Cold Turkey

By

Larry Buege

Chapter One

The combined voices of twelve hundred and twenty-four emotionally depressed White Holland turkeys reverberated through Walter’s limited cranium, reinforcing his notion that it had not been, nor would it continue to be, a good day. His rapidly deteriorating disposition precluded any sympathy for those fatuous fowl, feeling that, in reality, there was little substance to their complaints. After all, in a couple of hours after their arrival at the processing plant, they would be formally relieved of any further misery. Walter, on the other hand, had to go home to Sheila.

Walter swallowed a couple of aspirin and chased them down with some warm water from the loading dock water jug. He was not optimistic about obtaining relief from his excruciating head pain. Sheila was seldom cured by simple aspirin. No, she would require, at minimum, two boxes of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, and at least one dinner in a fancy restaurant with linen napkins and entrées bearing prices far above his meager financial resources.

Women expected too much from men. Common decency demanded a few subtle hints about their anniversary; but no, she had to spring it upon him first thing in the morning, long before his mind had geared up to full capacity. He might have remembered before the day was out, had he been given sufficient time. He had remembered eight out of their fifteen anniversaries, hadn’t he? That was better than half.

Walter sat back in a wicker chair at the rear of the loading dock to nurse his throbbing headache while two men on forklifts loaded crates of unhappy turkeys into the bowels of his eighteen-wheeler. It was amazing how many turkeys actually fit in the trailer. According to his manifest, 1,224 turkeys had signed up for the cramped, three-hour trip to the processing plant.

Today was the beginning of Walter’s second week on the job at the Schroeder Turkey Ranch, a job he had quickly learned to despise. It was not that the pay was bad, but turkeys? At 3,000 acres, the ranch was hardly big by West Texas standards. The soil, however, was typical West Texas: dry, dusty, and peppered with scraggly sagebrush. Turn-of-the-century windmills pumped water from wells dug deep into the ground. The water, stored in elevated, five thousand gallon tanks, was judiciously rationed out to a myriad of small, shallow, watering troughs, which quenched the thirsts of over 500,000 head of turkey.

The owner of the turkey ranch was also typical West Texas: pompous, rich, and eccentric. Bartholomew Schroeder, having inherited his ranch and his personality from his equally pompous father, expected all of his employees to share in his eccentricities. His establishment was to be referred to as a ranch, not a turkey farm. It was a herd of turkeys, not a flock. Fortunately, Bart spent little time on the ranch, except for the occasional media event in which he could be seen majestically astride his favorite horse named LBJ as he herded fifty to a hundred head of turkey into a small corral.

The sudden onset of silence confirmed the closing of the trailer doors. Walter was amazed that so much clamor could be hermetically sealed within the confines of the semi-trailer without so much as a gobble escaping to the outside world. At least the rest of the day should be conducted in peace and quiet. It was still early. Maybe after dropping off the turkeys at the processing plant there would be time to take Sheila out to a nice, but expensive dinner, do some serious groveling, and patch things up before bedtime. He was not looking forward to sleeping on the couch. He could pick up some chocolates and a bouquet of flowers on the way home.

Walter opened the door and climbed into the cab of the tractor-trailer. At only five foot two inches, climbing into the cab was problematic, but what Walter lacked in height he made up in girth, sporting generous love handles. Fortunately, the cab’s exterior provided multiple hand holds for the vertically challenged. Once firmly entrenched in the seat, Walter pulled the cab door shut to take advantage of the air conditioning. On the outside door panel, as on the door panels of all other vehicles at the Schroeder Ranch, was the Presidential Seal, confirming that, not only was Walter’s boss pompous, rich, and eccentric, he was also moonlighting as the President of the United States. Technically, this was a flagrant misuse of the Presidential Seal, at least in the opinion of many outspoken Republicans, but eccentric Presidents do as they please, and this pleased Bart Schroeder.

