Lick Your Neighbor (4 page)

“Nope.”

“How big is he?”

“Pretty small. You could take him.”

“Good. Stay behind me. Unless I get into trouble, in which case I want you to jump on the guy like a rabid turkey monster. Gouge his eyeballs out, Son.”

“Got it.”

When they got to the bedroom door Dale jumped into the entrance swinging the plunger wildly. He screamed, “En garde!”

Sitting on the bed was a skinny man dressed in denim overalls, a plaid shirt and a straw hat. A farmer. Puffing away on his corn cob pipe, with his eyes focused on
Freedom from What?
He didn’t even glance at Dale.

“Who are you?” Dale asked in his best tough guy voice. “Why are you in my house? And why does it smell like ammonia in here?”

The farmer’s boots were covered in some sort of filth. A mix of mud and what appeared to be bird crap.

“Dad, Dad.” Tommy pointed at the portrait of John Alden and then at the man on the couch.

“It’s not him, Tommy. They just look kind of similar.”

“It’s just because he shaved his beard,” Tommy said. “It’s the creepy dude, Dad, I swear.”

“Go downstairs with Mom, Tommy.”

“But Dad.”

“Go!”

Tommy sulked off. Instead of going downstairs he went into his room and slammed the door shut. The muffled sounds of angry gobbling could be heard in the hallway.

The farmer emptied his pipe onto Dale’s bedside table and began to refill it with tobacco from his shirt pocket. “This painting,” he said, motioning toward
Freedom from What?
“Are you the artist?”

“No, my father-in-law painted it.”

The farmer smirked. “Of course.” He relit his pipe.

“Why are you here?”

“The diary, Dale. Hand it over.”

“What diary?”

The farmer looked at Dale for the first time. His eyes were weary and bloodshot. “Don’t play dumb with me. I want the fobbing diary, and I want it now.”

“I don’t keep a diary. Are you talking about my son’s diary? If so, my son was right. You
are
creepy.”

The farmer pulled out a rolled up copy of The Duxbury Times from his pocket and slammed his fist into Dale’s article. “I’m taking about
this
diary, you pignut!”

“That’s what you want? You broke into my house to steal John Alden’s diary? Ha! The jokes on you, pal. That thing is worthless.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t written by John Alden.”

“Of course it was,” the farmer said.

“No, it wasn’t.”

The farmer stood up, his fists clenched. “I say it was, damn you.”

“Nope. I have it on good authority that the diary was written by some wacko. Some idiot. Some…fart sniffer.”

The farmer took a step toward Dale. “You take that back.”

“I will do no such thing. And if you take one more step toward me you’ll get the business end of this plunger.”

“Get it where?”

Dale raised an eyebrow. “Where do you think?”

“I have an idea but I’d rather not say.”

“Say it.”

“No!”

Dale made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. He then thrust the plunger handle through it. “Say it, farmer!”

“You’re going to shove that up my arse, aren’t you?”

“Bingo.”

The farmer sighed. “Look, just give me the diary and no one has to get anything shoved up their arse. For once.”

“No can do. I don’t have it.”

“I’m warning you. Either I get that diary by the count of three or else I shall unleash the Duxbury Psycho Assassin Hellhounds upon you.”

“The
what
?”

“It wasn’t my idea, okay? They came up with the name themselves. I just use it because I know it makes them happy.”

“Makes who happy?” Dale asked. “Is that a gang name? You’re bluffing. There aren’t any gangs in Duxbury. Well, the Girl Scouts can be kind of thuggish when they’re trying to move all those cookies, but that’s about it.”

The farmer held up a finger. “One.”

“And do they really need the Hellhounds part? Psycho Assassins seems adequate.”

The farmer held up a second finger. “Two.”

“Hey I’m the one with the plunger here, pal. I should be doing the slow, ominous counting. In fact, I think I will.” Dale held up a finger. “One.”

“Three.”

The sound of the doorbell ringing bonged throughout the house.

“Honey!” Andie shouted from downstairs, “I think it’s for you!”

Dale turned his head and called out “Hang on!” When he looked back the farmer was gone. All that was left were his footprints, which led to the open bedroom window.

“What the hell?”

Dale walked over to the window and looked out. The farmer was nowhere to be found.

The sound of the doorbell ringing for a second time snapped Dale into action. He rumbled down the hallway and stairs, paused to check his appearance in the foyer mirror and fixed his hair, and then slapped himself for acting like a prom date. He shook a fist at the mirror and shouted, “Act like a man goddammit!”

The doorbell rang again and Dale swung the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall. Undaunted, he took up a stance in the doorway with his fists on his hips, his legs spread wide, chin aimed at the sky.

Officers Ainsworth and Truax both gave Dale the old up and down, unimpressed.

“Are you Dale Alden?”

“That depends.”

Dale licked his thumb and flicked his nose. He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to accomplish, but he remembered Bruce Lee doing it a lot and looking pretty badass in the process.

“Who wants to know?” Dale asked, “Or should I ask, who has what it takes to find out?”

Dale raised one eyebrow at the cops. Then he lowered it and raised the other eyebrow. Then he raised both. Then lowered them.
This is going really well
.

Ainsworth and Truax gave each other that look that cops give each other when they’re both wearing sunglasses and have just seen some suspicious behavior.

“The Duxbury Police Department wants to know,” Truax said, “and I think we have more than what it takes to find out.”

Both officers tapped their guns, bringing Dale out of the movies and back to his foyer.

