The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 2

  I, however, am not eating a bag of chocolate chips. I am busy staring at my new “pet.” I suppose it is attractive, as far as poultry goes. It has reddish feathers and a sassy black tail. And that weird red flap on the top of its head. Which probably makes this a rooster, technically speaking.

  But despite its regal bearing, this rooster has done nothing but cluck.

  Cluck, cluck, cluck.

  It has loads to say but nothing of real substance. I think its eyes are even pointing in different directions.

  I don’t blame my parents. If anything, I blame myself. I really thought I was raising them better than this.

  “Do you have any chicken supplies?” asks Darvish.

  Up until this exact moment, I have been blissfully unaware of the existence of chicken supplies. I shake my head. “You mean chicken food?”

  “Yeah. And a chicken food dish. And a chicken water dish. And a chicken litter box. Whatever chicken stuff that chickens need.”

  He’s right. My parents have given me a practice pet and tossed me into the deep end with no chicken supplies. Those two are wily. But I am onto their games. If I’m going to show the depths of my common sense and responsible nature, I clearly require chicken-related accessories.

  It’s time for a trip to PetPlanet.

  I love PetPlanet because you can bring your own pets into the store with you. Of course, I have never had a pet to bring into PetPlanet before. Bub left this world too soon. I tried to take Rascal there one time, but we all know how that little caper turned out.

  But now I have…

  … a chicken. I am going to have to get used to saying that.

  “I just realized something,” I tell Darvish. “I’m going to walk into PetPlanet with an animal of my very own for the first time ever.”

  “Your own pet!” he says. “That’s kind of exciting for you.”

  “Well, not a real pet,” I clarify. “But a living, breathing animal-shaped companion.”

  “I’ve done it loads of times with Rascal. It’s no big deal.”

  “Life holds so few perks,” I say. “Quit ruining this for me.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “How are you going to get your chicken there?”

  He’s right again. I have no chicken collar. (Item #1 on the shopping list: chicken collar.)

  And I have no chicken leash. (Item #2.) So I tie a piece of rope around my chicken’s neck.

  Well, I try. This chicken is having none of it. It jumps up on the bed and pecks at Darvish violently until my best friend flees to the safety of my beanbag chair.

  “Hey!” Darvish cries. “That bird has problems!”

  Despite Darvish’s experience with animals, I do not think my practice pet likes him. Maybe it senses some character flaw I have not yet discovered.

  Having claimed my bed as its own, the chicken nuzzles in next to me and does the chicken version of purring.

  “Aw,” says Darvish. “I think it likes you!”

  If this were a dog, my heart would be melting. If this were a puppy, I would cherish this moment forever. But it is a chicken. So instead of having an emotional moment, I take advantage of its misplaced trust. I quickly lasso its neck with my makeshift leash and we take our first walk to PetPlanet.

  Only this bird seems to resent being plucked from its roost on my bed. Either that, or chickens just don’t like to walk. So we take more of a drag to PetPlanet.

  My chicken clucks loudly the entire way. Perhaps it is excited.

  Who can blame it? Being my gift AND getting to go to the store? This chicken is having a big day.

  6

  There is not much to do in Middling Falls. We have a library. A small zoo. A bowling alley. We are also the albino squirrel capital of the northwest, so that’s a big deal if you are into really pale rodents.

  Otherwise, this town is a wad of lint in the belly button of the modern world. Which means Buy-Buy Plaza is usually crowded.

  Because of that, the parking lot is always under construction.

  It stinks of fresh asphalt and sweaty construction workers.

  And all manner of people hover on the sidewalk outside the stores begging for signatures and charitable donations.

  Darvish’s bookish demeanor makes him an easy mark. The poor guy has sucker written all over him.

  The Pixie Scout girls attack first, hawking their baked goods. “’Scuse me, sir!” they say, assaulting my personal space bubble with their perkiness. “Wanna buy some Pixie Scout cookies? Only three dollars a box!”

  “No thanks.”

  Darvish starts to slow down. “But, Rex, I LOVE Pixie Scout cookies! Especially the ones with the chocolate and coconut!”

