A Luchador Family Thanksgiving

Wednesday afternoon. The kids milled about the house, kept home from school for holiday reasons. ReVival 60 loomed large from across the great nation. A six-hour flight to LAX and one hour in smog-choked SoCal traffic to Long Beach is not something anyone should aspire to accomplish on a red-eye, especially during a holiday week. Tom Battaglia thought he would take his time traveling across the country, and his family enthusiastically decided to see him off on his last show before Colossus. That meant Thursday was a travel day.

It’s very hard to cook a turkey dinner with all the trimmings and get to the airport in time for TSA to pat you down ahead of a last-minute flight to the left coast.

That meant Thanksgiving dinner would have to be on Wednesday.

A modest ten-pound turkey roasted in the oven, filling the house with aromas of poultry fat rendering, crisping the skin and watering the mouths of all within smelling distance. Tom planned for a dinner for five people this year: himself, the kids, his wife, and brother Michael, finally back on his feet and recovered enough to live life normally. Of course, Tom had to go up against the man responsible for Mikey’s year-long recovery this week, a third tilt with a rabid alligator man, second only to the erstwhile Jared Sykes for matches against Paxton Ray. For that reason, they didn’t talk shop.

The turkey was still a few hours out from being finished. Cranberry sauce only needed a can opener and a plop into the ceramic turkey dish. Stuffing was in the bird. The potatoes wouldn’t take too much time, and neither would the brussels sprouts. The Pillsbury Dough Boy was eschewed this year for a couple of fresh, crusty rolls from Sarcone Bakery right up the street and around the corner. A low-key Thanksgiving for a high-key stressful year.

All Tom needed to do was sit on the couch and watch movies with his wife and brother. Usually, the television would be tuned to the Lions game at this hour, but the day early meant they’d be airborne for that game and most of the Cowboys game. Thankfully this year, the Cowboys were putrid, and there was no need to sweat out the result - Cooper Rush vs. Tommy DeVito is a matchup more appropriate for the UFL, not a spotlight game for the NFL. He sighed and relaxed as he queued up the first of many holiday favorite movies for the run-up to Christmas, Home Alone. Before he could reach his arm around his wife though…

DING DONG

“Jesus Christ, who could that be?”

“I dunno, maybe it’s the Salvation Army comin’ early?” replied his brother.

Tom shrugged it off as he got up to answer the door. What, or whom, he saw through the window on his storm door caused his eyes to bug wide open.

“HELLO LUCHADOR!”

There she was, black peacoat, red scarf, black-and-fuschia camo leggings, black Doc Martens, her signature black eyepatch, and, well, a burlap sack flung over her shoulder.

“Pom. What a surprise.”

“What do you mean a surprise? Sure, I’ve been pretty busy all year, and, well, I didn’t say this year would be the year, but we always talked about me coming over for Thanksgiving! I love your silly American holidays and their excess.”

“I wish I would’ve known. I only made enough for who’s here now.”

“Now? I thought tomorrow was Thanksgiving! Or else I would’ve brought something cooked.”

Chills shot up Tom’s spine as he realized what was in the sack.

“Pom, ReVival 60 is Friday. We’re having dinner early.”

“Ah, well, you know it’s hard to keep up when things are anymore now that I’m on the run from your hayseed nephew’s black ops, and I can’t stop fistfighting with the alpha bird, and well, it’s just been a year. But hey, now you’ll have food for when you get back!”

She plopped the sack on the floor right in Tom’s foyer.

“The fuck is that,” remarked Tam from her cozy spot on the sofa.

“You don’t wanna know, babe,” Tom replied.

“No, I think we do wanna know, bruh,” remarked his brother.

“I thought you didn’t like… that kind of bird, Pom.”

“Oh, well, you get used to it! It actually isn’t bad if you dry brine it in enough MSG to bring Uncle Roger to orgasm and then serve it with XO sauce and a little bit of sauteed bok choy.”

“What is it? This is my living room.”

“It’s…”

Pom cut off Tom.