“Right! Ha, ha. Of course. Um, I’m Dale. Dale Alden. At your service.” Dale bowed. “I’m glad you guys are here. My home was just burgled.”

“When?”

“A few seconds ago.”

“By who?”

“A farmer.”

“How do you know he was a farmer?”

“He was wearing overalls and smoking a corn cob pipe.”

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you holding a plunger?”

“To fight off the farmer.”

“Did he take anything?”

“No.”

“Did he harm you or your family?”

“No.”

“Did he try to plant corn in your living room?”

“No.”

“Is this farmer still in your home?”

“No, he disappeared. Jumped out the window I think. Perhaps if we each run like hell in opposite directions we can catch him.” Dale bent his leg back and stretched his hamstring. “I’m game if you boys are.”

“Put your leg down, sir,” Truax said, “This, uh, farmer business will have to wait. We’re here about a much more urgent matter. We’d like you to answer a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing. How about next Wednesday evening? I think I can fit you in, oh I don’t know, around sevenish?”

“How about right now?”

Dale crossed his arms. “How about never?”

“How about we arrest you and drag you out of there by your ankles?”

“Now works.”

There was a farmer

Had no dog, leapt through window

What was his name-o?

2
This Pribbling Ship

Excerpt from the diary of John Alden
Rendered into modern English by Dr. Theodore “Mayflower” Jenkins

N
OVEMBER 9, 1620

I take quill in hand to record the circumstances of my time on this pribbling Ship. The Mayflower is what they call it. More like Shiteflower if you ask me.

My poor body is in disarray. Lack of exercise and shoddy victuals are partly to blame, but there is more to it than that. It is a struggle to get out of bed each morning, and even more of a struggle to put on pants. Why bother covering up my prick and arsehole when I am surrounded by nothing but Pricks and Aresholes on this Ship. I tell you these people are driving me to madness.

That Areshole sailor Roger has been strutting around the deck again, boasting about how most of us will die a horribly painful death during the Voyage. He prances up and down the deck shouting things like “Arrrr me hearties, I be lovin’ the smell ‘o Death in the mornin’. It be smellin’ like Separatists!” And “Shiver me timbers, be that Death I seen looking over ye belt-buckled hat? It tis! Avast, run for ye lives!”

Now that I think about it, I suspect Roger may be a pirate.

No matter. God was kind enough to make Roger fall ill today, and I see a most painful death in his future. I know the signs well. It starts with a simple cough, or perhaps a sore on the neck, and in no time at all you are vomiting out your spleen. Surely it is the Lord’s work that Roger has this fate to look forward to. At least the Almighty is still on the side of good, decent men like me.

Now if the Almighty would just find it in His heart to smite that beef-witted Edward Margesson chap, things would be wonderful. Every day from him it’s nothing but Cod talk.

“Hark! Would you look at all that fine-looking Cod in the sea!”

“Why I bet I could stroll across the ocean upon the backs of all that Cod. Like Jesus did.”

“I have a shiny piece of silver here for anyone who can guess how many Cod I have stuffed underneath my hat.”

“Lo! Get your thieving hands off that Cod! I saw it first and therefore it is mine. Yes I saw that one too. And that one. They’re all mine, damn you!”

“John, guess what I’m thinking about right now. Guess. I bet you can’t. Bet you can’t guessssss.”

Cod, Edward. You’re thinking about Cod, you tottering bastard. And if you don’t stop it you are going to be swimming with them.

On to less important matters. Yesterday we spotted Land! There was much cheering, and I was patted on the back many, many times. Then Dr. Fuller’s apprentice William Button decided to jump Ship and make a swim for it. Dr. Fuller said the boy had been acting strange as of late, but I never noticed seeing as I generally assume that everyone on this Ship is a madman.

As William swam away into the miles of ocean betwixt the Ship and the land, he shouted back to us, “See you all on shore, dewberries!”

Immediately after shouting that, William sank like a stone. Of course it was Margesson who called out to him, “Grab hold of some Cod, son! Stuff them down your pants! They will keep you afloat!” It is unclear whether or not William tried this. What is clear is that William never surfaced again, and that I had to restrain myself greatly from pushing Margesson overboard.

As the Ship got closer to shore, we got a better look at our new home. It is the most knotty-pated and mangled Wilderness I ever set my eyes upon and I hate, hate, hate it. I just know it is full of wild Beasts. I bet those little bastards are sharpening their pointy horns as I write, just dying to pinch me in the rump. Well if that is the case, then those Devils have another thing coming. And it is called my fist in their furry faces.

Not to mention the Savage men who are most certainly hiding in the bushes, waiting to pop out and dance around me in circles. With their hooting and spinning about. Now, it is widely known that I simply love to dance. Love it. But not right now. Not after all these months at Sea. Give me a few days to wash up and settle in, maybe eat some of this corn I keep hearing about, and
I will be happy to dance around in circles with those beastly men until the sun comes up. I just hope they understand. I also hope that they don’t have wings and tails, which is what Samuel Fuller told me. Now that we’re close enough to
land to see birds again, I must remember to keep a lookout for flying Savages. Wouldn’t want one of them swooping down on me and forcing me to dance with him at some ungodly hour.

As it stands, we have a wild Maze in front of us and the Ocean Abyss behind. Even if I squint really, really hard, to the point where I look like a Chinaman, I cannot see brave England anymore. If that does not indicate that we are far from home I do not know what will.

—John Alden