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  Copyright

  Lick Your Neighbor

  Chris Genoa

  ISBN (Print Edition): 1-936383-06-3

  Copyright © 2010 by Chris Genoa

  Cover design copyright © 2010 by Carlton Mellick III

  All rights reserved.

  eBook formatted by

  MC Writing

  Lick Your Neighbor

  A Novel of America

  By

  Chris Genoa

  Featuring!

  John Alden’s Faire and Homologous History of The Plymouth Settlement

  1620-1621

  Original Writings Rendered into Modern English

  by

  Dr. Theodore “Mayflower” Jenkins

  President

  Duxbury Historical Preservation Society

  Edited by Juliet Ulman

  One morning they searched his adobe

  He disappeared without even a word

  But that night as the moon crossed the mountain

  One more coyote was heard

  And he’d go, hoo yip hoo yip hoo

  —RICHARD THOMPSON, COYOTES

  A drunk priest exclaims,

  “Lick thy neighbor as thyself!”

  Somewhere, God giggles

  —DALE ALDEN, ASSORTED HAIKUS (UNPUBLISHED)

  PART I:

  TURKEY IN THE STRAW

  1

  Murrrrrder

  A MIGHTY SNORE RUMBLED OUT FROM the tangle of pillows, sheets, and blankets atop the king-sized bed, sending millions of dust mites scurrying for safety as they slapped their microscopic cheeks and screamed “We’re all gonna die!”

  Dale Alden’s wild tuft of brown hair was the only thing poking out from the blankets as they rose up and down with each snore.

  “Konk shoo. Konk shoo. Kooooonk shoooooooo!”

  Outside, a fierce pack of grey clouds were gathering along the New England coastline, preparing to storm Duxbury. The mighty Sun crossed its arms and raised an eyebrow at them. “Now, now. Behave yourselves, boys.”

  The clouds snarled. “You don’t own us, Sun. Ya prick.”

  Down on the ground, a woman clutched a faded, yellow robe tightly against her chest. Dale’s neighbor, Judy Stitch, protecting her wrinkled breasts from perverted eyes as she walked out into her backyard. Judy couldn’t see any of those eyes at the moment, but she knew they were somewhere out there. Watching. Waiting. Yearning.

  The grey clouds exhaled and a chilly wind swept into Plymouth county, making Judy clutch her robe even tighter. She called out through chapped lips, “Gus! Guuuuuus! Breakfast is ready! Now where is that old turkey?”

  Judy’s squinted eyes scanned her yard, searching for signs of life. There was nothing but patchy grass and dead leaves. Her gaze left her land and traveled into Dale’s, where it settled on the old maple tree in Dale’s backyard. There was something hanging from it, too far away for Judy’s bad eyes to make out. All Judy could see was that whatever it was, it was big. And it was hanging from a rope.

  Judy was slowly making her way toward the mystery when the sound of a twig snapping in the woods behind her yard froze her in her tracks. She whipped her head around, but all Judy saw was a trail of dead leaves fluttering in the air. As if someone or something had just flew through them.

  “Too fast to be Gus,” Judy said, “Must be a pervert in heat. Trying to sneak a peak.” She clutched her robe even tighter. “These old pearls are for Gus’s eyes only.”

  A storm approaching. Something hanging from Dale’s tree. The early morning silence of the neighborhood. Perverts running around at the speed of light. Judy wanted nothing to do with any of it.

  She shook her fist and called out, “I have no patience for your shenanigans today, Mister! So help me Saint Innocent of Tortuna, if you don’t get your droopy butt in here right this second I will flush your breakfast down the crapper!”

  A sudden gust picked at the hem of her robe and the wind rocked the thing hanging from the maple tree, making it sway gently back and forth.

  Judy shuffle-stepped forward in her dirty yellow bunny slippers. The hanging object slowly came into focus. It was bigger than she originally thought. And much, much more familiar.