“It’s one of those bird men I’m always fighting! No head, of course, and it’s already been butchered and trimmed of the nasty parts. You can’t make gravy from those giblets.”

Tam dry-heaved. As she looked up, she saw Old Max, the taxidermied three-legged goat that Zapp Scatino brought down from the attic and then dry-heaved again.

“I have to go use the bathroom,” she remarked as she hauled ass upstairs.

“Pom, we have plenty of food, you can just bring the birdman back to your rental or whatever, please.”

“I don’t have a rental! I had to take Q*uber here.”

“Don’t you mean Uber?”

“No, Garry has spies within all the usual rideshare apps, Uber, Lyft, even that experimental hyperspace shuttle from Curiosity Industries. I literally had to ride here on the back of an arcade game character from the ‘80s.”

“Q*Bert?”

“No, I don’t have the money for him! That’s for premium customers, I’ve been on the lam and had to spend all my cash on survival. I had to hitch a ride with one of the barrels from Donkey Kong. Let me tell you, it wasn’t a smooth trip at all.”

Tom let out a deep sigh as he grabbed the burlap sack and carried it out back to the garbage cans as Pom settled in on the loveseat next to Mikey. He wearily ventured over to the stairs to call up to his wife that it was safe to come back down until he was interrupted again…

DING DONG

“Jesus…”

He went over to the front door again, opening to find a hulking mass of man, self-asserted as all natural, in front of him.

“I smell lean protein.”

“Goddammit Chick.”

“WHERE IS THE LEAN PROTEIN, PUNY LUCHADOR?!?!”

Tom groaned loud enough to be heard at City Hall.

“It’s still cooking, Chick. Do you want to get salmonella?”

Chick Grillbreast used all three of his brain cells to think hard about the question posed to him. He stood there, in his tank top and spandex shorts and weight belt and shitty little boots in the chilly Philadelphia November air, thinking of how to parse the answer. Several cars passed. Tam came back downstairs, went right into the kitchen, fixed herself a negroni, and sat back down. Neighbors started to gawk. Finally, he answered.

“NO, SILLY. I DON’T WANT THAT FATTY FISH. I WANT THE, UH, UM, uh, hey what’s the name for the bird that’s not chicken but kinda looks like chicken? That all of you eat on Thanksgiving?”

“Turkey?”

“Wait, that’s the same as the country? I was there earlier this year! I think I might have altered their geography.”

“No you didn’t, Chick, that was all just magical realism. It reset.”

“...”

“No, it’s not the country, Chick. But it is in the oven.”

“OKAY THEN. IS IT DONE?”

“Not for another few hours.”

“OKAY, I CAN BE PATIENT. I WILL GO WATCH THE OVEN UNTIL THE, UH, TURKEY IS READY.”

Chip trudged through the foyer and into the kitchen. There, he squatted in front of the oven, watching the turkey as it slowly roasted.

“Do you think we can maybe have Chick bring Old Max back upstairs now that he’s here?”

“Maybe, but he’ll have to climb stairs, and if he’s having a good brain day, he might realize that part’s cardio and refuse. We’ll have to think about…”

Another interruption.

DING DONG

“Oh my fucking God, what NOW!?!”

Tom stomped over to his door and opened it.

“Absolutely not.”

He slammed the door and started to walk away until…

DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG

“UGHHHH!!”

He opened the door again to find a man with slickly parted black hair, a handlebar moustache, an old-timey suit that looked like it was half-eaten by moths, and a sickly look in his eyes. His face was pale, almost to the point of death. He looked like had recently been raised from the dead in an unholy ceremony done by someone of English descent.

“I said absolutely not.”

He slammed the door again and turned to walk into the house, only to find Roderick McRatrick wedged in between Pom and Mikey on the loveseat.

“I don’t get it, cuz. You sayin’ you gotta buy real estate for the afterlife?” asked Mikey.

“Yes! And it’s moving fast, especially with all these birdmen showing up and claiming the beaucoup spots in the trees.”

“CURSES! I don’t believe you!” shouted Pom. “Birdmen don’t go to heaven; they are evil!”

