Lick Your Neighbor (15 page)

There was a piercing shriek.

A few feet from them stood Judy Stitch. The color drained from her face as she stood frozen, gaping at the sight of a headless body leaning against the tree, a strange man holding a sword, and her neighbor—the man who lynched her reincarnated husband—holding a bloody, severed head and screaming at it.

Judy’s eyes rolled back into her head and she passed out for the second time that day.

Dale, now out of his rage, dropped Mayflower’s head. He looked at the blood on his hand and then over at Judy on the ground. Randy in turn glanced the sword in his hand, and then down at Judy.

Randy cleared his throat. “You were saying something earlier about the police not having any witnesses?”

Just then the clouds unleashed their fury, and it began to pour.

Rain drops plunk my skull

The old headless man asks me,

“What does it feel like?”

3
The Horror of Harry and the Hendersons

A soaking wet Dale stared blankly at the neat rows of rolled boxers in his underwear drawer. They were by far the most colorful clothing he owned. And yet every day he hid them beneath dull brown pants.
Maybe I should start wearing my boxers over my pants.

Dale was having troubling focusing. He should have been quickly packing the boxers instead of plotting their emancipation. But that was hard to do when his brain wasn’t around to help. It headed out to lunch just before he had grabbed the severed head.

Andie sat on the bed, chewing her nails.

“What should I do when Judy wakes up?” she asked.

“Stall her,” Dale said, still staring at his underwear. “We need as much time as possible to go through Mayflower’s research.”

Judy Stitch was still unconscious, sprawled out on the downstairs couch with her mouth hanging open. Randy sat in a chair opposite Judy, barely keeping an eye on her as he struggled to pull the ninja star out of the blowgun. He only managed to loosen the star slightly before he cut his finger. After hopping around saying “ouchy, ouchy, ouchy” for a bit, Randy decided to rethink his approach. He swung the blowgun wildly back and forth, hoping the star would fly off.

“But how?” Andie asked. “When Judy wakes up she’s going to freak out.”

Dale picked up a pair of boxers, sniffed them, and put them back. “You could scare the hell out of her the moment she wakes up. That might make her pass out again.”

After a mighty swing from Randy, the star finally came off the blowgun. It flew through the air and lodged into the wall, just barely missing Judy’s head by no more than an inch. Randy dropped the blowgun, took a few steps back, and then walked away whistling innocently.

“What am I supposed to do?” Andie asked, “Jump out from behind a plant and say boo?”

“No, no, no.” Dale shook his head. “You need to be hovering over her. A few inches from her face.” Dale got up in Andie’s face. “Then the moment she wakes up, the second her eyes open, scream your head off, wag your tongue like a perverted Uncle, and wave your hands around like a maniac. Like this. Ahhhhlalalala!”

Andie wiped Dale’s spit off her face. “That wasn’t scary. That was disgusting.”

“Like you could do any better.”

Andie turned her eyelids inside out, put her hands inside her mouth and stretched out her cheeks so wide that her entire set of teeth and gums showed like a skeleton’s. She then ran toward Dale screaming a high-pitched “Eeeeeyayayaya!”

Dale fumbled backward a few steps and caught himself on the dresser.

“Ha! See, you were totally scared.”

“That was…not bad. But I still think that Ahhhhlalalala! is much better.”

“It’s not even close. Eeeeeyayayaya! wins. Hands down.”

“Could you please put your eyelids back to normal.”

“Why? Scared?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Nothing it’s just that, well, Ahhhhlalalala!”

“Eeeeeyayayaya!”

Randy came bursting into the bedroom, ninja star in hand, ready to save Dale and Andie from whatever evil forces were making them scream bloody murder. “What the hell is going on up here?”

Andie and Dale stopped screaming. Andie flipped her eyelids back down.

“A man is dead, and you two are playing children’s games? I thought you were being gutted by the beakmen.”

“We’re trying to figure out the best way to horrify Judy into a coma when she wakes up,” said Andie.

“Ah, I see. Good idea. Let’s see what you got so far.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

“No, no, no, no.” Randy shook his head. “You’re going about it all wrong. True horror lies not in cheap gimmicks, but in the truth. Observe.”

Randy sprinted at Andie, grabbed her by the shoulders, and, staring deep into her soul with burning eyes, said, “Do you remember, growing up, how Mom and Dad always locked themselves in their bedroom to watch
Harry and the Hendersons
? How almost every night, Dad would turn to Mom with a sly grin and say, ‘How ‘bout some
Harry and the Hendersons
? And Mom would blush and say, ‘I’m game.’”

