Lick Your Neighbor (5 page)

3
Meat on a Rope

A
S
D
ALE
A
LDEN LED OFFICERS
A
INSWORTH
and Truax into his living room, Officer Gilly and Judy Stitch sat facing each other on top of Dale’s picnic table. They were both barefoot in the lotus position, with their eyes closed and palms up. The wind blew threw their hair.

“Officer Gilly?”

“Yes, Judy?”

“Are you sure this helps?”

“Positive.”

“It’s just that I don’t feel a white light glowing inside me. I feel bored.”

“You need to give it more time.”

“But I’m getting antsy.”

Gilly opened one eye to see Judy fidgeting and squirming around.

“Just relax. And breathe. Are you breathing? Breathe like this.”

Using his mouth, nose, and every open orifice on his body, Gilly sucked in enough air to inflate a small raft. He held it for a moment and then let it out like a tire with a slow leak.

“Now you try.”

Judy sucked in an equally huge amount of air, held it for a moment, slowly let it out, and then promptly passed out.

“Feel better? Judy? Judy?”

As Gilly shook an unconscious Judy, he noticed Stan Adams, a husky neighborhood kid, standing beneath the maple tree. He was hitting Gus’s body repeatedly with a large stick.

“Hey kid! That’s not a damn piñata!”

Stan stopped hitting the dead turkey to look over at Gilly, who was now unbuttoning Judy’s shirt and blowing all over her face. The cop clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, and was most likely a pervert.

“Yes it is,” Stan said, between whacks.

“No it isn’t!” Gilly shouted. “It’s Gus.”

“Yeah, I
know
. It’s a Gus piñata. Duh.”

“It’s the
real
Gus, kid. Oh come on at least stop hitting his face!”

“If he’s real then how come he’s not moving? Answer me that, smart guy.”

“Because he’s dead!”

Stan hit Gus again, but this time the sound of bat hitting body was different. Instead of a dull thud it was the wet squish of blood, which splattered all over Stan’s stunned face.

Stan dropped the stick, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he hit the ground hard.

From the kitchen window, Tommy, with another cupcake in hand, saw the cop in their backyard frantically running back and forth between Mrs. Stitch and Stan. He really didn’t care why the cop was slapping and shaking them both. Tommy just hoped, with all his heart, that the cop kept doing it for as long as possible.

In the living room, Dale sat on the couch with perfect posture, a huge forced smile on his face, and every muscle in his body tightly clenched.

Truax eyed Dale’s neck veins, which looked ready to burst.

“Sir, you need to relax.”

“Who says I’m
not
relaxed?”

Dale looked around the room to see if there was anyone in the room saying he wasn’t relaxed. He even looked behind him, even though there was nothing but a wall there.

“Do I not
look
relaxed? Because I
feel
relaxed. I feel grrrrrreat!”

Ainsworth looked over at Truax, who just shrugged.

Andie poked her head in.

“Do you officers need anything? Coffee? Cupcake? Turkey leg?”

“Um, no, we’re fine, thank you.”

“Suit yourselves. Dale, honey, should I call the office and let them know you’ll be late?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Dale said. But when he looked over at Ainsworth and Truax he saw them looking at Andie and nodding their heads emphatically.

“On second thought,” Dale reconsidered, “maybe you should call.”

“Alrighty then,” Andie said as she popped her head back in the kitchen.

“Where do you work, Dale?” Ainsworth asked.

“Ferdue Poultry. I work in the marketing department.”

“Would you describe yourself as a chicken man, Dale?” Truax asked.

“Um, well, we sell turkey products too.”

“Oh I know you do. You Ferdue folks sell a mighty fine gobbler. I’ve eaten them many, many times. But you yourself
prefer
the chickens, right? Turkeys are more like second-class citizens to you chicken men. I know how it is. Turkeys are sort of the retarded younger brother of the poultry industry. Isn’t that right, Dale?”

“I don’t get it. What the hell are you talking about?”

Ainsworth sniffed. “The man says he doesn’t get it, Truax. Maybe you need to paint a better picture for him.”

“Certainly.”

Truax reached into his pocket and pulled out his custom-made turkey mouth call. Handmade by local legend Steve “Strut Buster” O’Leary, the call was widely considered one of the best ever made. It was even featured on the cover of
Shooting Times
magazine a number of years ago. Truax never went anywhere without it.

Having no experience hunting turkeys, Dale saw Truax pull out what he thought was a mouth guard, the kind that boxers wear. His suspicion was confirmed when Truax put the thing in his mouth.