  It was a bird, a fat wild turkey, wearing a handmade orange sweater that said ‘Gus’ in black cursive lettering on the front. The pink rope tied around the dead bird’s neck was so tight it looked like his little blue head was about to pop off like a champagne cork.

  Judy’s bunny slippers came to an abrupt stop. Her trembling hands clenched at her side, her robe unraveling a bit. Revealing a small taste of what she had been saving for Gus’s eyes, which were in no shape to see that or anything, ever again.

  * * *

  The alarm clock went off, and music filled Dale’s bedroom. Bluegrass. A fiddle, banjo, and washboard really going at it. Muffling Judy’s bloodcurdling scream with Turkey in the Straw.

  Dale woke up groggy, his eyes still shut as he mumbled along to the song with made-up lyrics that came mostly from the remnants of his dreams.

  Oh, I went out to milk and I didn’t know how,

  I milked my grandma instead of a cow,

  A turkey sittin’ there on a pile of straaaaaw,

  A-winkin’ his eyes at my mother-in-law.

  Turkey in the straw, turkey in the hay

  Turkey in the straw, hey whadidu say?

  Pick ‘em up and squeeze his butt any way at all

  Giddyup a tune called Turkey in the Straw

  Dale reluctantly opened his eyes, the lids flittering like moths, and the gold-framed painting hanging on his bedroom wall came into focus. He groggily raised his head from the pillow, staring blankly at the canvas—an idyllic gouache painting of the perfect Thanksgiving family dinner.

  In the bottom corner was a signature that would have made John Hancock blush. In towering black letters it read.

  Silas Tinker

  Turkey in the Straw still blared unrelentingly from the radio, the tempo seeming to grow ever more crushingly frantic as the song went on, with new instruments being added to the mix, including a slide whistle, washboard, and what sounded an awful lot like someone repeatedly stepping on a duck.

  “Will no one take a stand against this outrage?” Dale muttered. “Will no one rise up and fight against this abomination? Against this…this…early morning bluegrass. Of course not. I’m alone. One man against the cacophony.”

  Dale tried to lift his arm but found that his nighttime tumbles had left him wrapped so tightly in the sheets that he couldn’t move. Trapped. Like a lunatic in a straight jacket.

  He rocked back and forth to get some momentum, using that wave of motion to roll onto his stomach. From that position he inched across the bed like a worm, grunting. When at last he reached the other side Dale leaned over and, with no small sense of satisfaction, slammed his forehead on the snooze button. The force of the blow shook the nightstand, sending a few sheets of paper gliding sadly to the floor.

  They were ‘Missing’ posters for Silas Tinker. Age: 66. Eyes: blue. Hair: grey. Height: 5’11. Weight: 190. The posters offered a reward of $5,000 for information regarding Silas’ whereabouts, and included a brief blurb on his disappearance.

  Silas Tinker was last seen on October 20th in the parking lot of the Ferdue Poultry Company offices in Duxbury, MA. Distinguishing features include what are described as “kooky old man eyes” and breath that smells overwhelmingly of Werther’s Original buttercream candies.

  Dale flopped back onto his side. He gazed listlessly down at the ‘Missing’ posters on the floor and then up at Silas’s painting on the wall. Sentimental crap. His eyes fell on the title painted above Silas’s name in the same bold black script. Freedom from What?

  In the
painting before him, a glowingly happy family sat around an immaculate dinner table, bathed in soft yellow light. Grandma and Grandpa stood at the head, holding a platter with a glistening cooked turkey the size of a chubby toddler on it. In the bottom right corner there was an old bald man, just barely peeking into view and staring back at the viewer. His eyes were squinted, and even though you couldn’t see his mouth, it looked like the old man was smirking.

  Dale drifted back into the haze of sleep. What did old man Hank Ferdue have to smirk about? Had he just farted? Did he hump the Thanksgiving turkey right before it went into the oven? Stuffing it with his own little engorged neck.