  See? He’s a wounded gazelle among these predators, waiting to be devoured. I grab his shirt and keep walking.

  A teenager waves a clipboard in our faces. He’s wearing a tie and a big button that says PUPAE. “Join PUPAE, guys! The animals need you!”

  “No thanks.” Keep walking. That’s the key.

  “Donate to the Loyal Order of the Wombat!” screeches a guy in a fuzzy hat.

  “No thanks.”

  “Get your tickets to the Firemen’s Taco Tuesday!” yells a toothy fireman.

  “REX!” yells Darvish. “TACOS!”

  I pick up my pace. Luckily for him, he’s got me for a friend. Otherwise his entire allowance would go to Pixie Scout cookies, the Wombat Lodge, and firehouse tacos. It is good I am here to save him from himself.

  We’re almost to the door of PetPlanet. Glorious pet-centric respite awaits.

  But suddenly… we see it.

  At first, it looks like an arcade game from the eighties.

  But I quickly see it’s not a video game. It’s an old-style carnival game.

  And it’s not from the eighties. It’s much older. And much cooler.

  There’s a joystick and several buttons. But instead of a screen, there’s a glass case that holds a life-size Grim Reaper.

  His black hood rests on his bone-white skull. Skeletal hands stick out from the sleeves, with their palms open, beckoning us to play. Old-fashioned letters across the top display the name of the game: THE REAPER’S CURSE.

  I turn to Darvish. “This is worth stopping for. How did something this cool wind up in Middling Falls?”

  He looks skeptical. “I don’t know. Looks weird. How do you play?”

  “Who cares?” I say. “Look! It only costs twenty-five cents!”

  I fish around in my pocket. Nothing.

  “Loan me a quarter, Darvish.”

  “Loan?” he clarifies, rooting in his pocket. “You’re going to pay me back?”

  “Probably not,” I confess.

  He puts the quarter in my palm and I stick it into the coin slot.

  We wait. Nothing happens.

  “Aw, man,” says Darvish. “You wasted a perfectly good quarter for nothing. It’s busted.”

  “It’s vintage,” I say. “Give it a chance.”

  I bang on the front. Nothing.

  I kick it. Nothing.

  I grab the case and try to shake it into submission. The thing weighs a ton. It must be made of solid iron.

  “Is it plugged in?” asks Darvish.

  I look around the side of the case and see something disturbing. The power cord is plugged into the wall. But I had forgotten about my chicken.

  It’s pecking curiously at the plug. It’s like watching a toddler shove a grape up its nose. You know you should stop it, but you kind of want to see what happens. I’m not saying I’m proud of these thoughts. I’m just being honest.

  And then it happens.

  The chicken pees. Right on the plug.

  “Interesting fact,” says Darvish. “Did you know chickens don’t technically pee? Their pee mixes with their poop and it all comes out in kind of a combo pile. They don’t pee or poop. They peep.”

  My friend has a knack for repulsive trivia. “Well, my chicken is doing a peep right on the electrical cord.” This bird is no
t the brightest crayon in the box.

  Sparks fly and there’s a small series of zapping sounds. Darvish and I jump. But the chicken seems fine.

  There’s a hum from the game and it roars to life.

  “I told you it just needed to warm up.”

  The Grim Reaper inside starts to move. He puts his bony hand near a small chute and my quarter falls into his palm. Behind him, a little sign spins into place:

  PLAY AGAINST THE GRIM REAPER

  WIN AND YOUR WISH IS GRANTED

  LOSE AND SUFFER THE REAPER’S CURSE!

  “Whoa!” cries Darvish in realization. “This is just like that old movie from the eighties.”

  “What movie?” I ask.

  “You know,” he persists. “The one with Tom Hanks.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He wishes to be tall,” Darvish says. “Or grown. What was it called? Tall? Large?”

  “No idea,” I tell him. “Unlike you, I do not spend my time on ancient movies from a bygone era.”