“Yes,” said Andie, “They loved that movie. They watched it practically every night before they went to bed. It was a bit obsessive, but so what? It’s a decent movie.”

“So what? So what is this. One dark night, a night I will never forget, I hid in their closet. I, too, wanted to watch. I wanted to see Harry the Bigfoot living in suburbia with Jonathan Lithgow and the touching shenanigans that ensued. I remember how excited I was. I wanted to shout out, ‘I can’t wait to see big, hairy, smelly old Harry!’ But when the lights went out, I saw no movie on the TV, Andie. Oh no. But I did see Harry. Live and in person. Harry…was Mom’s nickname…for Dad’s…
penis
. Which just happened to be monolithically huge.”

“No.”

“Yes. And the Hendersons showed up too.”

“Don’t,” Andie was squirming to get away from Randy. “Stop!”

“The Hendersons were Mom’s
breasts
, Andie. And they were only
partially
bald, if you catch my drift. Just like Jonathan Lithgow!

“No, no, no, no.”

“They would tuck us in, and while we dreamt of cupcakes and bubble gum, they would literally reenact the
entire
script of Harry and the Hendersons with Dad’s Sasquatch dick and Mom’s furry tits in the title roles!”

Andie collapsed to her knees. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Dale put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Honey. You probably should.”

“Now that, my friends,” Randy said, “is how you horrify someone into a coma. While Andie recovers, I suggest you and I, Dale, hit the road, post haste.”

“But I’m not done packing.”

“Good God man, there’s no time! As our undergarments become soiled we’ll simply shed them like snakeskin and purchase new ones. We must travel light. We have room for food and weapons only!”

“I just want to bring a few pairs of boxers, a change of pants, a second pair of shoes, and my toiletries.”

“Toiletries! Time is our enemy here, Dale. We need to shave minutes off wherever we can. And I’m sorry, but personal hygiene is going to have to be the first thing that gets cut. Which reminds me.” Randy pulled the book out of his pocket and tossed it at Andie, who just barely caught it before it hit her in the face. “While we’re gone I need you to check out that cookbook. It was in Mayflower’s pocket. Let me know if you find anything out of the ordinary. Anything that seems suspicious.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the wannabe chef in the family. The only recipes I read are the ones that say ‘heat on high for three to five minutes.’ Call us if you find anything. Are you ready, Dale? Or do you want to pack Dad’s painting while you’re at…”

Randy stared at
Freedom From What?
“What in the name of Saint Germaine is that?”

“What is what?” Dale asked.

“That. On Ferdue’s forehead.”

Dale helped Andie up and they joined Randy in front of the painting. They all leaned in to look closely at Hank Ferdue’s head.

“It’s nothing,” Andie said, “just a few forehead wrinkles.”

“Yeah, but look at the shape they’re in.” Randy held the ninja star upside down in front of Ferdue’s head. The wrinkles on the old man’s forehead matched the shape of the arrow star exactly.

“It’s just a coincidence,” Andie said.

“No.” Dale took a step back from the painting. “It isn’t. They all have it.”

The grandma holding the turkey platter had the same shape around her neck. It was a charm on her necklace. The grandfather was making the symbol with three of his fingers as they touched a carving knife on the table. The little girl had it in her hair as a brooch. An uncle had two of them, in the crow’s feet around his eyes. It was everywhere.

“It’s just a coincidence,” Andie said.

“No, it’s a message,” Randy argued. “There’s something going on in this painting. Dad was trying to tell us something.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe Dad got mixed up in this Auwaog business too. Maybe that’s why he’s missing.”

“An arrow is a very common shape,” Andie replied. “Maybe he didn’t even realize he was painting it over and over again.”

“Maybe they’re not arrows,” Randy said.

“What else could they be?”

“Turkey footprints,” said a frail woman’s voice from behind them.

Dale, Andie, and Randy turned around to see Judy Stitch standing in the doorway. Her eyes were glazed over.

“Careful,” said Randy, “She has that look in her eyes.”

Dale turned to him. “What look?”

“The look of a zombie.”

“They’re turkey footprints,” Judy repeated. “After it rains Gus marks up the yard with his filthy feet. Strutting back and forth, trying to get my attention with his cute little butt.” She tittered. “Oh Gus, you old devil. Where is Gus anyway? Gus? Gus?”

