The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(18)

Aunt Bobbie huffs, shooting my dad a dirty look before walking over next to the poor, dead, cat.

“Sam, will you please do the honors of putting Turd Ferguson into his final resting place?”

With a small nod, he bends down and scoops the cat’s dirty body into his arms as gently as possible. I wince when Turd Ferguson’s head flops back over his forearm and make a vow to God then and there that even if Sam’s penis never works again, even if he becomes severely depressed from years without ejaculating and gains a hundred pounds from stress-eating, I will love him until the day I die. Any man who can cradle a dead animal named Turd Ferguson in his arms so gently and lovingly without once cracking a smile whenever his name is mentioned, is the best man in the entire world.

Sam squats down next to the hole and Aunt Bobbie gives me a sad smile and a nod, indicating I should start my eulogy.

“We are all gathered here to celebrate the life of Turd Ferguson,” I start, hiding my giggle with a cough.

I quickly compose myself and continue. “Um, he was a good cat. Best friend to Aunt Bobbie and, uh, all-around good feline. Not very smart considering he decided to curl up in the wheel well of Sam’s truck for a late afternoon nap, but, I digress.”

Sam slowly leans over, lowering Turd Ferguson into the hole as I try to come up with something else to say about a dumb cat with a stupid name.

Suddenly, the music being piped through the neighborhood goes from the soothing tempo of America the Beautiful by Ray Charles, right into the loud, shouting, voice of Kid Rock as he belts out the start of American Badass.

If you ask me, everything that happened next moved in slow motion, but I’m pretty sure Sam wouldn’t agree.





Chapter 8




Bring Out Your Dead

Sam




As soon as Kid Rock started shouting about tearing down a stage with his own two hands, it was like a bolt of lightning stuck Turd f*cking Ferguson. Who knew Kid Rock’s voice acted like a defibrillator to a dead *? I’d like to take a moment and laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but it all happens so fast that I don’t have time, what with all the screaming and my life flashing before my eyes.

Right as I’m lowering the damn cat into the grave I just finished digging for him, he suddenly jerks in my arms, lifts his head with that one creepy, bulging eyeball, and glares at me. He opens his mouth and lets out a gurgled, half-assed hiss. It’s short and quiet, but it very clearly screams, “I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU FOR TRYING TO BURY ME ALIVE!”.

I barely have enough time to cringe in horror when I see that he only has three, random teeth left in his mouth, before I let out the most unmanly scream that has ever escaped me. Turd Ferguson lets out a loud, angry yowl that I’m assuming can be heard from miles away. Dogs start barking, car horns begin honking, and everyone in the yard starts yelling in fear, right along with me. Except for Aunt Bobbie.

“SWEET JESUS IT’S A MIRACLE! TURD FERGUSON IS ALIVE!” she shouts happily over the screaming, yowling, hissing and Kid Rock suddenly asking, “Are you scared?”.

“GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME! HOLY SHIT GET IT OFF ME!” I scream, as zombie Turd Ferguson digs his claws into the skin of my arms and drags his mangy body up them, still hissing and yowling and looking me straight in the eye the entire time.

Bev stares at me with wide eyes, Aunt Bobbie keeps clapping in glee, and Reggie starts quoting Monty Python in the worst British accent I’ve ever heard.

“Bring out your dead!” Reggie shouts. He changes the tone of his voice to one less booming and then squeaks out, “I’m not dead yet, I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Noel finally realizes that I’m fighting for my life with a previously dead, now very much NOT dead, pissed off cat and rushes over to my side while I frantically shake my arms to try and get Turd Ferguson to let go.

“Oh, my God, what do I do?!” she shouts in a panic while I continue to flail all around and scream like a girl when Turd Ferguson digs his claws in deeper and hisses louder.

“Grab the shovel and knock him off me!” I yell back, in between screams of pain.

“DON’T YOU DARE HIT MY BABY WITH A SHOVEL!” Aunt Bobbie screeches. “Just hold still and calm down! He’s traumatized from that near-death experience. He needs a few minutes to compose himself!”

I try to do as she says. I hold my arm out in front of me with Turd Ferguson perched on top of it, but he won’t stop staring at me with his creepy, googly eye and now there’s foam and bloody spit dripping from his mouth.

I’ve watched The Walking Dead. I consider myself an expert on the zombie apocalypse because of that show, and Alex and I have talked a bunch of times about what we would do in that situation. I’m a Marine, dammit! I’ve gone to war and I’ve studied the art of combat and know how to use every weapon ever made to protect myself and those around me. Regardless, I’m pretty sure that show has taught everyone who watches it what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse, and we all feel a little safer going to sleep at night with this knowledge.

What that show failed to teach everyone, is what the f*ck you’re supposed to do when animals attack! It’s all fun and zombie games until Goddamn Turd Ferguson rises from the dead and wants to eat off your face with his three remaining teeth.

“Holy shit, he’s really mad,” Noel mutters, as the cat’s tongue dangles out of the side of his mouth while he continues hissing and resumes crawling up my arm, leaving a bloody trail behind from his claws.