the sounds stopped.

“What’s happening?” Dale asked.

Randy, his voice sounding oddly squished, called back, “I can’t let you out, Dale.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I just can’t, okay?”

On the other side of the door, Farmers Standish and Bradford pressed the long barrels of their shotguns firmly against Randy’s cheeks. Randy’s face was smushed in so much that his lips were puckered out.

“I told you to leave that door closed,” said Standish.

Farmer Brewster, from up on the hill, said, “I’m going to phone the boys.” Then he walked off toward the nearby farmhouse.

John Alden paced back and forth on the hill. He kicked his hat, shook his head, and cursed into the wind.

“Of all the motherfobbing, gorbellied, sheep-biting, knotty-pated, gleeking, spleeny, frothy, things to happen. After all these years. Fie on it! Fie I say!”

“Calm down, John,” said Bradford without moving his gun from Randy’s head.

“No, you calm down, Bumbailey!”

“Hey! What did I say about calling me that!”

John Alden, his face red and tears in his eyes, clenched his fists and screamed, “I hate you! Do you hear me? Do you? You’re all a bunch of tottering bastards! I can’t take it anymore!”

He fell to the ground, sobbing.

“Geez, what’s wrong with the cry baby?” Randy asked.

Standish and Bradford pushed their guns further into Randy’s cheeks.

“Be quiet!” Bradford shouted. “He’s just tired. Besides, we’ll ask the questions around here. Ask your friend in the barn what he sees in there.”

“Dale,” Randy called out, “what do you see?”

“What do you think I see?” Dale called back. “I see a shitload of turkeys!”

“Ask him,” Standish said, “if he sees a deer playing a sacbut.”

Randy raised an eyebrow. “What’s a sacbut?”

“Just ask him!”

“Dale, do you see a deer playing a sacbut?”

“What the hell are you talking about? There’re no deer in here. Now let me out!”

“Ask him,” Standish said, “if he sees a dancing naked man with no flap-dragon.”

“Are you fellas putting me on?”

“Ask him!”

The farmers nudged him with their guns.

“Dale, is there a nude man in there with you?”

“With no flap-dragon!”

“Okay, okay. A nude man with no flap-dragon.”

“Flap-dragon?” Dale asked. “What the hell is wrong with you? I told you, the only things in here are turk—”

As Dale spoke he turned around and for the first time saw Le Roi du Crazy floating in the beam of light. The bird was a good twenty feet off the ground, and the other turkeys in the barn were starting to congregate around the base of the beam.

“Okay,” Dale said. “I, uh, see something weird.”

“What is it?” Bradford asked.

“Is it an opossum with a cup of spit?” Standish asked.

“Noooooooooo,” Dale said, “It’s some sort of turkey tractor beam.”

“Are there one or two beams? One or two, damn you!”

Just as Dale was about to answer, the second, horizontal beam of yellow light crashed through the barn, blasting a hole in the wall and intersecting with the vertical beam. The two beams created a cross of light with Le Roi in the middle. Both beams immediately began to get brighter, filling the barn with a blinding light.

The turkeys in the barn all extended their long, skinny necks as high as they could, up toward Le Roi. Then, with voices not much unlike the Vienna Boys Choir, they all began singing a little tune that went “lee lee lee lee lee.”

“They’re singing that song again, Governor,” Standish said. “What does it mean? What should we do?”

“I don’t know what it means, but I do know this,” said Farmer Standish, “we should run. We should run our fat asses off! Outta my way!”

Standish turned and sprinted off in the direction of the farmhouse. He called out, “John! Run for it! It’s happening all over again! Retreat! Regroup! Repent!”

John, who was kicking at the grass on the hill, didn’t hear Standish through his constant stream of curses.

Farmer Bradford tightened his finger on the trigger, but then thought otherwise. He hit Randy on the head with the butt of his shotgun, and then ran after Standish. Randy fell to the ground and was out cold before his head hit the grass.

Inside the barn, as the light grew too bright to bear, Dale covered his eyes. Just before he did, he saw the levitating Le Roi du Crazy sprout a full-grown pair of human arms.

Oh Lord how I wish

That all this was still the shrooms

But alas, tis real