Gobble Gobble

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A man experiences the third most amazing Thanksgiving in his life. Maybe even second. No, third.

 

GOBBLE GOBBLE

by

Harris Proctor

 

Before the Professor came screaming through the trees (which was just a bit before the giant monster turkey ate my neighbor) I was looking up at the sky and giggling. I had been driven from my home by the unsightly aroma of an inescapable Thanksgiving dinner and the wife’s insistence that I stop muttering the words “Tango” and “Cash.” I heard the Professor before I saw him. He ran like a puppet. Arms all over the place but not moving particularly fast. I liked him though. He always talked smart. He pronounced the word “extraordinary” the way Britain-people did. “Extraoardinry!” 

“Have to run!” he gasped adverblessly. “No time! It’s coming!”

“Wait,” I said and pointed to the puffy clouds. “Before you start... Doesn’t it look like the sky has big eyebrows?” I thought it did.

He began to giggle. He held his hands up to his face like he had invisible binocoulars, going: “Do dee do dee dum dum do!”

I laughed even though I wasn’t sure what he meant. But I didn’t want him to feel awkward, so I did it too. We were both holding our hands to our eyes going “Do dum dee do dum dum dee!” The wife started yelling at us through the fogged-up window. Apparently she needed to focus on over-cooking dinner. She waved us away from the house with a big oven mitt. I could make out the words “loud” and “idiots.” We walked across my lawn to Phil’s yard and looked back uo at the sky. “Do dum dee dee do dum dee dee!”

I put my invisible binoculars down and asked the Professor if he wanted to come in and watch the game. It wasn’t starting for three hours, but I figured we could get comfortable if we pinched our noses. Phil came out of his garage. He was frowning. I made a mental note to call him Frowning Phil moving forward. As in, “Frowning Phil accused me of taking his snow shovel again.” He walked over, gripping his snow shovel tighty.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to walk your dog on my lawn, Gary?”

“The Professor isn’t a dog Fr- uh, Phil. See the lab coat? He is a scientist.”

Phil sized him up. “Did he steal my binoculars?”

“Gentlemen!” The Professor shouted, forgetting all about the puffy sky eyebrows. “We must get out of here at once! There is a…” He trailed off, looking up at the sky again. Phil looked up too. The eyebrows were really something, I thought. I looked up to admire them and saw the giant monster turkey. It was the size (but not shape) of a barn. It was terrifying. But more than that, it was gross. It had lumpy red things hanging off its beak and neck and head. Yuck. Phil took a swing at it with the snow shovel before it gobbled him up. Thankfully, he dropped the shovel. Bits of Phil were flying everywhere as it snapped at him. Strange thing about turkeys: they have black eyes. Lifeless eyes. Like Phil’s eyes.

“Gentleman!” The Professor yelled again. “We really must get out of here at once!” We both started to run. It sounded like the turkey was hunting and pecking around Phil’s lawn. I stopped cold at the end of the street. 

“Wait!” I declared. “I have to go back!”

“There’s no time! I’m sorry about your wife!” The Professor panted.

“Wife? Oh, right. Well, okay. Let’s go.” We ran some more. I kept having to stop to let Professor Puppetarms catch up. “Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“I was following you,” he gasped, thrashing his limbs about. “Take a left. Head to the library!” 

“Library,” I groaned.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. Library. Got it.” I preferred to avoid the library, having forgotten to return a number of books I borrowed several decades earlier. The good news (for the wife) was the giant monster turkey hunted and pecked away from my house, not into it. Maybe she shooed it away with the oven mitt. It had headed to the center of town. Experts were able to recreate its movements based on a gigantic trail of destruction, bits of people and really big footprints.

The library was closed when we got there. I threw my hands up in frustration. The Professor threw his hands up to mock me. So I threw my hands up to mock him. Eventually we heard screaming from the town square. The parade must have been getting hunted and pecked. Unless there was no parade and I was thinking of the Fourth of July.

“I think we have company,” I said, trying to sound like Stallone.

“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t understand a word.” The Professor threw his hands up with sincerity. I must have sounded too much like Stallone. The doors to the library popped open, and the Librarian poked her head out.

“What in blazes is going on out here?” the Librarian asked.

“Demon turkey from hell,” I said. “Let us in.”