  The Grim Reaper points to a little light-up sign on the front of the case:

  DO YOU CHALLENGE THE REAPER’S CURSE?

  “This is creepy,” Darvish mutters. “My people don’t like skeletons.”

  “What people are you talking about?” I ask. “People from Pakistan?”

  “No,” he says. “Scaredy-cats.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” I say, nudging him. “This is the coolest game I’ve ever seen.” I reach out and tap the YES button.

  “Well, be careful,” says Darvish. “It didn’t work out good for Tom Hanks.”

  Behind the Grim Reaper, a new sign lights up:

  MAKE YOUR WISH

  “What are you going to wish for?” asks Darvish.

  “Easy,” I say. I look at the Grim Reaper right in his glowing eyes. “I wish I had a real-live pet, instead of this chicken.”

  The Reaper in the case jerkily comes to life. It puts the quarter on the counter in front of it. Its skeleton fingers pull out three tin cups and place them in a row before me. The Reaper moves the third cup over the quarter.

  FOLLOW THE COIN lights up.

  The Grim Reaper begins to slide the cups around the counter. It rearranges them. It figure-eights them. It swaps them around, always keeping my quarter hidden. I follow the cups with my eyes, tracking my quarter’s movements. After several seconds and a few especially tricky switches, it stops. Another sign lights up:

  FIND THE COIN

  “Easy,” I say.

  “Dude, it’s only supposed to look easy,” says Darvish. “This is the Grim Reaper you’re dealing with.”

  “This is a skeleton robot from 1935 I’m dealing with,” I say. “I think I can handle him.”

  There are three buttons next to the joystick. They are labeled LEFT, MIDDLE, and RIGHT. I punch the MIDDLE button.

  The Reaper reaches out with its hand and grasps the middle cup. It raises the cup to reveal…

  … nothing. The quarter isn’t there.

  The Reaper’s head rears back, lower jaw moving as a sinister laugh comes from the machine. It removes the cups from view. All the little signs turn off and the machine grows quiet, like it has reset to its starting position.

  There’s a little “ding” sound from the bottom of the machine. I look down. The Reaper’s machine spits out a small card from a slot in the front.

  YOU LOST!

  YOUR WISH SHALL NOT BE GRANTED.

  MY CURSE NOW LEAVES YOU THUS ENCHANTED.

  A REAL-LIVE PET, THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE WISHED.

  A PET YOU’LL GET, BUT THERE’S A TWIST!

  FOR ANIMALS OF EVERY SIZE

  WILL PASS AWAY, THEN OPEN EYES!

  WHEN DEATH LEAVES QUESTIONS OF MYSTIQUE

  THEIR SPIRITS LINGER, EYELIDS PEEK

  TO FIND THEIR ANSWERS… YOU THEY’LL SEEK!

  THIS IS THE ENDING OF MY VERSE

  AND NOW, ENJOY THE REAPER’S CURSE.

  “Well, that’s weird and horrifyingly specific,” I say. “Let’s get my chicken supplies and get out of here.”

  “Oh my gosh, dude,” Darvish says. His voice is suddenly choked and strained. He tugs on my sleeve. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

  I turn slowly around toward the parking lot. There, at the end of my rope, is the chicken.

  Or what used to be the chicken. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  My chicken is dead. It’s been squashed paper-thin by the steamroller that is repaving the asphalt.

  I am stunned into silence.

  I am aghast.

  I am gobsmacked.

  “I told you not to challenge the Reaper’s Curse!” says Darvish. “I think I’m going to be sick!”

  My poor chicken. It never had a chance. True, it was hardly a real pet. But despite its shortcomings, I would never wish this fate on it. This flat, squished fate.

  For some reason, I think to check the time. And I realize that it has been one hour and fourteen minutes since I came into possession of the chicken. It’s a new record for me. It’s forty-seven minutes longer than Bub lasted.

  I’m pretty sure I’m making progress on this whole responsibility thing.

  I look down at the card in my hand. I turn it over. There’s a picture of a skull on the front, shrouded in green mist. I could swear it’s laughing.

  Classic.