  When Dale awoke for a second time, it was to a flesh and blood stare. His son Tommy stood by the bed in a dirty white apron, smeared with grease, a hairnet matting down his dirty mane. He chewed a big mouthful of something, sending rivulets of fat trickling from the corners of his mouth.

  Dale closed his eyes again, quickly. Better to take his chances on a dream nightmare rather than the real nightmare in his bedroom.

  Minutes later the crust on Dale’s eyes cracked open for a third time. This time he saw a glistening hunk of meat. A perfectly roasted turkey leg, inches from his face. The skin was so shiny Dale could see his reflection in it.

  “Goooood morning, Dad,” Tommy sang from behind the leg.

  “Why is there meat in my face?” Dale asked.

  “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “No,” Dale said, “I ate breakfast in my dreams. A lovely bowl of smiling, dancing, parading cornflakes. They did a conga line into my mouth. There was also a strawberry. It was wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt, and it was singing Hot, Hot, Hot. As you can imagine, my belly is quite stuffed with cartoon cornflakes slowly dying in my stomach acid. So scram.”

  “But we made a whole turkey, Dad. Someone has to eat it.”

  “Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Why would you make turkey today?”

  “Practice.”

  “Tommy.”

  “Dad.”

  “How would you feel if I chopped your head off, stuffed you with stale bread, and roasted your corpse in the oven for four hours?”

  “More like ten hours. It’s by weight and I’m like sixty pounds.”

  “That’s not the point! The point is that I killed you, Tommy. Not to defend myself, my people, my land, and not because I needed food to live. I killed you simply for practice. As a test run. How would that make you feel?”

  “Fine I guess.”

  “You wouldn’t be upset?” Dale asked.

  “I wouldn’t be anything. I’d be dead.”

  “But what about the pointlessness of it all, son? The wasting of a perfectly good life for nothing? Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Tommy looked down at the turkey leg, deep in thought.

  “Maybe this turkey didn’t have such a good life,” he said after a moment. “Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he was thinking of committing suicide anyway.”

  “Tommy.”

  “Maybe this turkey murdered someone in cold blood. Maybe he deserved to die for his sins.”

  “Tommy.”

  “Maybe this turkey was the Hitler of turkeys. Maybe he was Joseph Gobbles.”

  “Tommy!”

  “Dad!”

  “Can it!”

  “Fine!”

  Dale sat up in bed and groggily looked around the room. The white sheets still wrapped tight around him.

  “How on earth did these sheets get so damn tight? I feel like a cigar.” Dale twisted back and forth, failing to break free. “Where’s your mother? I need help.”

  “I can help.”

  “Your hands are covered in turkey juice. You’ll get it all over the sheets. And these are good sheets, Tommy.”

  “What’s so good about them?”

  “I don’t know, some kind of special cotton.” Dale rubbed his cheek against the sheets. “Or maybe silk.”

  “Silk comes from a worm’s butt hole. They poop it out.”

  Dale sniffed the sheets. “I don’t think that’s right, Son.”

  “Sure it is. So what’s the big deal if I get grease on them? They’re already made of the poops.”

  “Get your mother.”

  “Mom’s hands are way greasier than mine. She’s the one who rubbed the turkey down with lard.”

  Dale thrashed around on the bed, hurling his body this way and that. His face turned red as he struggled, and failed, to break free. He collapsed back down onto his pillow in defeat, his lungs pumping hard.

  “You should eat some turkey, Dad. It’ll give you the strength you need to break free.”

  “Go away. I don’t want to eat a practice turkey first thing in the morning.”

  “Just taste it.”

  Tommy shoved the turkey leg into Dale’s face.

  “Tommy, get that thing away from me. I mean it.”

  “Just a nibble.”

  “If that leg touches my lips you’re a dead man, Son.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay.”

  “No wait!”

  The turkey leg smashed into Dale’s lips with a squish that made Dale’s stomach turn. His teeth were locked together, like the gates of Heaven, but it didn’t matter. He could feel the crackle of the skin and the squish of the dark meat underneath, and he could smell the mix of rosemary, butter, and flesh wafting up his nose.

