The Walrus of Death: A Short Story (2 page)

But before I could even shift my stance, the Walrus had moved like the wings of a humming bird and had my neck in a fist the size of a Christmas ham. He lifted me off the ground and slammed me back against the fridge.

“What did you say?” The Walrus hissed, his rank breath blowing into my face.

“What?” I gasped. “When?”

“Just then, when you threw the coffee?”

“‘Fatboy?’” The sausage-like fingers at my throat were seriously starting to restrict my breathing.

“No,” he said. “Before that.”

“‘Koo-koo-katchoo?’”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, ‘Koo-koo-katchoo.’ Was that supposed to mean something?”

“I Am . . .” I choked “. . . The Walrus.”

“What?”

“The . . .” spots appeared before my eyes “. . . Beatles.”

“Yes, I know it was the Beatles, but I’m failing to understand the correlation between this ‘koo-koo-katchoo’ nonsense and ‘I Am the Walrus.’” Then he chuckled. “Unless of course, you think that ‘koo-koo-katchoo’ is what he’s singing during the chorus?” He was laughing now, the fingers tightening on my throat. “Is that it? Is that what you were trying to say?”

I tried to speak.

“Well, is it?” The Walrus was laughing louder. “Is it?”

“Can’t . . . breathe!” I had to spit out the words.

“Right.” The Walrus relaxed his grip enough to allow me to breathe and talk. “Sorry.”

I’ll admit. I played it for all it was worth; I coughed a lot, I took a bunch of gasping breaths, and generally just played for time while I tried to figure my next move. I mean, the Walrus had hurt me, but not as much as one might think.

The fact of the matter is, I ain’t an easy man to hurt, and I’m almost impossible to kill. I don’t get sick, and I heal faster than what most experts agree is “humanly possible.” That might be why I’m over a hundred years old but don’t look a day over forty. Granted, I’ve never let a hulking walrus man choke the life out of me to see if I’d actually die, but I sure as heck bounce back mighty quick.

“I am the egg man,” I said as soon as I’d got some of my breath back.

The Walrus just stared at me.

“They are the egg men.”

I paused.

Again, the Walrus did nothing.

“Koo-koo-katchoo?” I finished.

“Ah yes, I see your confusion, I really do, but that’s not what the lyric is. It’s ‘Goo goo g’joob.’”

“‘Goo goo g’joob?’”

“‘Goo goo g’joo,’” he returned.

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” he glowered at me and sighed. “‘Goo goo g’joob.’ That’s what John Lennon sang on ‘I Am the Walrus.’”

“No ain’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it ain’t.” My nose began to itch.

“Look,” The Walrus said. “Don’t get me wrong. It happens all the time. I can see where you might think that the lyric is ‘koo-koo-katchoo.’ But it’s just not true. Most folks get that wrong. They think it comes from the Simon and Garfunkel song, ‘Mrs. Robinson,’ which in turn came from the movie, The Graduate, and that this was John Lennon’s nod to the movie.”

“Well,” I said, feigning interest. “Yeah.”

“But it just isn’t possible. The movie wasn't released until December of 1967, almost a full month after the release of ‘I Am the Walrus,’” he smiled. “So, there it is.”

“Okay, so Paul Simon wrote the song, right?”

“Correct.”

“Okay then. He took it from the Beatles,” I said.

“One would think so, sure, but with the release dates being so close together, chronologically speaking, then Paul Simon would have had to have been in the studio with the Beatles when they recorded the song, and then he went around and put it in his song? It just doesn’t add up. The fact of the matter, my soon to be dead friend, is that the lyric is ‘goo goo g’joob’ and not ‘koo-koo-katchoo.’”

“Just kill me all ready. I’d rather be dead then to hear your lies!”

“Listen,” the Walrus said, the pitch of his voice rising, “I happen to have one of the most extensive collections of Beatles music, bootlegs, and memorabilia, right?”

“Okay.”

