Lick Your Neighbor by Chris Genoa Page B

normal getting-ready for Thanksgiving stuff. Oh there was that stupid article he wrote.”
    Randy did one push up. Then two. Then his arms gave out and he slammed face first into the floor. He came up holding a bloody nose.
    “What article?” Randy asked, stumbling back into his chair. He tore open one of the bills on his desk, crumpled it up, and stuffed it up his nose to stop the bleeding.
    “The article he wrote for the Duxbury Times. About Thanksgiving. Did you read it?”
    Randy glanced at the stack of newspapers in the corner of the room. It reached the ceiling. “No I’m a bit behind in my newspaper reading.”
    “Well it was some nonsense about John Alden’s diary, which the Preservation Society apparently found. The article was about the Pilgrims, Thanksgiving, and the, uh, what the hell was that word…oh, the Auwaog or whatever. You’ll have to read it yourself. So are you going to get him out of jail or what? Hello? Randy? Randy?”
    The phone lay off the hook, resting comfortably on the soft pile of homefries. The door to Randy’s office swung back and forth as if a rhino had just barreled through it.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Salty Peter swore he saw the Tasmanian Devil spin past the kitchen. But when he turned to look, there was nothing there but a few papers swirling in the doorway.
    At the diner counter, Donna paused to wonder if what she just saw was an optical illusion. Randy Tinker, the laziest, most out of shape and consistently drunk man she’d ever known, just hurdled the counter, did a spin move around a customer, sprinted out the door, and dove into his car through the driver side window à la Dukes of Hazard.
    Something was most certainly up.

6
Disappearing Savages
    Excerpt from the diary of John Alden
    N OVEMBER 15, 1620
    I will use what little strength is left in these worn, wet bones to wield this quill once again. Much has happened. But oh how my tender body aches! With exhaustion, yes, but also with longing for some flowering wafer-cake to come lay down beside me. Many nights have I lain in bed dreaming of a friendly face and warm body beside me. We embrace, I look at her and she at me, and deep in each other’s eyes we see that rarest of gazes….absolute acceptance.
    But alas, the Shiteflower has nothing to offer beyond the beastly men, prudish wives, and sickly children that are all around me. My soul for the warm embrace of a fair-faced cuckoo-bud! At least I still have my nightly dreams, where all I wish for is mine for the plucking. But before I go to that sweet slumber, I must press on and write of the sundry of amazing things that have happened as of late.
    A party of ten of us sailed ashore yesterday. We traveled to and fro the land in a rickety little shallop boat that barely fit all of us. After a light breakfast of moldy cheese and half-spoiled beer, our adventure started with a brisk single-file march up the beach. We were all in such delightful spirits to be off the smelly Shiteflower that we sang this bold song as we marched.
O Martin said to his man
Fie, man fie
Martin said to his man
Fill thou the cup and I the can
Thou hast well drunken man
Who’s the fool now?
I saw the goose kiss the hog
And the cat lick the dog
I saw a hare hump the hound
Fourteen miles above ground
I saw a maid milk a bull
Every stroke a bucket full
    Luckily Reverend Brewster was not there to hear us sing, otherwise he would have opened his Bible and flames would have shot out of it, singeing our beards and nose hairs right off. I’ve never actually seen him do this, but he’s warned us of it enough times, and with such vigor, that he must be serious.
    As the day went on, the marching this way and that became quite a bore until, suddenly, we saw six Savages! They were walking around on all fours and barking like dogs. Or maybe just the dog they had with them was doing that…things happened so quickly it is hard to say. The Savages ran into the bushes as soon as they spotted us, and we