The pounding on door of the Dick Tracer agency came at the dead of night. 1.32Am. I remember it clearly, ‘cause it was the night before Christmas and the old lady had just “evicted” me from my home and her life. I was watching a god awful Christmassy porno, Santa Visits 2. Having never seen the prequel, I was understandably lost in the plot. At this moment, Santa had reached the double D’s in his alphabetic list and Miss Daisy Delight was about to convince him she wasn’t “a bad, bad girl”. I wasn’t convinced – everyone’s guilty.  

   I pulled up my pants and grabbed a taser hidden in the bottom left drawer. I’ve had my share of pissed husbands kicking down on my door over the years. Unfortunately, the bastards that were stupid enough to get caught were also the ones stupid enough to pull this kind of stunt. A few thousand volts always helps in the case of dim bulbs.

   By the time I got to the door, the pounding had stopped. Something was wrong though, the cat-flap was busted open. Something very large had forced its way in through the too small opening. Whatever it was, it was now in the office and it was bleeding something foul on the floor. I ran a finger through the liquid trail the intruder left behind and gave it a sniff - it smelled like a mixture of soy sauce, oil and blood.

   Stalking after the marinade-bleeding intruder, I left the lights off. This was my home turf. Before getting hitched I used to live in this office, and now I found myself calling this dump ‘home’ again. The trail lead to the small kitchen tucked away at the back of the small apartment. I heard the rattling of metal; my “guest” must have found the knives. I gripped my taser tighter.

   Coming to the kitchen door, I counted to five, then kicked the door open with the taser aimed straight. What greeted me behind the door was pretty damn weird.

   It was a turkey. A pale, uncooked, marinated turkey. No one else.

   I looked at the turkey, and it seemed to look back at me. Though it had no head, so I couldn't be sure. We stood stock still for minutes, the full moon basting the (un)dead turkey in ghostly light. Then it moved, moved by its own volition! I considered hitting it to see if it was attached to anything, but kept my distance; half out of fear, half out of curiosity at what it would do next. Mama always said “don’t beat the meat, whether it be lubricated or not”. Never could tell if she meant it in a cooking or sexual context.

   The turkey appeared to be trying pull a Sylvia Plath, attempting to stuff itself into the slightly too small oven. “That’s not going to fly, bird,” I said to the suicidal turkey corpse. It stopped shoving itself into the oven, turned around and put its wings on its drumsticks, looking as disapproving as a headless stuffed bird could. It reminded me of my estranged wife.

   It suddenly moved towards me, so I backed the hell away. Sure a taser could fry a ten pound turkey, but if decades of watching zombie movies had taught me anything, it had taught me that perky blondes died first and the undead were tough as hell.  My heart pounded against my chest like an African war drum. I wondered why you’d need drums to go to war.

   Seemingly losing interest in me, the turkey turned its attention elsewhere. I reached for the Ginsu knife on the kitchen sideboard. This blade was sharp, proving itself through years of twinkie opening services. African war drums in my head, I drove the knife into the turkey. It didn’t even flinch. "But wait, there's more," I screamed, pulling the blade out and plunging it into the turkey again. This time, I drew its thick stuffing blood. In the background, Miss Daisy Delight moaned in pleasure.

   It turned with surprising agility, spraying me with greasy stuffing. I lost my grip on the knife, and left it lodged in the turkey’s back. Rearing on its mighty drumsticks, it looked more farcical than fearsome. Perhaps losing its balance due to the additional weight of the knife or slipping on the pool of grease it had made, the turkey moonwalked into a niche of the kitchen cabinet, caught the Ginsu’s handle there, and bisected itself, Kill Bill style.

   The oven ringed, preheated to 325°f.

   Using my considerable detecting skills, I concluded that the fowl beast intended to cook itself. I stuffed the now fitting halves into the oven, and set it to three hours. “Burn in Hell,” I whispered to my fallen enemy as I slammed the oven door shut on it.

   “And that’s why I’m standing here, at your door, on Christmas with turkey as a peace offering,” I explained to my wife. To cut a long story short, I told her I bought it at the local market.

   “That’s sweet of you, Dan. Sure you don’t want to join me and my mother? it looks like a lot of turkey.”

   “Nah, seeing it raw kinda put me off it.”