Well, first we had to corner the son of a bitch. I don't know where it got the pepper-spray--but I have heard that turkeys can be quite resourceful when they find out what is, well, planned for them. So we had to break out the tire irons.
You know me, mainline, I ain't that "built" if you know what I mean, and I said right off the bat, "No fucking way I can take this thing down, it's all fangy and shit. Folsom, you have a hack at it."
When that fucking turkey (and I do believe its name was Alejandro Marsupial) heard me say "hack," it shot its ass up to a level of berzerk that I had never seen a piece of poultry undertake in its life. That bastard let loose with a torrent of claws and soft, downy feathers that could have brought the Bismarck down. It was a good thing we had Arvin Bork with us, or else we would have had to use Folsom's pillows to keep that fucker back, back, back from our tender eyes and naughty bits (like I said, that thing was smart, it knew where to hit hardest).
So now we got a turkey on an Angel Dust high or something, and Arvin fucking Bork gripped in some sort of psycho fowl/fucker (as in goats) deathmatch, and the place is filling up with the stench of sheep piss and turkey drool--because that fucker had fangs. It was going for the throat, and I have never seen a man in mortal fear of his life because of a main course before. There was this serious-ass Looney-toonesque cloud of smoke and errant limbs going in circular patterns around Folsom's kitchen.
We didn't know what else to do, and suddenly Folsom says, without any real drama or urge to grip the center stage, "Goddamit man, that's my fucking turkey, and I'll be damned if it's gonna make waves in front of my diswasher."
And he leapt in.
Arvin was bleeding pretty heavily from the nose and ears by now, and Alejandro was ripping forth with this satanic shrieking I had only read about in HP Lovecraft stories--an "insane piping of flutes"--and now Folsom's thrown his ass into the whole goddamned mix. After some more screaming, shrieking, and hacking with tire irons, the cloud stopped. And there it was . . .
Folsom and the turkey were in a death-grip. Each one glared at the other from betwixt squinted lids (at least, as squinted as turkey lids get). Folsom had his hands tightly fixed about the turkey's throat, and the turkey had Folsom in the same--save that the turkey, on account of having no hands, was actualy using his feet. The two killers, locked in a fierce battle of wills to see who was Saturday's dinner.
Well they went at it: Folsom tried to bite off Alejandro's nose, and Alejandro drove his beak straight into Rusty's forehead, and they both dropped each other on the sticky linoleum floor. Rusty went at it again, all while Arvin was crying and screaming like a little girl because his sinuses had been torn out, but that fucking turkey had just seen "Snake Fist in the Eagle's Shadow." You know, that one with Jackie Chan where he learns how to fight from his cat?
I don't know where the damn turkey saw this thing, but it did, because it went into extra-super-deadly-snake-fist style and started whooping on Folsom's behind. Folsom, using the inferior Eagle Claw style, and even the more-inferior Praying-Mantis style, didn't have a chance against this unholy beast and he was soon collapsed in a depraved heap on his own couch. I, myself? I ran like a whore to the nearest porch (in this case, Rusty's) and had a cigarette to cool off for a bit. Comitting the whole thing to memory was very tiring, indeed. We're still scraping bits of Arvin's sinuses off the walls, though they go with the paint and hair-dye stain very well.
As for Alejandro, that stupid bird fucking defected and hooked up with those bastard ninjas who live under Folsom's floor, and in that little shrub on the left. No . . . no . . . YES--that one. We still don't know what the hell we're going to eat.
I ask that fellow noders forgive this bit of indulgence and appreciate my attempts at humour during my oh-so-crazy days of trying to impersonate Hunter S. Thompson
back in 1999. This little ditty came from a sarcastic answer I gave to a friend concerning his preparation advice on a frozen turkey we had stashed in the kitchen. :D