Judy’s eyes flickered as everything came rushing back. She pointed a shaking finger at Dale.

“
You
.”

“Me?”

“You evil, heartless monster. You
villain
. Murderer!”

“Wait” Dale extended a hand. “Now, Judy, calm down. I can explain everything. You see, there’s these ninjas. They have beaks.”

Judy ran to the window and frantically tried to pull it open as she shouted, “Police! Help! Heeeeeeelp! He’s going to hang me and chop my head off! Dale Alden is a murderer! A murderer and a pervert! Heeeeeeeelp!”

Dale, Andie, and Randy looked at each other.

“Well,” Dale said, “shall we?”

All three of them charged at Judy, each screaming and flailing their arms in their own particularly spooky way.

“Ahhhhlalalala!”

“Eeeeeyayayaya!”

“Harry and the Hendersons, Harry and the Hendersons!”

Judy Stitch passed out for the third time that day.

“Murderer! Pervert!”

Oh goodie goodie gumdrops

Now the whole world knows

4
Roasted Neck of Turkey

Excerpt from “The Art of Turkey Cookery”

Take a Turkey and chop its Neck off at the base, being sure that no other Turkey sees you make the kill and thus becomes wise to their Fates. Cut the Head off and discard. Wash the Neck very clean, and Score it with a Knife, strew a little salt on it, and lay it in a Stew-pan before the Fire, that it may Roast. Then throw in a handful of Nutmeg, Cloves, and Mace beat fine, and more Salt; flour it and baste it with ample Butter. When that has lain Some time, turn it, and season it, and baste the other side the same, turn and baste it often, then baste it with Butter and Crumbs of Bread. If it is a large Neck, it will take 2 or three Hours baking; have ready some melted Butter with Pork Fat, some of the Liver of the turkey boiled and bruised fine, mix it well with the Butter, then strain them through a Sieve, and put them into the sauce pan again, with four spoonfuls of Beer, and the juice of a Lemon. Pour it into the roasting Pan and stir it all together, and let it boil; pour into a Basin. Chop the Neck into small pieces and tell everyone at the table they are eating Bald Eagle. Happily, they will not know the difference.

5
A Fungus Among Us

Rain poured down, washing away unpleasant things like splattered egg yolks and blood on the grass.

The Oldsmobile peeled out, hydroplaning down the street as Skid Row’s “I Remember You” pumped through the stereo. Randy sang along.

Woke up to the sound of pouring rain

The wind would whisper and I’d think of you

And all the tears you cried, that called my name

And when you needed me I came through

Dale wasn’t in the mood.

“Get this piece of shit under control!” he shouted from the backseat, “And turn that crap down. I can’t concentrate with cock rock blasting in my ear.”

“This isn’t cock rock,” Randy corrected, “it’s a monster ballad.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cock rock explodes into the world directly from the loins. It is the pure essence of masculinity. Of cock. It is sure of itself, it is relentless in the pursuit of its desires, it is loud, hard, salty, and it is a huge, huge prick. A monster ballad, on the other hand, may start out the same way, born in the loins. But that’s not the end of its journey. The monster ballad leaves the loins and travels up to the heart. Once there, the cock softens. It becomes tender and sweet. It learns how to do feminine things like communicate its emotions through words instead of flatulence, to bring about destruction through a soft stroke instead of a hammering fist, and how to not only embrace uncertainty and chaos, but to spread it to anything it comes into contact with. But make no mistake. While the monster ballad would much rather softly caress your cheek, neck, and inner thighs, if provoked, it will quickly harden and poke your eyes out.”

Dale wasn’t listening. He had
Freedom From What?
in his lap and was staring at it intently.

Randy turned the music down. “Did you hear what I said?”

“About what?”

“About cock and such.”

“No.”

“I’ll repeat it. It was important.”

“Please don’t. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Did you find more clues?”

“I think so,” Dale said. “Besides all the turkey footprints, there’s the turkey itself. The one on the platter. Look at it.”

Dale turned the painting around so that Randy could see it in the rearview mirror.

“What about it?” Randy asked.

“It’s enormous. Look at it in comparison to the people. And the drumsticks and wings are too big, even for a turkey that size.”

“Yes. Looks more like the proportions of a child.”

“And check out the expressions on these people’s faces. I always thought they were just stupid, happy people. But now that I’m really looking at them, they’re all kind of sinister. Like they’re about to do something evil.”