Dale grabbed a pillow and held it out like a shield. “Police brutality! Police brutality!”

“Calm down, Alden. No one’s going to touch you. Go ahead, Truax.”

Truax started out with a few crisp, almost musical yelps that would tell Dale—if he were a young, male, virile turkey—that there was a fine-looking’ hen nearby and she was, you know, just takin’ it easy.

Ainsworth nodded his head in appreciation. He closed his eyes and could practically smell the fresh, clean aroma of the early morning woods. He even took in a big sniff of living room air.

Dale looked back and forth between these two men. One was playing some kind of weird musical instrument, and the other was sucking air up his nose like some kind of nutcase.
These guys are going to kill me and eat my brains
.

Truax abruptly changed the tone of his call, abandoning the yelps and going for raspy clucks and cackles. The sounds of a turkey in great distress, engaged in an epic struggle for her life. Truax built the calls up into a wild and desperate crescendo, ending as abruptly as he began.

When Truax finished, Ainsworth got right up in Dale’s face. “Sound familiar?”

“Please don’t eat my brains.”

“Don’t play games, Dale. We know you did it. We have solid evidence and a motive. Tell the truth now and save us all a lot of trouble.”

“Tell the truth about
what
?” Dale asked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Think, Dale. Think hard.
Real
hard. Anything unusual happen around here recently involving…
rope
?”

“Rope?” Dale thought for a moment. A light bulb went on.
The fridge duck
. “Oh wait a second,
that’s
why you’re here? Because of that, that…” Dale pointed to the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was also pointing to the backyard. “…that hanging carcass?”

“Bingo.”

“So what is it like some kind of health code violation?” Dale asked.

“It’s a little more than that, Dale.”

“How did you even find out about it?”

“One of your neighbors called us.”

“Let me guess. Judy. That nosey old kook. Well, can’t say I blame her this time. It is kind of weird I guess. I don’t like the idea of leaving rotting meat hanging around the house either.”

“Meat?” Truax shot Dale a look of disgust. “You weren’t going to
eat
him, were you?”

Him?
Dale was confused. These guys must be hunters. That would explain the weird turkey calls. Maybe hunters called their meats “hims” and “hers” because of their close connection with the animals. As in, this venison is delicious. Is there any more of him left for seconds?

“Eat him? No way. That’s gross.”

“Good.”

“I’ll leave that to my wife and kid. They’ll gobble him right up.”

Truax lunged at Dale.

“You monster!”

Ainsworth grabbed Truax before he could get to Dale, who had curled up into the fetal position on the couch.

“Take it easy, Truax,” Ainsworth said. “Now Dale, was that a confession?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. But I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just some meat on a rope.”

Truax pulled Dale to his feet and Ainsworth had the cuffs on him instantly.

“Hey! Wait just a minute!”

Tommy came running down the stairs in his turkey costume, with a backpack on his shoulder and a Tupperware container filled with turkey meat in his hands.

“Dad.”

“Tommy.”

“Do you need me to jump on these guys like a rabid turkey monster? Gouge their eyes out?”

Truax and Ainsworth put their hands on their batons.

Dale waved Tommy off. “No that’s okay, Son. I’m good.”

“Okeedookee. I’m taking the rest of this turkey to school. You sure you don’t want some?”

Ainsworth and Truax exchanged a look.

“I’m sure,” Dale said. “Now run along, Tommy.”

Tommy shrugged and ran out the door.

“Where did your son get all that turkey?” Truax asked.

“From the kitchen,” Dale said. “It’s like a turkey slaughterhouse in there.”

Ainsworth and Truax exchanged another look, this time with Truax mouthing the word ‘slaughterhouse.’

“Could you two stop giving each other that look and tell me exactly why I’m under arrest?”

“What look?” Truax asked as he gave Ainsworth that look.

“That one.”

Ainsworth and Truax gave each the look again.

“There it is again!”

“Look, Dale. This isn’t about us. It’s about you, and what you did to Gus.”

“Wait,
Gus
? You were talking about
Gus
this whole time? Gobbling Gus?”

“As if you didn’t know, you murdering bastard.”

Dale looked up into the stern face of Officer Truax and uttered the most-used phrase in the history of the human language.

“Uh oh.”

My day has begun

In a most unpleasant way

God? Please hit rewind

4
A Brief History of Gus

D
ALE STOOD UNDER THE MAPLE TREE
with his hands cuffed behind his

back, his mouth hung open. Ainsworth and Truax stood behind him. All three looked up into the lifeless black eyes of Gobbling Gus.