Walter had met the President the previous week during the unveiling of his new, state-of-the-art, tractor-trailer system for transporting turkeys with its continuous-flow ventilation system and the electronic temperature and humidity controls. The President had sat next to Walter in the shotgun position, brandishing a double barrel twelve gauge for the benefit of photographers. Walter didn’t know why he needed chaps and spurs to ride in a truck; but then, he had never been big on politics. “Heaven help the man or woman who tries to rustle any of his turkeys” was the quote of the day from the front pages of many major newspapers. The articles were accompanied by a picture of gleaming-white teeth protruding from under a ten-gallon hat.

Walter set the truck into gear and headed down the gravel road. It was less than a mile to the perimeter of the ranch, but travel was slow since the truck had to wade through the large herds of squawking turkeys. Walter leaned on the horn, which only increased the confusion, causing the turkeys to scurry in every direction. Patience was wearing thin. Salvaging the day required a quick and uneventful trip to the processing plant. Walter did not have time for birdbrains.

Surrounding the entire ranch was a large chain-link fence. A row of razor-barb concertina wire garnished the top, hardly necessary to keep the turkeys in but definitely necessary to keep the political paparazzi out. Well-equipped guardhouses, bristling with satellite dishes and radio antennas, greeted visitors at every entrance. If the President were actually in residence, each guardhouse would be infested with a covey of Secret Service agents. Today only a lone guard on minimum wage was there to greet Walter.

The guard flagged Walter through without any fanfare. A few freelance photographers reclining in lawn chairs under large umbrellas in front of cheap campers gave Walter and his cargo a quick once-over but decided they were hardly worthy of time or film and returned to their playboy magazines and cheap novels. There were always a few such photographers camped out at the front gates in hopes of obtaining compromising photographs of the President or his entourage.

Just past the gates, Walter turned north along two parallel ruts that Texans called a road. It was a shortcut to the highway twenty miles away that management insisted he take to save both time and money. Today, Walter was only concerned with saving time.

Normally, it would have been a rough, forty-minute drive to the highway. Today, he would do it in thirty minutes. He hoped Sheila would appreciate the sacrifices he was making for her benefit. His hemorrhoids surely didn’t. Walter looked at his gauges. The trailer temperature was fifty-eight, airflow was adequate. If any parameter were to fall below specifications, alarms would sound. Instruments monitored all conditions within the trailer except for the level of motion sickness. In a moment of weakness, Walter felt a little sympathy for the plight of the turkeys bouncing around in the back, but this quickly passed.

The trail was used mostly by locals and then only rarely. It was, therefore, surprising to see a sports utility vehicle parked diagonally across the trail. A vague image of a person slumped over the steering wheel was visible through the tinted glass.

“This is all I need,” Walter muttered to himself as he climbed down from the cab. Visions of squad cars and emergency vehicles and impounded turkey transporters danced through his head.

“HEY THERE, YOU ALL RIGHT?” Walter did not expect an answer. Having the person simply asleep at the wheel was too much to ask, although he could see no obvious damage to the vehicle or evidence that the car had hit any obstacles. Walter opened the door on the driver’s side. “Are you…” The driver sprang to life, producing a can of pepper spray. Three more individuals, all wearing black ski masks, materialized from behind the SUV.

“Ahh, my eyes!”

“Don’t rub your eyes. It’ll only make it worse.”

Walter looked at his blurred assailants through watery eyes. “If you’re after money, you’re wasting your time. I ain’t got none. I’m married.”

“We’re not after your money. Cooperate and we’ll have no problems. If not—more pepper spray.”

Walter had been a prizefighter in his youth, but this was four against one. If memory served him correctly, he had lost all his fights. His collapsed nose was a constant reminder of his win/loss record. He was also not particularly fond of pepper spray. His eyes were still burning. “What ya want?”

“We need to borrow your truck…”

“No problem.”

“…and your clothes.”

“My clothes?”

“Yeah, strip!”

