My Friends and Family

Life is kind of like soccer. At first it looks so simple that anyone can play. So you join in, thinking it’ll be fun. Before long you realize you’ve broken a dozen different rules. Rules you were supposed to have known. Rules everyone else knows but you. It’s only at this point that you come to understand the reason the other players ever allowed you into the game in the first place: to be ridiculed and made an example of.

Then come the penalties.

#

“And that’s my story,” I tell the small assembly of armed turkeys before me. “You asked me to tell my story from the very beginning, in excruciating detail. And I have.”

For what purpose my captors requested this I cannot even begin to imagine. All I know is that they wanted to hear it all. Everything. My life’s story, from the beginning. Truth be told, I’ve actually been waiting for this moment for a long time. I always knew my autobiography would sell like hotcakes. Or sex, though air freshener has long since replaced that in terms of sheer economic sway. Makes sense considering society’s primary constituents are, you know, dead and rotting. Anyway, point is: I’ve been poking and prodding and massaging and workshopping my opening line into perfection for literal years at this point. The sentence I’ve landed on — “If I had to choose my favorite thing about Thanksgiving, I’d say it’s a tossup between pumpkin pie and the impending extinction of the human race.” — is a pretty damn good one if you ask me. I just didn’t ever think that these were the circumstances I’d be forced to reveal it in.

I guess I should probably explain what the hell is going on. After apprehending me at Mr. Anderson’s apartment, Daffy took me into custody for some reason. Captured me and brought me here, the rest of our turkey colleagues at The Division joining him en route. I’ve been dragged to a room anyone born in the last 50 years would recognize instantly. It’s a lavish penthouse suite at the top of the tallest skyscraper in the capital city: the Turkey Supreme’s office.

I face my winged captors and the barrels of their scary guns. They’re all here. All my coworkers from The Division. Agent Daffy. Agent Tweety and Agent Runner. Agent Leghorn. And all the rest. Unarmed though he is — he would never touch something so vile and primitive as a weapon — even our leader is here. The turkey to which our Division reports directly and the de facto ruler of the entire world. The one turkey to rule them all. The one who had roused the troops in the dump and called for my death all those years ago. The Turkey Supreme himself.

Bugs.

His flesh is a writhing mass of rot and parasites. His eyes are open wounds dripping insects and from his exposed esophagus hang leathery strands of dead bloodless intestines purple with disease. His belly is bloated like a waterlogged corpse, a mass of jello-like undead meat, wobbling to its owner’s gobble, swaying back and forth like a sick sea of flesh. And then there’s his smell. It is insultingly vile. It’s my first time getting this close to him. I feel almost compelled to fall to my knees, to worship him, to kowtow before his hideous majesty.

But this is no time for that. All of the agents of The Division — all of my colleagues — surround me. All of them judge me with their knowing avian eyes. Scrutinize me like one might scrutinize a pesky scab before picking at it and cursing the blood that seeps out from underneath. The realization hits me all at once: this is not a good way to be looked at. This is not a good situation I have found myself in. My heart begins to hammer.

Bugs looks out the wide window the size of the entire wall, out over the vast city panorama. In the distance, the day’s final rays of sun are squeezing over the orange skyline. A glowing array is already beginning to come alive on the buildings and the streets of the turkey-populated metropolis. After a long time, Bugs turns to me and speaks. “Are you resentful, Chimp?”

He doesn’t even call me Agent Smith. I feel a lump in my throat. I feel their stares on me. Trying my best to ignore it all, I respond: “Resentful, sir?”

“Of me. Of the first order I ever gave as Turkey Supreme, all those decades ago. The order to capture — even kill — you.”

“Sir,” I say, trying and failing to inconspicuously straighten my disheveled suit, “of course I’m not. Even though I’m the one who… k-killed you, you’ve shown me such immense benevolence that it’s almost hard to believe. An outcast and a criminal no less, a lowly former prisoner like me. This opportunity you’ve given me — this life you’ve given me — it’s more than I could ever have asked for.”

That’s right. I’m Agent Smith. A handpicked “employee” of “the company.” An agent of The Division.

Let me explain. After the abolition of the inhumane Division prison system, the moniker was tacitly passed on to a clandestine government police force composed of specially selected turkeys.

And one human.

Me.

For whatever reason, I was personally chosen for this job. Personally chosen to support The Division. Our ranks operate outside the law, from the shadows, with total freedom and impunity. Our identities are so unknown that most of the general turkey public considers our existence nothing more than a wild conspiracy theory. Our missions — such as the one I was sent on today to ruin Mr. Anderson’s family and his life — are so top secret that not even we understand their purpose. The only one who knows what this is all for, what we’re all working towards, what any of this means — is the Turkey Supreme.