“Well, okay then,” he said, as if that settled it.

“That doesn’t make you right.”

“But I am right.”

“No you ain’t. It’s ‘koo-koo-katchoo.’”

“‘Goo goo g’joob’ is what the man says.” His voice grew louder. “It’s in the bloody liner notes!”

“Liner notes?”

“The liner notes . . . to the record!” he growled.

I waited a beat or two as I pretended to think this through. I made as if to speak, but paused again. My brow furrowed in mock concentration. Once more I made a gesture that gave the idea I was about to say something, but yet again, I paused. I paused once again, and then, just before I paused for the last time, I paused.

Then, at last, I spoke:

“Liner notes?”

“Look, you bleeding monkey!” The Walrus roared. I thought I could actually see steam coming from his ear holes. “The album, Magical Mystery Tour, the sodding record, has liner notes which contain the lyrics to ‘I Am the Walrus.’”

I was starting to enjoy this.

“Those lyrics,” he continued. “Printed out by the record company, with the band’s permission, is a true and solid fact, proving once and for all, and without a shadow of a doubt, that John Lennon sings ‘goo goo g’joob,’ and not, as you so ignorantly put it, ‘koo-koo-katchoo!’”

I thought about that for a moment. I used all the skills in my possession to truly look as if I were weighing what he had told me with the respect he felt his argument was due. I scratched at my head, scratched at my chin, and even said “Hmmmm” for a moment or two as I gazed into the air above me. Finally, in the end, I had to give the brute an answer.

“Liner notes?” I said.

At this, the Walrus broke. He’d had enough. He bellowed in rage and flung me to the kitchen floor. He reached out and lifted my refrigerator up over his head. Thank God for high ceilings.

“Enough of this foolishness!” the Walrus roared. “Now you die!”

The Walrus stood over me, the fridge held high over his head. From my vantage point, I had only a moment to strike, and one perfect target before me. I kicked out with all my strength. And, as my foot connected with that area where the two legs join, I said myself a little prayer that the scientists who had created the creature before me had made sure he was anatomically correct.

Then, as the Walrus made a little “irk” sound, and his eyes crossed in a comical fashion, I knew that my prayer had been answered. I crab-walked back out of the way as a massive tear formed in one of his eyes. Then he collapsed, the fridge dropping atop his head and knocking him unconscious.

I rose, brushed myself off and grabbed a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer by the sink. I’d just bought the roll recently and had yet to even pull off the plastic wrap. I pushed the fridge off of him and then used the entire roll of tape on his arms and legs, hoping that it would be enough to keep him restrained if he woke up before the authorities arrived.

Next, I called the Eudora Police Department and asked that they send a couple of boys around.

After that, I went to my stereo and flipped through my records. I found my copy of Magical Mystery Tour and took a quick glance through the liner notes and read through the lyrics to ‘I Am the Walrus’.

“Well crap,” I said aloud, and turned to look at the Walrus. “I guess you were right.”

WAITING FOR THE POLICE with a walrus unconscious in your kitchen is an exercise in patience. I could only stare at the thing for so long before my eyes grew heavy.

I tugged on the tape that bound his arms and legs and felt fairly confident that they would hold, but I wasn’t prepared to take too many chances. So I jogged back into the bedroom at the other end of the hall. On the bed were my clothes for the day along with a pair of Colt Peacemakers, revolvers of a bygone era when the West was wild and untamed.

The Peacemakers were custom built and given to me by Sam Colt himself and I’d grown quite accustom to them. Sure, nowadays there’s a literal smorgasbord of shooting irons to choose from. But I like to stick with what I know. Besides, I like old things.

When I’m out in public, I have to keep them concealed—I have a permit to carry, but I just can’t be flashing them about—so I use a shoulder rig that tucks each one in under each arm. This was lying next to the revolvers. I passed it up however, and opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. I pulled out a belt with a pair of holsters and strapped it around my waist over the robe. The guns would hang low on each hip, ready for a quick draw. This was how I preferred to wear them.