“Now wait a minute.” A firing squad consisting of four outstretched arms, each holding a can of pepper spray immediately formed. “O.K., O.K. I just needed to clarify a point. I think it’s been clarified.” Walter began unbuttoning his shirt under the close supervision of the four commandos, each dressed in jeans, black sweater and ski hood.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Walter said after he had noticed two significant lumps in the sweater of the person who had been slumped behind the wheel. “You’re a girl.”

“Very insightful,” replied a soprano voice. “Your mother taught you well.”

“I ain’t undressing in front of no woman.”

With military precision, four outstretched arms again pointed at their victim. “Ready…Aim…”

“I don’t care what you do. I’m not undressing in front of her.”

“For Pete’s sake, how old are you?”

“Us crime victims have rights, ya know.”

“O.K., O.K., I’ll turn my back. But we don’t have all day.”

“Ya don’t have to get crabby about it. What did you say your name was again?”

“Stuff it!”

“Is that Miss or Mrs.?”

“Ms.”

“O.K., Ms. Stuffit. I’ll strip as long as you promise not to peek.”

“Cross my heart.”

Walter neatly folded his clothes and laid them in a pile on a rock.

“Now place your hands behind your back,” Ms. Stuffit said, turning slightly.

“You peeked!”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Then why you snickering?”

“Am not.”

“I know a snicker when I hear one, and that was a snicker.”

“Can we get on with this?” one of the men asked as he bound Walter’s hands behind his back with duct tape.

“You aren’t going to leave me out here naked, are you?”

“Of course not,” the man said as he poured a sticky substance over Walter’s entire body. “We aren’t barbarians.”

“What’s this stuff?”

“Molasses.”

“You goin’ stake me to an ant hill?”

“I said we’re not barbarians. It’ll help keep your new clothes on.” Two pillows were cut open, and the contents poured over Walter’s sticky body until he was totally covered with white feathers. “I told you we wouldn’t let you go home naked.”

“Well, well,” Ms. Stuffit said as she turned to inspect Birdman.

“You promised you wouldn’t peek.”

“But you’re fully clothed now.” Ms. Stuffit bent over to inspect the sensitive areas to ensure that modesty was secured. “It’s really amazing how few feathers were actually required to cover the little feller.”

“You’re snickering again.”

Ms. Stuffit retrieved a cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number. “We have everything secured and will be ready to move out in just a few minutes. Is everything ready at your end? O.K., see you in a bit.” Ms. Stuffit returned the phone to her pocket.

“Ah, Ms. Stuffit, can I ask a personal favor?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Can I use your phone to make a phone call?”

“You want to make a phone call?”

“It’s not really for me. It’s for my wife. Just to let her know that I’ll be coming home a little late tonight.”

“Now isn’t that considerate. Are you guys paying attention?” Ms. Stuffit asked her colleagues. “What’s her number?”

“555-9319”

“Let’s see. You said 555-93…”

“No, you have to dial the area code first.”

“This is long distance?”

“Long distance isn’t so expensive anymore.”

“You want to call long distance? You’re goin’ owe me for this one.”

“I’ll be happy to pay you back. Just untie me so I can take down your address, and I’ll mail it to you.”

“We’re not going to untie ya.”

“I got a good memory. I’m pretty smart. Just give me the address. I’ll memorize it.”

“O.K., it’s sixteen hundred.”

“Right, sixteen hundred.”

“Pennsylvania Ave.”

“Pennsylvania Ave. Gotcha. Is that in Pennsylvania?”

“No, Washington.”

“Which one. There’s two ya know.”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Yep, I know where that is.”

Ms. Stuffit dialed the number (with area code) and held the phone up to Walter’s ear.

Sheila: Hello.

Walter: Hi, Honey. Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be a little late getting home.

Sheila: What do you mean you’re coming home late tonight?

Walter: I got a little tied up here at work.

Sheila: When are you getting home?

“Ms. Stuffit, about what time can I expect to be home?”