  With a mighty lurch, Dale hurled his body away from the turkey leg and bounced right off the bed. He hit the floor face first, the sheets still wrapped around him.

  Dale laid on the floor, with his face pressed firmly against the cold hardwood.

  “Come on, Dad. One bite. You’re too skinny as is. You need to eat something before your bones start poking out. Speaking of bones, I have the wishbone in my pocket if you’d rather suck on that first.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To stimulate the appetite.”

  “Honey!” Dale screamed. “I need some help up here!”

  “What if I make up a turkey haiku?” Tommy asked. “Then would you eat some?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re not making fun of my haiku night class?” Dale asked.

  “Haiku and You: Finding Inner Peace through Syllables? I would never make fun of something like that.”

  “Good. Because if you did I’d—”

  Tommy cleared his throat.

  Beautiful meat treat.

  The tastiest thing ever.

  “I’m going to cut your head off with a chainsaw,” Dale interrupted.

  Tommy added up the syllables on his fingers.

  “That was way too many syllables, Dad. You need to cut a bunch.”

  “I wasn’t trying to finish your stupid haiku. I’m really going to kill you.”

  Tommy walked over to Freedom from What? He pointed at the smirking bald man in the corner of the frame. “What would your old boss, Hank Ferdue say about all this?”

  “Nothing. He’s dead.”

  “He’d say ‘It takes a strong man to make a tender turkey.’”

  “So?”

  “So I made this tender turkey. And that means I’m strong.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Tommy? You look deranged.”

  “Strong enough to do things like pry open a stubborn dad’s mouth.”

  “Tommy, don’t you dare.”

  “Here comes the jaws of life!”

  Dale screamed for his life. And for his wife.

  “Aaaaandie!”

  Downstairs at the kitchen table a women’s hands, smothered in butter, caressed a raw turkey. They glided over the pink skin, leaving behind an oily sheen. Once the skin was completely covered in butter, Andie Alden turned to look at the TV sitting on the kitchen counter. Amril Lagoosee, the celebrity Cajun chef, was on screen,
and he also had his slimy hands on a raw turkey.

  “Aw yeah babe. Now that we got our little friend here all lubed up, time to make him happy happy. What you wanna do is massage him, nice and slow. I like to start with the breasts. What do I always say? Da breasts are da best. So start with those. Round and round, back and forth. Give em a good squeeze. But not too hard! Don’t want them to pop off. Okay good. Now, open up those legs and slide your hands inside the hole. That’s right both hands. Don’t be afraid. She can take it.”

  Andie followed along diligently. With both her hand deep inside the bird, the sounds of Dale screaming bloody murder from upstairs would have to wait.

  * * *

  The kitchen window behind Andie looked out into the Alden’s backyard, where two Duxbury police officers could be seen slowly approaching the large maple tree. Both had their guns drawn.

  A third, much younger officer, stood hunched over a few feet behind the other two. He was vomiting, quite violently.

  “Why do we have our guns out?” Officer Truax asked.

  “Because there’s a dead body on the scene, that’s why,” Officer Ainsworth replied.

  “But it’s a hanging,” Truax said. “Most likely suicide, don’t ya think?”

  “I know a suicide when I see one. And that ain’t no suicide. That, partner, is cold blooded murrrrrder.”

  “Murrrrrder, eh? How do you know?”

  “That old bird was too weak to hoist himself up there like that. Someone strung him up.”

  “You think the murrrrrderer is still around?”

  Ainsworth turned around and looked at the Alden home. In the upstairs window he caught a glimpse of Dale and Tommy. They were sword fighting. With turkey legs.

  “Yes,” Ainsworth said. “Yes I do.”

  * * *

  Inside, the tea kettle screamed. Dale, now dressed in his usual work attire of a white shirt so starched it could stand on its a own, pressed brown slacks, and a solid blue tie, snatched the kettle from the burner and quickly poured the still-churning water over his tea bag.