Cesar and his turkeys crept up the stairs from the dank basement into the kitchen. A chill ran down their giblets when they saw the oven door leering at them out of the darkness. It quietly taunted them, "I've known your kind. And I'll know each and every one of you too. Just give it time. There's no use fighting." It was a curiously verbal oven. Or so it seemed.
Cesar mastered himself, gobbling under his breath; ultimately he had no quarrel with an appliance. "Focus," his inner voice said, "on the task at hand. Down the hallway, second door on the left." He floated down the corridor like a barnyard ninja, axe in hand, nerves taut and ready.
And then a muffled sob pierced his ear like whatever it is those people at Claire's use to pierce ears with. Cesar wheeled around back towards the kitchen, signaling the others to follow. And there was Sylvester sobbing and beating his fists impotently on the oven door.
Cesar didn't hesitate. He swung the axe with deadly grace, artfully detaching Sylvester's head. "Fool!" he hissed.
The other turkeys were frozen, transfixed by the spectacle, horrified by the bloodied axe and the malevolent Cesar. His gaze turned towards theirs and it was as if he was basting them with fear. The tension couldn't hold, something had to give.
And then light invaded the kitchen like a blitzkrieg. There stood Farmer Earl decked out in longjohns and his Colt 45. "Dumb turkeys" he said softly.
And then he started to shoot.
Happy Thanksgiving!!! Keep an eye on your turkey; they're crafty beasts.