“Let’s see. You’ll probably want to walk back toward the ranch. That’s about twelve miles. With your short legs, my best guess would be about daybreak.” Ms. Stuffit replied.

Sheila: I hear a woman’s voice. Are you out with another woman?

Walter: No, of course not. I’m here at work. Those turkeys have a high-pitched gobble.

Sheila: So when you coming home?

Walter: About daybreak.

Sheila: Daybreak!

Walter: When I get home, I’ll make up for forgetting our anniversary.

“You forgot your wife’s anniversary?” Ms. Stuffit asked.

Sheila: That’s definitely a woman’s voice. You’re spending the night with another woman!

“You should be tarred and feathered.”

“Please, Ms. Stuffit, will you stay out of this?”

Walter: When I explain what’s really happening, we’ll both have a good laugh.

Sheila: I hope you find the living room couch just as funny!

Walter: Sheila, really I can…

Sheila: (Click)

Walter: Sheila?

“I think we got disconnected. Maybe the batteries are dead.”

“I hate to be a party pooper, but we really need to get going,” one of the men informed Ms. Stuffit.

“I suppose you’re right,” Ms. Stuffit said as she returned the phone to her pocket. “Hang the sign around his neck, and let’s get moving.” One of the men retrieved a placard from the SUV and hung it around Walter’s neck. It read, “Save The Turkeys.”

“The sign’s not too tight, is it?” asked the man in black. “I wouldn’t want to ruffle your feathers, so to speak.” The man chuckled at his own humor.

“No, this is fine.”

“Well, you better get going. You have a long walk ahead of you.”

“I don’t suppose you could give me a lift back to the ranch?”

“Sorry, we’re going the other direction.”

Walter headed down the road. At least he had his boots, and the feathers did provide some warmth. Nights in Texas can get pretty chilly. This was not going down as one of his better days.

Oval Office, 10:00 hours

“This better be good. I got a business luncheon at the club around noonish followed by 18 holes of golf.” President Schroeder propped his feet on the corner of his disk. Large pockmarks marred the surface, a reminder of earlier days when he insisted on wearing spurs around the White House. Bart looked at his Chief of Staff who was not smiling.

“Have you seen the morning papers?” asked Al Webber, the President’s Chief of Staff. From the President’s insouciant demeanor, it was obvious he had not. Al threw a copy of the New York Times onto the President’s desk. The headlines proclaimed, “Radical Group Gives the President the Bird.” Accompanying a rather lengthy article was a picture of Walter Brainthorpe strutting around in full plumage. “And here is the Washington Post.” Al held up a copy of the paper, which proclaimed, “President Gets Goosed During Fowl Play.” It too had multiple pictures of a well-feathered, presidential employee in various bird-like poses. “The tabloids are even worse.”

“Well, I’ll be a horned toad.” The President closely studied the photos. “Who’s this guy dressed up like Big Bird?”

Al Webber had been a life-long friend of the President, having met the President during undergraduate training at Texas Tech. It, therefore, had come as no surprise to most political pundits when he was appointed to the position of Chief of Staff. Al opened a thin folder to retrieve the appropriate papers. “Mr. President.” Even though best of friends, Al insisted on addressing the President formally when dealing with official government matters. “It appears that one of your trucks filled with turkeys has been hijacked by a radical group called the Avian Liberation League.”

“Someone stole my turkeys?”

“The reports are somewhat sketchy at this time, but what we do know is one of your employees, by the name of Walter Brainthorpe, stopped to assist a stranded motorist when he was accosted by approximately ten men wearing black ski masks. Although vastly outnumbered, Brainthorpe refused to surrender his turkeys and offered stiff resistance. Apparently, he had been a prizefighter in his youth, with a fairly decent record I might add. He was doing a decent job of holding his own until someone held gas to his nose causing him to pass out. We don’t know for sure, but we think it was ether.”

“What about my turkeys?”

“By the time Brainthorpe came to, the truck and turkeys were gone, and Brainthorpe was covered with feathers. He ran the entire twelve miles back to the ranch to notify the authorities. He has to be one heck of an athlete.”