“We should get him down from there,” Ainsworth said. “His neck is so stretched out, looks like it might snap. Poor, poor Gus.” Ainsworth’s eyes narrowed at Dale. “Terrible way for any man to die. Or bird.”

“Why did Judy name Gobbling Gus after her dead husband anyway?” Truax asked.

“She thought the bird was her husband reincarnate,” Aimsworth said.

“Was he?”

“Only Gus knows the answer to that.”

“Which Gus?” Truax asked.

“Both I guess.”

* * *

Six years ago, Dale had walked out his front door on his way to work and seen something strange on Judy Stitch’s roof. Impossibly, before his very eyes stood a bizarre, multicolored creature, a mythic monster, blinking stupidly in the early morning sun.

Dale had been terrified. The only turkeys he’d ever seen were the frozen, bald, headless ones in supermarkets. The pompous, majestic thing he saw on the roof looked absolutely nothing like them.

“Lord almighty!” he cried. “It’s an alien!”

The creature had strutted proudly around the roof, as if it owned the damn place.
It must have some sort of weapon
, thought Dale. There’s no way a creature that small and that ugly would act so cocky without a laser bazooka in his pocket.

Dale slid behind the bushes alongside his house and got into position to spy on the alien. He watched as it coolly surveyed the neighborhood. It didn’t even care if anyone saw it. What balls this thing had.

Dale looked around to see if he could spot the creature’s spaceship, but it wasn’t anywhere within sight. Perhaps it was cloaked. Or maybe the bastard beamed himself down to Earth from the mothership. In that case, it must be the advance scout alien, gathering preliminary data before an all-out attack.
Sweet Joseph of Arimathea
, thought Dale,
that must mean there are hundreds of thousands of these things up there
. Polishing their laser bazookas and waiting for his report.

“Not on my watch,” Dale muttered, pulling out his cell phone to dial Andie.

“Hello?”

“Andie, it’s me. Are you sitting down?”

“No.”

“You should sit down.”

“Why? Are we playing musical chairs?”

“I have something
shocking
to tell you.”

“Lay it on me,” Andie said.

“Are you sitting?”

“I’m squatting.”

“Squatting? Like an Indian?”

“Or a cowboy, yes.”

“Fine. We have a dire situation out here.”

“What is it? Did you forget your lunch again?”

“Yes, but that’s the less dire of the situations we have. I need you to peek out the window very stealthily, look up at Judy’s roof, and give me visual confirmation of an alien sighting.”

Dial tone.

“Goddammit, Andie.”

As Dale furiously redialed, Judy Stitch had wandered out her front door for the morning paper. Dressed in her bathrobe and slurping coffee out of a mug shaped like the severed head of Daffy Duck, she too blinked in the morning sun. Dale tried to squat down so Judy didn’t see him, but he was too late. She was already waving wildly.

“Morning, Dale!”

Dale made series of elaborate shushing gestures, then pointed ostentatiously to the roof and drew his finger across his neck.

“Watcha doin’ in the bushes, Dale?”

Dale tried to use some highly advanced, and completely made-up, mime techniques to convey to Judy that she should turn around and run like hell back into her house because a dangerous alien scout had beamed downed from outer space, was standing on her roof, and could vaporize the both of them with its laser bazooka and/or photon grenades.

Judy watched Dale curiously, obviously wondering why her neighbor was putting on a Japanese Kabuki play in the bushes.

She pinched her arm. “Am I still asleep? This is the strangest dream ever.”

Dale gave up and whispered, “Judy, for the love of God go back inside.”

“What?”

“There’s an alien on your roof!”

“Dale, I can’t hear you.”

“An alien!”

“Allen who?”

“An Al-i-en!”

“Aliens? Gah!”

Judy spun around and raised her coffee mug above her head, ready to pelt any extraterrestrials she saw with cold hard ceramic. But when she saw the creature on her roof, she dropped to her knees and blessed herself, saying, “Sweet Saint Francis. My prayers have been answered.”

Judy’s thoughts turned back to one year ago, to the day. Her husband Gus Stitch was on his death bed, moments away from breathing his last breath. He had looked into his wife’s teary eyes and said, “Judy, if the spirit in the sky lets me come back for another round, I want to come back as a wild turkey.”

Judy took a minute to let that sink in.

“Are you sure, Gus? A
turkey
?”