  7

  Oddly enough, my parents do not seem to think that I am making progress on this whole responsibility thing.

  I’d rather not talk about the events of the rest of the day. Events that involved me having to explain how I allowed my brand-new chicken to be crushed into a poultry pancake.

  Events that involved my mom shaking her head and rubbing her eyes.

  Events that involved my dad uttering phrases like “never getting a dog,” and “go to your room,” and “where is my anti-anxiety medication?”

  Events that involved Darvish throwing up. (That kid has a weak stomach when it comes to flattened animals.)

  Please stop pestering me for details. I said I don’t want to talk about it.

  What I will talk about is how I’m lying in my bed. Which, right now, is about the furthest place from getting a chocolate Lab as anywhere on earth. I’m still dazed from the way this rotten day has gone from bad to worse.

  I know it’s selfish to feel bad for myself. I should feel bad for the chicken. And I do. Proper pet or not, nobody deserves to perish at the mercy of a rampaging steamroller.

  I pull the Grim Reaper’s card out of my pocket. It has to be just a coincidence that my chicken dies a gruesome death just seconds after I lose a bet with Death. But it’s an awfully weird one.

  I shiver. My room is suddenly freezing. My dad must be punishing me further by turning the heat down.

  That’s when I hear a low scraping sound. It’s a kind of a shuffling noise, like a sack of Puppy Chow being dragged across the floor. I sit up and look around the room, but of course there’s nothing there. I know I’m alone.

  A chill runs up my spine. I can practically see my breath forming in the dimness before me, that’s how frosty it’s gotten. The room has started to darken as twilight creeps in through the window blinds. But I don’t get up to turn on the light. I just lie there. I’m in mourning. For my birthday. For my dignity. Oh yeah, and for my chicken.

  I shiver again. The poor thing. It didn’t even have a name, for crying out loud.

  “I didn’t even have a name, for crying out loud,” somebody says.

  Only, there are currently no other somebodies in my room.

  I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head, but there’s nothing there.

  Which rates about a six on the Spooky Meter. The hairs on my arms stand on end.

  I look at my bedroom door. Closed.

  I look at my closet. Open and empty.

  I look at the foot of my bed.

  A dead chicken looks back at me.

  My blood runs
cold. I scramble back, knocking my lamp off the table.

  It hovers over the end of my bed, this farmyard phantom. It is pale. And squashed. A ghostly fritter of its former self. It gazes at me with a cold, dead stare. Sickly green vapors rise from the fowl vision before me.

  I try to talk, but my breath catches. I clear my throat, take a ragged, shaky breath, and attempt to communicate with the apparition before me.

  “What are you?” I whisper.

  But I know what it is. There is only one possible explanation.

  It is the ghost of my dead chicken. A vengeful spirit. A specter. Tortilla-flat and ready to exact its revenge upon me.

  Which rates about a nine on the Spooky Meter. Which should now be referred to as the Horrifically Hideous Spooky Meter of Doom.

  Unless the Horrifically Hideous Spooky Meter of Doom is a scale of one through five. In which case, it rates a five.

  Unless the Horrifically Hideous Spooky Meter of Doom is like the DEFCON scale, where one is high and five is low. In which case, what genius came up with that idea? Like people have time to perform a mathematical conversion when they are in the presence of something horrifically hideous.

  I shiver again.

  Then its beak opens. I tremble in anticipation of what it will say. What possible otherworldly condemnation can it utter at me for allowing its recent and undignified demise?

  Two words issue forth from its pitch-black squawk-box of horror.

  “Hiya, bestie!”

  8

  I’m having a conversation with my dead chicken. A weird, weird conversation.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Hiya, bestie!’” the chicken says.

  I look around the room for garlic or a wooden stake. Nothing. My dad’s been tidying my room again without asking. I hold my fingers in a cross before me. “What do you want, spirit?” I ask it.

  “I dunno.”

  “What are you doing here, phantom?” I demand.

  “I dunno.”

  “How come you can talk, apparition?”

  “I’ve always talked. I have a lot to say.”