“Well, what if I told you there was no heaven or hell and just LAND! LAND AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE!”

“Of course the afterlife would be capitalist,” she said. “Hmph, well, put me down for…”

“No, don’t put her down for anything. Why are you here? How did you escape England?”

“That’ll cost you.”

“No it won’t.”

“Yes it will. Information is a commodity.”

Tom sighed loudly enough for his old neighbors in Chester County to hear him.

“That’s it. FAMILY MEETING! Kids, Mike, let’s all go out back.”

The kids rushed downstairs and the group went out the backdoor into the yard. Tom looked around and inhaled.

“Alright, it looks like we got some hou…”

He noticed right behind Mike was Roderick again.

“YOU’RE NOT FAMILY!”

“But don’t you want to hear about my deals on fire and brimstone insurance for after you go?”

“NO!”

Roderick stood fast until Tom picked up a large clay pot filled with soil. Then, he turned tail and went back inside.

“Alright, I know you were all looking forward to turkey and…”

“I wasn’t,” replied Zo.

“What?”

“Turkey sucks, dad. I mean, not necessarily yours, but like do you notice how we never eat it any other day of the year?

Vinny and Mikey both nodded.

“I like turkey,” said Tam, “but I mean, I don’t think it’ll kill us if we don’t eat it this year.”

“Well, then next year, I’ll make a duck. But we gotta get outta here. What do you kids think, Penrose Diner?”

“Yeah, I could go for breakfast for dinner,” said Tam.

“I love their patty melt,” exclaimed Mikey.

The kids nodded in agreement because they did not need any cajoling to agree to a dinner out.

“But how are we going to get rid of the houseguests?”

“We’re not, at least for two of them. I’m not letting Roderick stick around.”

“But how…”

“I have a plan.”

They all went back into the house. As the other Battaglias grabbed their coats, Tom went into a cabinet and pulled out a small digital clock. He set it for two hours and put it on top of the stove.

“Okay, Chick, when this timer goes off, the turkey is okay to eat.”

“OKAY. DO I HAVE TO SHARE IT?”

“No, you don’t. Just, don’t touch anything else in the house but the turkey.”

“I make no promises.”

“You better, or else I’m calling the USADA.”

“OKAY FINE.”

“One down.”

Tom went into the living room.

“Okay, Pom, uh, we gotta get outta here. Things are a little too crazy and the family and I are going to have dinner out.”

“Without me?!?! Luchador I…”

“I thought about it, and well, I would love to have you, and the kids love their Aunt Pom, but uh, do you really think it’s smart to be this high-profile when Garry’s agents are after you?”

Pom put her hand on her chin and nodded.

“Smart. Very smart. I’ll lay low here. Hold the fort. You have nothing to fear.”

She saluted as Tom nodded and turned around, only to find Roderick’s deathly face staring back at him.

“And what about me? I get to stay too, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Haha, and how do you plan to make me leave?”

“I have Lindsay Troy on speed-dial.”

Almost immediately, Roderick was nowhere to be seen.

“Alright, all accounted for.”

-

The Penrose Diner was crowded, but not packed. Most travelers go to the bars and the clubs the night before Thanksgiving anyway. The Battaglia family sat at a large table, Zo on his phone, Vinny in his ridiculous fedora with the “press” placard writing on a notepad, Mikey studying the menu like a college student cramming for an exam, and Tom and Tam snuggled against each other, eyes tired but thankful.

“You know,” Tom spoke up, “this past year has been pretty crazy. But I’m thankful for all you guys.”

Tom raised his diner glass of water, while Vinny, Tam, and Mikey all did the same. Zo, a disaffected teenager, kept into his phone.

Tom smiled and went to look at his menu until his server caught his eye.

“Hello,” the portly, red-headed man with a topknot on his head and an ill-fitting collared shirt holding in his belly said holding his own notepad and a pen. “My name is Felix, and I’ll be your server this evening.”

The blood vessel in Tom’s eye looked like it was a danger to rupture at any second.