“What in blazes is the meaning of this?” she demanded as we stepped inside. I wished I had been wearing my blazer. I owned a fancy blue one with (false) gold buttons. I could have said, “This in blazers!” But somehow I said it anyway, spreading out my arms with a ta-da kind of move.

“Good lady,” the Professor said. “We need to determine the weakness of a Megameleagris Gallopavo. And quickly.”

“I don’t know what that is,” she said. “Is that one of the giant spiders that were unleashed on the town over Halloween last year?”

“No,” said the Professor.

“Those were awesome,” I said. “Except for the eating people part.”

“Where did those giant spiders come from anyway?” the Librarian asked.

“That is unimportant right now. Any number of scientists could have been responsible for that. What we have on our hands now is a massive wild turkey. It is extraoardinry. Simply extraoardinry. We need to stop it before it lays eggs.”

“The eggs would crush us, right?” I said. “Or ruin the parade.”

The Librarian pulled a book off a shelf. Possibly one about turkeys or eggs. Parades even. She began to read. The Professor looked over her shoulder.

“Do you mind?” she asked. That was when I could feel something looking at us. I spun around and saw a big black turkey eye as big as a normal turkey looking at us through the window.

“You two better come up with something or we are lunch,” I quipped.

“What was that? I couldn’t understand you,” the Librarian said. I guess I was doing my Stallone again. It wasn’t an ideal moment, but I started to tell them about my screenplay: Tango and Cash 2: Tangoer and Casher.

“Are you going to have Tango and Cash mentor a new generation of Tangoes and Cashes?” the Professor asked.

“More like they give the new generation their tank tops at the end,” I said.

The turkey smashed its yucky head through the window. I repeated the part about the tank tops in case the others didn’t hear it. The giant monster turkey snatched the Librarian up in its giant beak-with-a-weirdo-thing hanging-off-of-it. The Professor started screaming something about always loving her. He was drowned out by the Librarian screaming suggestions for Tango and Cash 2.

“Don’t tell me what to put in my treatment! I mean screenplay!” I yelled at her bits. “Wait! I got it! I know what to do! We steal a page from a certain Hollywood classic!”

“We cross the streams?” the Professor asked.

“No, a classic,” I said. “It’s how they caught the villain in the climax of a certain buddy-cop masterpiece. Kurt Russell dresses up like a giant grub and lures Jack Palance across an oil patch which makes him slip into some high tension power lines! Case closed!”

“Which one of us dresses like the grub?” asked the Professor.

“Me,” I said. “You could never be Kurt Russell.”

“So...I’m Stallone?” He said it with a really bad Stallone voice which kinda sounded better than my Stallone voice.

“No. I’m also Stallone. You’re Kurt Russell’s friend. The Professor. You get as much oil as you can and put it on the ground next to the power lines. Down by the diner. Around back. Where they keep all the grease.” I took off my clothes and went to the rare books to make my grub costume. I figured the turkey would take his grubs rare or medium-rare. It would have to do. I licked hundreds of pages and stuck them to my body. Most of the books tasted god-awful, but the first-edition Sinclair Lewis tasted remarkably like a tuna eclair.

I ran down Main Street trying to sound as grubby as possible. I wasn’t really sure what grubs sounded or looked like. I mostly smacked my lips. Something worked because the giant monster turkey came gobbling after me. I prayed that the Professor had taken care of his part. When I turned the corner, I found him with his invisible binoculars. “Look!” he yelled and pointed to the clouds. “Moustache! Handlebar moustache! Do dee dum dee do do dee!”

“Oil can!” I yelled. “Oil can!”

He dumped the grease barrels over as I ran by. The turkey slipped right into the power lines. It was very quickly overcooked. The smell was deafening. "The spiders are going to eat well tonight!" I shouted. But the Professor was gone.

It was a triumphant walk home. Most of the book pages fell off, so it was cold and full of distant laughter. But I had Tangoed the Cash out of that turkey and saved the day. Part of the day, after all the death. And, sure, the smell of burnt turkey was hanging over everything like a pair of giant puffy eyebrows. But it smelled way worse inside of my house. I rewarded myself with Phil’s (trophy) snow shovel, extra pie and a double nap.

The wife tells me it was just a dream. When she does, I just point to the shovel.

 

THE END…………?


Submitted: November 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Harris Proctor. All rights reserved.

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