Turkey Shoot

There are two sides to every debate—sometimes more—and usually none of them appeal to you

SHERIFF BUBBA JO JETER had just joined his family for Thanksgiving dinner when his “Bad Things” ring tone sounded. He slammed his carving knife to the table and fished his phone from his pocket. “This better be a cluster fuck of monumental proportions.”

His family heard deputy Cleon’s voice even with the speaker off. “It’s a massacre, Sheriff. The whole town’s gone mad. We’s got dead folks at the Pinnacle of Power Pentecostal Church, the Cracker Barrel, the Hooters, and even the Double Down Dance Hall where they’s having their annual turkey line dance and dinner special.”

Jeter untucked his napkin from his belt and slapped it on the table. His wife, Maisey Mae, wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Watch your language, sugar lump. At least until you dismiss the children from the table.”

He muttered under his breath, wrapped his gun belt around his waist, grabbed his hat and his shotgun, and rushed to his Jeep Wrangler Rubicon with scorpion headlight bulbs, Golight mounted lamps, bull bars, Dura-Flex Skid Steer Tires, hooded vents, SoundOff nForce LED Light Bar, and longhorn steer horns mounted to the hood. He toggled the light bar and siren, backed into the street and rushed through six stop signs and three downtown lights to the courthouse where the other police cars had pulled up and deputies assembled in riot gear. 

“It’s a massacre, Sheriff. The whole town’s gone mad. We’s got dead folks at the Pinnacle of Power Pentecostal Church, the Cracker Barrel, and even the Double Down Dance Hall where they’s having their annual turkey line dance and dinner special.”

As Jeter leaped from his jeep, a window smashed in the courthouse and a semi automatic opened fire from the inside, soon to be joined by second-floor fire from a semi-automatic shotgun. He ducked behind his Jeep as fire from the church blasted out his vehicle’s rear window and blew out his two back tires. 

Goddam it. Those tires cost him (meaning the department) $500 apiece. He fired a few rounds from his Benelli tactical shotgun and crawled to the passenger side, only to take fire from the Double Down Dance Hall catacornered across the street from the church. 

The department’s Bear Cat, paid for with COVID money, parked next to his Jeep and and opened the panel door for him to leap to safety. Cleon slammed the door behind him and opened a vent for his rifle. Jeter reloaded his shotgun. “Sit rep, deputy.”

“It’s turkeys, sir. A rogue band. About a dozen of ‘em. Broke out of farmer Jeffers’ pen and into his personal armory, which is about as sweet a collection of firearms as I ever saw. ”

Jeter leaned back against the far wall and removed his hat. “Well, we’re fucked six-ways from Season’s Greetings.”

Cleon fired a quick burst. “How’s that, sir?”

“It’s turkeys, sir. A rogue band. About a dozen of ‘em. Broke out of farmer Jeffers’ pen and into his personal armory, which is about as sweet a collection of firearms as I ever saw. ”

“Texas is an open carry state. Arrest them and the NRA will cram the Second Amendment up our asses.”

Cleon pulled away from the vent and pulled a wad of tobacco from the pouch in his pocket. “They’s still killed people.”

Jeter stretched his arm for Cleon to share a pinch. “Arrest ‘em for that and we’ll get all the PETA ‘Meat is Murder’ protestors.” He slipped the tobacco underneath his lip. “On the other hand, tween all the people coming in for funerals, and all the gun and animal rights activists, we should get a hefty lift to the local economy.”

Cleon glanced through the vent and unloaded a long burst. “Thanksgivings’s sure gonna suck, but at least we’ll get us a merry Christmas.”