The Dead Birds
of Christmas
by Ed Ahern
“I don’t
like turkey.”
Sarah made
shushing noises. “Phil, it’s Christmas.
Pretend it’s veal. Or pork.”
“It
tastes like greasy cardboard. I’ll tell my
brother I’ve gone Vegan.”
“They’ve
been to your cookouts. They already know you
scrape vegetables off your plate.”
“Yeah,
but anything is better than butt-stuffed avians.
What about a dietary restriction? I’m
allergic to bird meat, ask for a burger instead?”
Sarah sighed.
“We’ve been going to your brother’s
family for Christmas for almost a quarter century,
and you’ve never told him you hate his
turducken. Either man up and tell him or suffer
in silence.”
Phil went
silent, but refused to suffer. He brooded, but
only came up with one idea. He called a friend
suspected of pyromaniac tendencies. “Rob,
how could I set fire to a deep-frying turducken?”
“Ah. What
fun. Not that I’d know anything about this,
but you’d need a hefty accelerant to ignite
the mix. What does your brother fry the birds in?
“He’s
a traditionalist- uses lard.”
“That’s
heat-stable, you’ll need more than lighter
fluid. Just hypothetically, I’d get a
squeeze bottle, the cylindrical kind you can hide
in the breast pocket of a jacket. Then fill the
bottle with 150-proof vodka. If anyone smells
alcohol, claim you’d been drinking. It’s
plausible denial.”
“And then?”
“Chant
‘Hecate, hunc cremari quaeso.”
“Hah?”
“Just do
it. Then squirt vodka into the fryer and dribble
the dregs down the side so it ignites the mix.
Hide the squirt bottle and yell ’FIRE!’
Then watch the fun.”
“Wow.
Thanks. I owe you.”
“Pay me
back by taking a phone video. I, ah, keep an
anthology of this stuff.”
###
The deep fryer
erupted like Etna, and the stench of burnt bird
filled the yard. Phil’s brother cried as he
removed the charred corpses. Then he licked his
fingers, smiled, and put the trimmed bird bits on
a dinner platter.
###
Phil
reluctantly cut into the smoky turducken chunks
on his plate, and slowly chewed. And smiled at
his brother. “It’s a miracle, tastes
like bacon.”
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