“I only hire the best.” In reality, the President had little impact on the operations at the ranch, preferring to leave most of the day-to-day decisions to his business manager.

“Brainthorpe says he distinctly heard ribs cracking on three of the individuals, and a fourth has a broken nose. We’ve alerted hospitals in the area to be on the lookout. Brainthorpe is still being debriefed by the FBI. We should have more information later.”

“I should give the guy a medal,” the President suggested.

“Where do you think we should go from here?” Al asked. “The news media is having a field day. We don’t need this kind of publicity. Not during an election year.” As Chief of Staff, voter approval ratings were foremost on Al’s agenda. It had been Al who had masterminded the President’s election in the first place.

“I could give this guy’s wife a personal call and thank the little lady for her husband’s heroism. The media eats that up.” The President picked up his phone and dialed his secretary. “Can you send Veronica in here for a minute?” President Schroeder set the phone back in its cradle. “Got a good crop of White House interns this year.”

Every six months a new set of overly eager interns rotated through the White House, most of whom were political science majors from major universities. An appointment to the White House was considered a major political plum, as it never tarnished the resume of the politically ambitious.

“You need me, Mr. President?” Veronica asked as she entered the Oval Office. She came well prepared with a personal pen and note pad, unaware that the only personal equipment needed was a tight sweater and good-looking legs. She had both.

“I sure do, my dear. And the name’s Bart. We’re very informal around here.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Can you find the home phone number for Walter Brainthorpe? He works for me out at the ranch. I need to talk to his wife.”

“I’ll call the ranch. They’ll have the number.”

President Schroeder inspected Veronica’s legs as she left the room. “Fine looking filly. With legs like that she could go places in government.”

“I think we should play up the fact that Texas now has a Republican governor, and this type of crime never happened when you were governor,” Al suggested, trying to redirect the President back to the more serious problem at hand. “We need to put out a press release to this effect.”

“Let people know this President is coming down hard on crime,” the President added. “We’ll show them what we do to turkey rustlers.”

“Y’all come on in,” the President said in response to the knock on the door.

“Here’s that number you requested,” Veronica said, passing a note to the President.

“You do right fine work, my dear. And do call me Bart.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Say, you got any plans for this afternoon? I got 18 holes of golf to get in. Sometimes I get inspired and need someone to take a few notes. Ya think you could come along?”

“I think I could arrange that,” Veronica replied in what she hoped was a calm voice. Inside, her heart was beating out a romantic melody, her feet were turning to rubber, and she had a sudden urge to pee. This was her first day on the job, and she was already scheduled to accompany the most powerful person on earth on 18 holes of golf.

“If you can excuse me a moment, I’ll give the little lady a call. We can mention that in the press release.” President Schroeder punched in the numbers and waited for it to ring. For a moment, he had considered reversing the charges but decided that would be too tacky. The taxpayers could afford it.

Sheila: Hello?

President Schroeder: Hello, Sheila? This is Bart Schroeder.

Sheila: Who?

President Schroeder: Bart Schroeder, like in the President of these United States.

Sheila: Yeah, right.

President Schroeder: You must be very proud of your husband for what he’s done.

Sheila: Brett, did Walter put you up to this?

President Schroeder: That’s Bart.

Sheila: Whatever.

President Schroeder: We’re very proud of him here in Washington.

Sheila: Brett, you got an extra couch there in Washington?

President Schroeder: That’s Bart. I believe we do. Why do you ask?

Sheila: Because you can tell that two-timing, womanizing scoundrel that when he comes home, he’ll find his things dumped on the front porch. And he’ll need your couch to sleep on. (Click!)

President Schroeder: Sheila?

“The phone got disconnected. Must be something wrong with the phone.”

White House Press Room, 14:00 hours.

Ronald Clark, Press Secretary for the President, stepped up to the microphone. “I have a brief statement to make concerning the cowardly act that occurred yesterday evening. I will entertain no questions.

