Bloodsucking fiends: a love story

hair fell out when he started scuba diving."
    "Fuck you, Sime."
    "Save your money, Barry." Simon moved on. "This dark-skinned fellow is Lash, dairy and non-foods. He says he's studying business at Frisco State, but he's really a gunrunner for the Bloods."
    "And Simon wants to be Grand Dragon for the Klan," Lash said.
    "Be good or I won't help you with your master's feces."
    "Thesis," Lash corrected.
    "Whatever."
    "What do you do, Sime?" Tommy asked.
    "I am on a quest for the perfect big-haired blonde. She must be a beautician and she must be named Arlene, Karlene, or Darlene. She must have a bust measurement exactly half that of her IQ and she must have seen Elvis sometime since his death. Have you seen her?"
    "No, that's a pretty tall order."
    Simon stepped up, nose to nose with Tommy. "Don't hold back, I'm offering a cash reward and videotape of her trying to drown me in body lotion."
    "No, really, I can't help you."
    "In that case, I work the can aisle."
    "When's the truck due?"
    "Half an hour: twelve-thirty."
    "Then we've got time for a few frames."
    There are no official rules for the sport of turkey bowling. Turkey bowling is not recognized by the NCAA or the Olympic Committee. There are no professional tournaments sponsored by the Poultry Farmers of America, and footwear companies do not manufacture turkey bowling shoes. Even the world's best turkey bowlers have not appeared on a Wheaties box or the "Tonight" show. In fact, until ESPN became desperate to fill in the late-night time slots between professional lawn darts and reruns of Australian-rules football, turkey bowling was a completely clandestine sport, relegated to the dark athletic basement of mailbox baseball and cow tipping. Despite this lack of official recognition, the fine and noble tradition of "skidding the buzzard" is practiced nightly by supermarket night crews all over the nation.
    Clint was the official pinsetter for the Animals. Since there was always wagering, Clint's religion forbade his playing, but his participation, in some part, was required to ensure that he would not squeal to the management. He set ten-quart bottles of Ivory liquid in a triangle pattern at the end of the produce aisle. The meat case would act as a backstop.
    The rest of the crew, having chosen their birds from the freezer case, were lined up at the far end of the aisle.
    "You're up, Tom," Simon said. "Let's see what you got."
    Tommy stepped forward and weighed the frozen turkey in his right hand-felt its frigid power singing against skin.
    Strangely, the theme from Chariots of Fire began playing in his head.
    He squinted and picked his target, then took his steps and sent the bird sliding down the aisle. A collective gasp rose from the crew as the fourteen-pound, self-basting, fresh-frozen projectile of wholesome savory goodness plowed into the soap bottles like a freight train into a chorus line of drunken grandmothers.
    "Strike!" Clint shouted.
    Simon winced.
    Troy Lee said, "Nobody's that good. Nobody."
    "Luck," Simon said.
    Tommy suppressed a smile and stepped back from the line.
    "Who's up?"
    Simon stepped up and stared down the aisle, watching Clint set up the pins. A nervous tick jittered under his left eye.
    Strangely, the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly began playing in his head.
    The turkey was heavy in his hand. He could almost feel the giblets pulsing with tension – the Butterball version of the Tell-Tale Heart. He strode to the line, swinging the turkey back in a wide arc, then forward with an explosive yell. The turkey rocketed, airborne, three quarters of the way down the aisle before touching down and slamming through the soap bottles and into the base of the meat case, smashing metal and severing wires in a shower of sparks and smoke.
    The store lights flickered and went out. The huge compressors that ran the store's refrigeration wound down like dying airliners. The smell of ozone and burned insulation filled the air. A moment of dark silence – the Animals stood motionless, sweating, as if waiting for the deadly sound of an approaching U-boat. Battery back-up modules switched on safety lights at the end of each aisle. The crew looked from Simon, who stood at the line with his mouth hanging open, to the turkey, sticking, blackened and burned, in the side of the meat case like an unexploded artillery shell.
    They checked their watches: exactly six hours and forty-eight minutes to exact repairs and stock the shelves before the manager