I’m sure I looked every inch the dashing hero in my robe, but I didn’t want to be caught with my pants down when the authorities arrived, so I ignored the clothes for now.

Once back in the kitchen I realized that the Walrus had begun to smell, or maybe there had been a stench to him the entire time and it just took me leaving the room for a moment to notice. Either way, I decided to wait for the police on the front porch with a glass of water and a comic book.

I’d have preferred coffee over water, but considering the pot lay in sharp little pieces all over my kitchen, I’d have to make due with whatever else I had on hand. Which was water.

I felt the loss of the coffee deep within my soul; you might even say I went through the five stages of grief as I stood there at the kitchen sink filling a glass from the tap. The logical side of my brain fought back, telling me that coffee wasn’t out of my life for good, I could always make a run into the Quick Shop and purchase a cup. Heck, I had a coffee maker in the office in town. That shone a little brightness into my soul. Once the Walrus was carted off, I’d head on in to the office and partake. Until then, tap water would have to do. The comic would help.

Feeling a little better about the whole affair—going about heeled sure helped—I took my water and comic book and headed out to the porch. I sat in an old rocker and took in the morning: the smell of the dew on the grass, and the sound of the birds in the trees. Once in a while a car would wind lazily down the gravel road past the house. I sipped my water, frowning at the lack of heat and bitterness, and I read my comic book.

A squirrel hopped up onto the porch from the grass below and stood on its hind legs looking at me with its head cocked slightly to the side in the way that animals do, like they’d just asked you a question.

“You the back up?” I asked the squirrel. “You here to finish me off since your pard ain’t up to the task?”

It just cocked its head to the other side and continued to stare at me, its nose twitching.

"Well?" I said. “You got something to say, then say it. Otherwise, get.”

The squirrel remained. Its little nose flicked up and down. It didn’t talk, and it didn’t move. It just stared at me. I don’t know that I actually expected it to start speaking, but after arguing with a walrus, nothing would have surprised me.

"If you ain’t got nothing to say then get!" I snarled.

I tried to ignore the squirrel, but it wouldn’t stop staring. I raised the comic book, blocking the squirrel from my sight, but after about five minutes, I found myself skimming through the comic instead of actually reading it. I kept looking over the top at the squirrel. The squirrel met my eye every time.

“You best get if you know what’s good for you,” I said.

The squirrel didn’t move.

I sighed and went back to the comic.

I’d actually read three full pages before glancing over the top of the book again. The squirrel was still there, only he’d moved six or so inches closer.

“Get!” I yelled and then I tossed the glass of water at it.

The squirrel stood its ground as the glass sailed uselessly over the thing’s head. It continued to stare.

"Dang it!" I stood. "Quick staring at me you dern tree rat!" I tried to kick the fluffy little rodent, but it hopped nimbly to one side, so I missed and fell off the porch.

I rolled about a bit in the grass, the dew soaking my bathrobe.

That’s when the rage took over. I’m not an easy man to anger, but once I am, watch out. It’s not a quality I’m proud of, but it’s there all the same.

I jumped back up to the porch and did my best to stomp the squirrel into the wood grain. It just danced back and forth, dodging each stomp as I cursed and fumed.

“Stupid tree rat!”

“Get off my dern porch!”

“Don’t make me kill you!”

The squirrel remained. I had but one choice left.

I drew both pistols, thumbing back the hammers as I cleared leather.

The squirrel blinked.

I smiled.

"Norman?" a voice said from behind me.

I turned in surprise. A woman in a Stetson hat and the khaki uniform of a Eudora Police Officer stood at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch. She was looking up at me, her face painted with worry and concern.

“Hey, Pat,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I released the hammers slowly and holstered the guns. “Dang squirrel went and got my dander up. Won’t get off the dern porch. Just keeps staring at me.”