“Not to mention, sir,” I continue, “everything you’ve done for society. I mean this” — I gesture out the window as the darkening vista outside electrifies itself — “all of this. It’s almost unthinkable, especially for someone who grew up in the human world like me. We live in a utopia, sir. There is no other word for it. A perfect society wrought by turkey wings and turkey wings alone.” Gotta admit, the turkeys made some pretty good shit for a species that doesn’t even have opposable thumbs. “As for the fact that most of us — us humans — have been wiped out in the process and are on our way to extinction? Well, I can’t rightly blame you for that, sir. In fact, I thank you for it. And I mean that. I always knew this world would be better off without any people in it. For once in my life, I was right. So thank you, sir. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything you’ve done. We humans could never have achieved anything even remotely close to this.”

“No, Chimp,” the Turkey Supreme agrees, “you couldn’t have.” He turns to face me. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

“... Sir?”

“Chimp,” the Turkey Supreme says, suddenly shifting in mood. His voice is no longer somber, contemplative, instead clear and cold. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sir? Of course you can. You don’t need my permission.”

Some of my colleagues snicker. I supposed a few of them are enjoying watching this. Not all of us get along. And it’s always been a bit difficult being the only human on the team.

Bugs clears his throat. “Chimp, do you know why this office is called The Division?”

I’m taken aback for a moment by the sudden change of subject. But after regaining my bearings, I answer. “Because… well, because we’re a department, right? A bureau with a particular function and a particular goal.”

Silence.

So I double down: “A specific office within the government. Right… sir? Hence we’re a particular ‘division.’ Hence the name.”

More silence. Then, the answer. Not the one I expect: “I supposed that’s one way of looking at it, yes.” As he speaks, his decaying flesh beard, blue from the decades of necrotization, flaps like a flag flying patriotically in the wind.

“Is there another, sir?” I stammer. Shoot. Gotta stay collected. I bite my tongue.

Without warning, Bugs flares up in anger, an unannounced outcry. “Of course there’s another! There’s always another way of looking at things. Another viewpoint, another angle. Chimp, how old are you?”

“... I’m 62, sir.”

“Sixty. Two. You’re 62 years old and you’ve yet to imbibe this simple fact. Well, Chimp. Learn it now and learn it well. There is never not another way to look at things. Never.

“For example,” Bugs continues, turning back to look at the cityscape outside the window and inviting me to do the same. Reluctantly, I cross to his side. When I do, he puts a wing around my shoulder like a patient parent. Like the mother who never wanted anything to do with me. Like the father I only ever had until he slipped on turkey grease and kicked the bucket, who died before he could learn to despise me too. “Look at this city. This society, this world. Our beautiful, perfect home, blessed and everlasting. What do you see when you look at all of this, Chimp? When you look turkey civilization in the eye, really look at her for what she is, what looks back?”

I gulp. The hive of light and warmth and splendor outside burns into me. I am part of it, I realize. Part of something greater. “I said it before sir.” I lick my lips, trying to spread moisture that isn’t there. “It’s utopia.”

“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Sir?”

“A perfect society. A society without flaw. Without fault. Without a single failing. Watertight. Airtight. Perfect in every conceivable way and devoid of shortcoming, devoid of defect. Utterly immaculate. You’d be surprised, Chimp, at how difficult such a world is to convince anyone of.”

Bugs begins to walk the perimeter of the circular room, tracing the ornate tiling on the ground with his path. I don’t follow him. “S-sir? I’m not sure I follow.”

He explains calmly while walking. “This world is rancid, Chimp. On the inside. Spoiled at its very core. Like a fruit overripe and sweet with rot. Smooth, silky, and clean on the outside. But a single bite is all it takes to sink your teeth into the contaminant within. You see, Chimp, it all comes down to perfection. Perfection, I have come to realize over my time in power, as the months turned to years turned to decades, is unacceptable.”

“Unacceptable?” I realize I’m hot. Sweating. My whole body on fire. I don’t understand. My brain can’t keep up. Hasn’t society been trending towards utopic perfection this entire time? Isn’t that what all this has been for? How could perfection be unacceptable?

“Yes,” Bugs tells me, oblivious to or unconcerned by my anxiety. “Unacceptable, in the sense that it is impossible to accept. This perfect world is eating itself, devouring itself from the inside out. Soon, there will be nothing left but void. To avoid this, I needed to reintroduce an element of discord, of conflict, of friction and contention.”

The more he talks, the more frozen in place I feel. It’s insane. Absolute crazy talk. “B-but that’s…” I stammer, “... that’s where the previous world went wrong! Where us humans failed! Everything you’ve been fighting against, sir! We live in harmony now! In peace! People love one another! Care about each other! You have to reconsider!”