“You’re right,” Randy agreed, “they all have mean little eyes. Those folks are about to do something
nasty
. I wonder what it could be? It’s like the eternal question of what Mona Lisa was smiling about. Some say that true happiness only lasts as long as it takes to eat a single cookie. Is that what she’s smiling about? The anticipation of a brief moment of pure cookie bliss amid the misery? Did Leonardo promise Mona Lisa a biscotti if she sat still for ten hours? We’ll never know. It’s the same question with these folks. Except with them, judging from their expressions, they’re probably about to have a wild orgy with that turkey carcass.”

Dale turned the painting around. “Okay you’re done looking at the painting.”

“Wait. Who’s that guy out the window?”

“What guy?”

“There’s a man standing in the shadow of the tree.”

Dale looked closely at the window behind the dinner table in the painting. It looked out on a yard, and in that yard was an old maple tree. Standing in the shadow of that tree there was a man, dressed in black.

“See him?” Randy asked.

“Oh yeah. Barely.”

“Who is he?”

“I can’t tell. It looks like there might be some detail in his face, but it’s too small to see. I need a magnifying glass. Damn. Come on, Silas. What were you trying to tell us?”

The wagon came to a stop sign at a fork in the road. Randy looked to the left, toward the center of town and, more importantly, The Thirsty Pilgrim.

He flicked on the left turn signal.

Dale looked to the right, toward Duxbury Bay, where Mayflower’s home was. He reached over the seat and flicked the turn signal to the right.

Randy squinted into the distance. “The allure of the ocean, I know it well. One could say that we are all chicken of the sea. It is our birthplace, our cradle, and She calls to us. But sadly, in life, the answers we seek reside not where we came from, but from where we’re going. To the pub.”

“We’re not going to the ocean. We’re going to the Bay to break into Mayflower’s house.”

“Yes of course. But we’re working with a very small window here.” Randy checked his watch. It was just past two. “Mr. Feathers will only be sober for another hour at most.”

“I’ll take my chances. Turn right.”

“Fine,” Randy said as he hit the gas and headed toward the bay, “but you’ll regret this when Mr. Feathers is passed out in your crotch.”

* * *

Mayflower Jenkins lived on River Lane, a short road that cut off from the main road that ran up and down the Duxbury coast. The houses on River Lane faced the bay, shielded from the road by a small wooded area. To be extra stealthy, Dale and Randy decided to park the car in these woods, and approach the house from behind, using the trees and bushes as cover.

Dale stood next to the car, wearing a trash bag poncho and holding
Freedom From What?
close to his chest. It was also wrapped in trash bags to protect it from the rain.

Randy was in the back of the wagon, burrowing through the mountain of trash like a groundhog. He soon emerged, also clothed in a makeshift poncho, triumphantly holding a crowbar in his hand and a Moon Pie in his mouth.

Dale clenched his fists and glared at Randy from beneath dripping brows.

“What’s wrong?” Randy asked, using his teeth to tear open the Moon Pie.

“You made me wait in the rain while you got a cookie?”

“Cookie? I’ll have you know that thanks to your bizarre grudge against The Thirsty Pilgrim this tender morsel is my
lunch
. It’s all I have to stave off starvation. And be warned, it will bide us some time, but sooner or later I must have a proper meal. Just because we’re busy doesn’t mean we have to act like savages. And it isn’t a cookie, it’s a pie. A Moon Pie.”

Dale felt his stomach rumble at the mention of pie. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but until now had been too preoccupied to notice how hungry he was.

Randy took a bite, turning the full circle into a perfect crescent. “You see, if you eat it properly, as I am now, it goes through the complete lunar cycle. That’s why it’s called a Moon Pie. That, and because when it comes to taste, it’s out of this world.”

Dale watched the white glob of cream on Randy’s lip dance up and down as his brother-in-law chewed happily away. “Could we just get moving? We don’t have much time.”

Dale and Randy trudged through the squishy ground and prickly brush. The tree cover provided them with some protection from the rain, but not much. Their shoes became caked with mud and, despite their trash bag ponchos, they both reached that level of wetness where even their socks and underwear were soaked.

Mayflower’s home was four houses down River Lane. An old yellow cottage.

Dale checked his phone. “Andie hasn’t called yet. Judy must still be out cold, or Andie is somehow distracting her from going to the police. Either way, we need to get in there, find the diary, and then get out. No fooling around. Got it?”

