“From now on,” he said to no one, lighting a cigarette, “we stick to drive-bys. No more mods.”
Outside, a single, stray feather drifted past the window. And for just a second, the shadow of a turkey glided over Grove Street.
“CJ, what the hell?” Sweet’s voice crackled over the cell phone. “I just tried to buy a Sprunk from the machine, and a turkey tried to tax me. A whole flock just took over the Pizza Stack. They’re using the dough rollers as a treadmill.”
CJ leaned back in his recliner at the Johnson House, a cheap six-pack of beer sweating on the table beside him. The San Andreas sun was setting over Grove Street, painting the cul-de-sac in shades of orange and gold. He’d just finished “End of the Line,” and for the first time in years, the streets were quiet. Too quiet.
CJ blinked. The familiar hum of the city was gone. In its place was a sound he’d only ever heard from his Auntie’s kitchen on the fourth Thursday of November: a deep, resonant, synchronized .
CJ didn’t have a gun. He had a fork. A single, plastic fork from Cluckin’ Bell.
The Gobbler of Grove Street