“There will be no reconsideration!” He opens his full, fetid wingspan, silencing me. “Are you too blind to see? Too much a fool to understand?! Do you not realize what you and your colleagues have been doing these last years? The true purpose of the missions you have been tasked with? Tearing apart families, incriminating the innocent, spreading lies and sowing the seeds of alienation and resentment. Have you never realized that this has been the mission of The Division all along? To partition and disunify society? To spread hatred and distrust? Dissonance among individuals, suspicion towards the government, disbelief in the value of cooperation and solidarity. Don’t you see, Chimp? To survive, we need Division! A world without Division — it simply doesn’t work!”

I open my mouth to try to refute it. Nothing comes out. Outside, the sun has fully set and the city lights have flared to life, the inevitable darkness engulfing the world stayed only by the unfortunate coincidence called civilization.

Calmly now, wings folded, Bugs says, whispers almost, “For all its shortcomings, for all its failings, human society understood what we have taken decades to learn: that Division is a necessity. An absolute necessity. Without it, we have no future. We were so shortsighted. This world without Division is on the brink of apocalypse. This perfect, immaculate world will not sustain itself much longer. And that is why, Chimp, we need you.”

“M-me?”

“Yes. You. You are the key. The linchpin. The trump card. Our final, secret weapon.”

“But sir, I don’t…”

I’m about to say “understand.” But that’s a lie. I know perfectly well what he’s getting at, and why I’m so crucial to this maniac plan. I know all too well, in fact. God. I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t know anything. I wish I wasn’t here. I wish I wasn’t anywhere. Tears held back for decades simmer in the corners of my eyes, threaten to spill.

“The world thirsts for pain,” Bug tells me calmly, “and hungers for suffering. Yours will do just fine.”

Bugs is holding a small remote. He presses a button on it and a few TVs I haven’t been paying attention to turn on all at once. What I see on them is me.

“Say hello to everyone, Chimp. You’re on national television. Viewership ratings are…”

“98.2 perthent, thir!” Daffy reports.

“Yes,” Bugs says. “And that’s just the official government channel. This is also being streamed online, I’m sure, by every major video outlet out there. This is the event of the year. Just in time for” — he checks his stupid watch — “the fourth Thursday in November. And we all owe you our thanks, friend. Most of the world is watching you right now. Most, in fact, have been listening this entire time. And many, I think, understand what is about to happen.

“Compatriots!” Bugs addresses his worldwide audience. “This man you all see here tonight — this human — he is the one who killed us! But we owe him our thanks: for giving us this second chance at life after death, and for giving our glorious society life anew!”

The tears stream hotter than magma down my punished face. I can’t face the cameras, which are no longer being hidden from me. I can’t face my turkey colleagues, a forest of vile feathers openly mocking me for thinking I had ever been one of them. I turn inward but I can't even bear to face the memories of the humans I once knew. The humans who once knew me. Who once hated me and made me an outcast to show me how deep the currents of their loathing ran. To show me that I didn’t belong and that I never would.

“You are the One, Chimp! The One who always stood apart! A master of Division! A lord of discord! The One who provoked the derision of the world! Nobody ever liked you! Your existence was only barely tolerated! You are practically a genius at being unwanted! At bringing people together in their disgust towards you! And now, you will divide us once again! Two factions! All of us, and you! All of us against you! You are the one who will deliver us from unity and bring Division back to us! So all we want from you, Chimp, is simple. All you need to do is answer one basic question.”

His voice is like a faraway echo in my ringing ears. In truth, I’m barely even listening. You may think this is funny: the fact that all eyes and ears the world over are on me, and I’m hardly even paying attention. But really, there's nothing funny, or even strange, about it. This spotlight that I’m in — I know now that it’s the one I’ve been in my entire life. The glare is unbearable. An audience of invisible arbiters prays for my downfall. My face is burning red. I am five years old. It’s as if some great big uncaring god has simply pinched two points on a timeline together. As if some evil mastermind indifferent to my suffering has simply bridged two logically connected events separated only by wasted time. The only thing you ever learn in life is how to get to grips with pain. The ones who can’t manage that are the ones who check out early. I guess I never got the memo. Well, I understand something now. Something everyone else knew instinctively but that has taken me my entire life to comprehend. The question that kicked all of this off in the first place? It wasn’t a question. Nobody cared what my answer was. I was a nervous string bean of a child wearing bright green felt, for god’s sake. No. The question was a test. A test to determine whether I was one of them, or whether I was something else. I failed that test. I have failed it every second of every minute since. I have failed my life. Nothing has changed. I know exactly what Bugs is gonna say. I know exactly what he’s gonna ask me and how he’s gonna phrase it. But that isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is I already know exactly how I’m gonna answer. And what’s going to happen next. Bugs speaks, and his words are like a sledgehammer to my skull. I know what he is going to say so perfectly and with such certainty that I actually end up mouthing it along with him.

“What are you most thankful for?”