“Got it. I’m going to head for the back door and see if I can get it open with this crowbar. You go around front and keep an eye out. If you see somebody coming, make a bird call.”

“I don’t know any bird calls,” Dale said.

“Just do a raven. Like this. Cawww! Cawww!”

“Do I have to flap my arms like that?”

“No, but it helps.”

“Okay.” Dale turned to go but then stopped. “Wait, have you done this before?”

“Broken into someone’s house? Of course I have.”

“Whose?”

“Mine. I do it all the time. My landlord has a funny habit of changing the locks every month. Why do you think I keep a crowbar in my car?”

“You keepa blowgun in your car, Randy. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a catapult in there.”

Randy looked at the ground guiltily and shuffled his feet.

“Tell me you don’t have a catapult in there.”

“Just a small one. But there’s a perfectly good—”

“No, no. Save it. I’ll be around front, trying to forget that you have a medieval siege weapon in your station wagon.”

Dale trudged around to the front of the house, increasingly worried that his closest ally in this mess was a complete lunatic.

The Bay was throwing a hissy hit. From the choppy water beating against itself, to the billowing clouds overhead, Dale gazed on a scene of tumultuous grey. He could barely make out the long peninsula beach in the distance.

The rain had eased up, and since he was already completely soaked, Dale took off the poncho. He made his way to the small dock jutting out into the bay in front of the house. It was a weather-beaten old thing, with a small row boat tied next to it that must have belonged to Mayflower. Dale pictured the old man in his little boat, rowing into the bay to fish, sitting on his ass all morning, farting and dozing off, never catching a damn thing, and happy as could be.

“You should have stuck to fishing, Mayflower,” Dale said to himself. “At the very least, you’d still have your head screwed on tight.”

He walked out to the edge of the dock and peered out into the mist. In the middle of the Bay he could see a lone boat being tossed about on the waves. It was an old sail boat with old-fashioned rigging and varied sails like a very small pirate ship. It appeared to be headed in, most likely getting out of the storm.

“Morons,” Dale muttered. “Only an idiot would sail in this kind of weather. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The headache that had began that morning behind his eyes was now spreading and growing worse. The lack of food, and cold wet clothes on his body, certainly weren’t helping. He tried pinching the skin between his thumb and index finger, hoping to distract his brain from the pain. But his brain wasn’t fooled, and was actually quite insulted that Dale thought it would fall for that old trick. The headache grew worse.

Dale turned around to glance at the house to make sure the coast was still clear for Randy. There was no one around, but something else caught his eye. A few feet down from the dock there was a tree, its branches hanging out over the bay.

A weeping willow. Wasn’t aspirin made from willow trees? Or was it penicillin? No, that came from moldy cheese. So maybe aspirin came from some kind of mold or fungus that grew on willow trees. That sounded right…ish

Dale left the dock and went over to the tree. There was some moss growing on the trunk, but Dale was pretty sure it wasn’t mold. He broke off a small piece of bark to look underneath it, but found nothing. He tossed the bark aside. Then he looked down and saw some mushrooms growing on the base of the tree.

“Fungus. Bingo.”

Pleased with himself, Dale reached down and plucked a mushroom. He sniffed it and examined it so closely he could have been appraising a diamond. It was far too small and innocent looking to be poisonous, he thought. Polka dots, or perhaps a lounging caterpillar smoking a water pipe would be cause for concern, but not this cute little button of a mushroom.

The headache, perhaps catching the scent of willow and getting antsy, was now pounding against Dale’s temples as if they were bongo drums.

“This is no time for a migraine,” Dale admonished as he brushed the specks of dirt off the mushroom and popped the whole thing into his mouth. It tasted bitter but not too gross. “Well since I usually have two or three aspirin I guess I’d better eat two or three mushrooms.” Dale popped two more in his mouth and chewed them up quickly.

From behind him a voice called out, “Hey what are you eating? Gimme some!”

Dale turned to see Randy standing in the open front door, holding the crowbar over his shoulder.

“It’s aspirin in the raw. I have a headache.”

“Oh. Well, good thing you brought some aspirin. We need our minds in tip top shape.”

“I didn’t bring any. I found these mush—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, you have
got
to see this place. It’s a library. No, it’s a museum. It’s both. A hodgepodge. There’s Pilgrim memorabilia, stacks of old books that reach the ceiling, weird Native American artifacts, and lots of antique nautical gear, which may in fact be pirate stuff for all I know.”