“I have yet to meet a creature, man or beast, that’s more wild, beautiful, and free than a gobbler. They remind me of my ancestors, the Cherokee. They too once roamed wild, beautiful, and free.”

“But Gus, how will I ever find you if you’re a turkey?”

“You won’t need to. I’ll find you, Judy. I know I will.”

“Okay, Gus. If that’s what you want. I’ll keep an eye out for the turkey you.”

“Good, good. I want you to say a prayer tonight for me. A prayer to Saint Francis, patron saint of all the animals, asking him to grant my wish. Will you do that for me?”

“I will.”

That night, while Gus’s body lay in the funeral home, Judy knelt down beside her bed and, with tears streaming down her face, kept her promise.

Turkey Prayer to Saint Francis

By Judy Stitch

Oh sweet and savory Saint Francis of a Sissy,

Please grant by thy powerful intercession with God,

And your passionate, often misunderstood relationship with the animals,

Big and small,

Especially the poultry,

That,

My dearly departed husband shall,

As was his final wish,

Made of sound mind…more or less,

That he be reincarnated

As a wild North American turkey.

Not a farm-raised turkey, mind you,

For they are ugly inbreeds,

and farmers poke them with sticks,

As God intended.

But a wild turkey,

Wild, beautiful and free.

Not Wild Turkey the bourbon.

Wild turkey the bird.

It’s important we’re clear on this.

If there’s any confusion whatsoever,

Just send a little talking bird to my windowsill,

And we’ll discuss the matter.

In closing,

Thank you for your time,

I know you’re busy.

Say hi to my parents for me.

Tell Jesus, God, and the Holy Ghost that I love them all.

Well, perhaps just tell the Holy Ghost,

Since he seems the least busy of the three.

And ask him to, you know, pass it along.

Which shouldn’t be much trouble,

Seeing as all three of them are one in the same,

Or so I hear.

Seems kind of fishy though.

Look, just do whatever works best for you.

In Christ’s Holy Name I pray,

Amen

One year later, with the turkey on the edge of the roof looking down at her, Judy paused for a moment to close her eyes and thank Saint Francis for answering her prayer.

Dale, not knowing about Gus Stitch’s last wish, had a different response. He threw rocks at the alien.

“Dale, it’s Gus! It’s Gus!”

Judy wasn’t able to convince Dale that it was her husband on her roof, but she was able to convince him that it was a turkey and not an alien. Although to do so she had to bring out an encyclopedia and show him a picture of a wild turkey.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dale said. “So that’s what a wild turkey looks like. I’ve only really seen them, you know, as cold cuts and such.”

The fire department had eventually come, and with a local news crew and crowd of neighbors gathered around, they brought the turkey down from the roof. Everyone on hand was amazed that a wild turkey, one of the most wary, feistiest animals around, would let a fireman pick him up like a baby and carry him down the ladder.

The bird, wrapped snugly in a blanket, was handed over to Judy. As she made her way inside, a reporter called out, “What are you going to name him?”

“Gus,” Judy said. “His name is Gus.”

“Gobbling Gus,” said one of the firemen, “I imagine that’s not the last we’ll hear of him.”

Thus began the meteoric rise of Gobbling Gus as Duxbury town mascot and local celebrity.

* * *

Six years later, Dale found himself looking up at that same turkey.

“Gus.”

“We know it’s Gus, Dale,” Truax said. “What we want to know is why you killed him.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Then how did your rope get around his neck?”

To his horror, Dale realized that he recognized Gus’s unfortunate new neckwear. He had an entire spool of it in his shed. He’d found it in a rack next to the register at Home Depot, on sale for ninety-nine cents for five-thousand feet of rope. Even though he had no conceivable need for that much hot pink rope, it was just too incredible of a deal to pass up.
As long as I live
, thought Dale,
I’ll never have want of rope
. He could finally cross something off his list for good, even if that something was never on his list to begin with.

“There’s a massive spool of that same rope in your shed,” Truax said, “Have more hangings planned, Dale?”

Dale looked over and wondered why the hell they put windows on sheds.

“Does anyone else know the combination to the lock on your shed?” Ainsworth asked.

“No,” Dale said, forgetting that the sticker with the combination on it was still on the back of the lock, telling anyone who bothered to look that 24-56-8 would give one unlimited access to a lifetime’s supply of rope.

“And last night, did you or did you not run into Mrs. Stitch?”

“I did.”

“And what transpired between you two?”

“Um, well, she asked if I wanted to make a donation to the Save Gobbling Gus Fund.”