“Yesterday at about 4:30 p.m. central time, ten to twelve heavily armed terrorists hijacked a shipment of turkeys just outside the Western White House. The lone driver put up a valiant fight causing serious injury to several of the assailants before he was overcome by poisonous gas. Tests are currently being conducted to determine whether it was a nerve agent or mustard gas. The driver is in stable condition and is expected to fully recover. His name is currently being withheld pending notification of all next-of-kin. I believe the President, however, has personally spoken to the driver’s wife who expressed appreciation for the swift government response and the excellent medical care that he has received. The perpetrators of this heinous crime should be considered armed and dangerous. If anyone has any information about the whereabouts of any of these individuals, we are recommending that they immediately notify law enforcement authorities. Please do not try to apprehend them yourselves.”

Somewhere in Uniqueastan, 20:30 hours

The kerosene lamp setting on a rock ledge provided only minimal illumination, creating grotesque shadows on the far wall of the cave. The cave was not large but did provide modest shelter from the elements. The two men sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other did not appear concerned about their humble surroundings. Both men wore turbans and robes common to the locale. Between them, a small, but white-hot, fire licked at the carcass of a large rodent, extracting the natural juices, which dripped down on the fire causing small puffs of yellow flame.

“Ain’t that C-4 you’re burning?” asked one of the men in a heavy accent, obviously a Uniqueastanian.

“Yep,” replied the other in perfect English. A large wart perched on the tip of his nose invited comment, but his menacing eyes dissuaded all but the fool hardy.

“Ain’t that a form of plastic explosive?”

“Yep.” The man with the wart cut off a piece of meat from the rodent with a large knife, elevating it to his mouth with the blade. “Care for a piece?” the man asked the Uniqueastanian.

“I’ll pass.” The Uniqueastanian continued to stare at the burning plastic explosive with unconcealed concern. “You sure burning that C-4 is safe?”

“Yep.” The man with the wart ripped a leg off the carcass and placed the entire leg in his mouth. He skinned all meat from the bone with his teeth and tossed the bone to the side of the cave. A large pile of lizard bones and snake heads confirmed that he had resided in the cave for several days. “Do it all the time. Long as there’s no blasting cap, it only burns.” The Uniqueastanian did not appear convinced.

“I understand your country might be interested in a major purchase.” The Uniqueastanian caressed his AK-47 that lay on the ground by his side. He always liked to know where it was during delicate negotiations.

“Depends on what ya got.” The man with the wart had a fully loaded uzi submachine gun resting comfortably in his lap; however, he preferred his knife at such close quarters, should a difference of opinion develop. The rest of the roasted rodent was tossed into the corner. Maggots could have the leftovers. He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and waited for the Uniqueastanian to elaborate.

“How about a twenty-megaton nuclear bomb. Not too big but can still make a mess. Got it from a Soviet army surplus store. Sort of a going out of business sale.”

“Does it come with a missile?”

“Short-range, ballistic missile. Range about sixty miles, but that’ll cost extra.”

“I think my government would be interested in removing some of these toys from the playground. How much you want?”

“One billion Yankee dollars and ten virgins.”

“One billion Yankee dollars and ten virgins!” Nostrils began to flare, and the American’s eyes became wide as if suddenly infused with drugs. The Uniqueastanian reached for his AK-47 but was too late. A heavy foot came down hard on the weapon, pinning it to the ground. Subtle motions with the large knife discouraged further aggressive behavior, and the Uniqueastanian released his grip on the rifle.

“You people think America has unlimited assets, that all you have to do is ask your exorbitant price and it will automatically flow out of the land of milk and honey. American opulence has boundaries. Our resources are not inexhaustible. We can’t always give in to your greed just because you ask.

The American looked over his nose, past the warty protuberance, and into the eyes of the, now quivering, Uniqueastanian. “Would you consider one billion Yankee dollars and five virgins?”

“Deal.”

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