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Farmer Murphy VS The Tomatoes
Farmer John Murphy had a bumper crop of tomatoes, too much free time, and no one to keep him entertained. It was a bad combination. He’d gotten a little too comfortable talking to the livestock. Griffin, the milking cow who constantly looked on the verge of tears, knew more about his life story than the owner of the last set of nipples he’d spent any time with, that was for damn sure, and it was problematic. Probl-fucking-matic. Story of his life. It was time to set things right again, and right meant slightly fucked up. Non-criminal though because he was a decent person, not that he’d ever gotten any credit for it.
To solve today’s farming challenge John needed a bat, but the douche who’d loaded the man cave / lighthouse hadn’t bothered with sporting goods. He must have planned to be alone here since all his entertainment gear seemed to be in the fun for one category. Weird to stock up on so many motorcycles and so much wine if you were just going to sit and jerk off alone, but whatever. Common sense and power rarely went hand in hand in Murphy’s experience.
He didn’t mind not having a football, but there were so many things he could have done with a baseball bat. OK, the best ones required another person, but they didn’t really have to be cool with you applying the bat. Only six months farming around the lighthouse and already Murphy was ready for a zombie apocalypse.
He picked up the bottle of champagne he’d emptied last night and gripped the neck. It made a lousy bat, the handle was too short and the container part too fat, but if he ever needed a paddle it would work. Paddle. He took a moment to picture Raven “The Betrayer” Reyes squirming over his lap and then shoved the image aside. He was a farmer now. Zen and shit.
Murphy rummaged through his collection of empties until he found the perfect bottle. Vodka. Nice solid neck with a bit of texture to it so he could get a good grip and a long body. It was as close as a bat as he’d get.
Weapon selected, he grabbed his basket and headed down the stairs and out his front door. Two things awaited him: the smell of manure and Cocktavia the judgemental rooster. Where the hell the tiny little ball of feathers and meanness had been hiding before he’d found her was a mystery, but she (who could really say if an irradiated rooster was a he or a she?) was here now, always just out of his reach and butting in where she wasn’t wanted. Every time Murphy seemed to be making progress getting Bullamy to trust him or the herds of nameless chickens to get on their nests and lay some freaking eggs, Cocktavia would turn up and start crowing.
Murphy shook the bottle at her but didn’t quite take a swing. Not quite. He wasn’t an animal abuser no matter how much Satan’s alarm clock had it coming. ”You eat last,” he warned her. ”Dead last.” He walked away, certain she’d follow, harassing him as he went about his farm chores and minded his own business, but when he turned around she was gone. It was just like her to wander off.
It took twenty paces to get to his tomato patch. He’d only planted one packet of seeds, but they’d gone nuts. The vines had gotten to 20 feet long in a single day and now there were hundreds of tomatoes. He’d eaten more tomatoes in the last month than he’d seen in all the previous years of his life. He’d canned some, too, but between the tomatoes he’d already put up and the pickles he was out of jars. Now they were just dropping to the ground, rotting, and reseeding. His lighthouse would turn into Sleeping Beauty’s tower if he didn’t find a way to get the situation under control. Fortunately, he had a plan.
"Hey nerds! Dinner time!" he yelled. Monty and Jasper ran to the edge of their pen and their little hooves pawed at the dirt. When Murphy didn’t move fast enough to suit him, Jasper butted the fence and got his tiny horns tangled, thrashing and nearly tearing the post out of the ground until Monty leaned into him and soothed him and then nudged Jasper’s head down, showing him how to release himself. "Fucking typical," Murphy muttered. It was, too. They were cute but the most useless animals on the farm. What the hell did Murphy need miniature goats for? Monty at least seemed to keep Harper and Fox happy, and as sheep the girls were good for wool and milk if he ever decided to take up knitting and making funky cheese, but Jasper’s only purpose seemed to be chaos. He was a smaller Bullamy with less animal magnetism.
Murphy grabbed a tomato from the ground, tossed it in the air, swung the vodka bottle, and smashed it towards the sheep and goat pen. It stuck in the open weave of the chain link. Jasper tried to wrap his lips around it, bit into the steel, and bleeted his displeasure.
"You’re a moron, Jasper!" Murphy yelled.
"MAAAHHHHH!!!" Jasper answered.
Murphy grabbed another tomato, swung, and landed this one on the far side of the fence. Monty stepped aside to let Harper have it and Murphy grabbed more dropped fruit from the ground. In half an hour, half of his fallen crop was in the pen being devoured by Jasper, Monty, Harper, and Fox. He still had over a hundred tomatoes on the ground though and his arm was getting tired.
He started filling his basket, a classic woven willow one that looked like he’d stolen it from the set of a high school musical about baking pies on the prairie in 1870. If you were going to haul fresh vegetables in a basket you might as well do it with some style. A few of the older tomatoes turned to mush as he piled others on top of them, but it didn’t matter for what he had planned. The more slop the better.
Murphy crossed the yard to the chicken pen and called, “Cluck, cluck, dumb fucks.” He’d never bothered to name the chickens. They were background characters. If they got eaten by wolves he might notice, but then again maybe not. They didn’t really seem to have personalities, but they apparently served some role on the farm. They laid eggs. They provided the feathers he’d used to restuff one of the pillows and make a quill pen. They ate bugs. On second thought, they did more of the actual work of helping him survive than any of the animals he’d named.
Well, time for them to do it again. Murphy grabbed the first tomato from his basket and threw it hard against the ground, splattering it against the compacted dirt and drawing in a frenzied clutch of excited but indistinguishable birds. ”Eat up, kids. We’re going to the tomato patch.”
Murphy took four steps backwards and slammed the next tomato to the ground. Again the chickens flocked to it. Murphy repeated the steps, creating what he thought of as The Splatter Brick Road to guide the chickens to the Ruby and Emerald City. With any luck, they’d eat every tomato in the garden.
Back on the Ark he’d actually been excited to get fresh vegetables instead of ration bars and he’d certainly never had so much of it he’d wished it away and found ways to waste it. Earth changed a man.
With the chickens lured to the promised land and the tomato-pocalypse underway, he began filling his basket with green beans, mustard greens, and eggs - there was a recipe in Maxim he wanted to try and it wasn’t just because there was a picture of a girl wearing nothing but an apron next to it - but he cut short his harvesting when Cocktavia let out a shriek. Maybe she was just being a shrill jerk, but he’d learned the hard way that the locals usually knew more than the new guy. He ran inside and slammed the door behind him. Two minutes later he heard the buzz of the drone. Whatever that thing was, he had enough unreliable friends already and wasn’t taking applications for new ones. He spent the rest of the evening shielded inside his lighthouse, cooking, drinking, and entertaining himself with old movies. He was almost as sick of Terminator as he was of tomatoes. Almost.
In the morning Murphy tried to leave and inspect the hopefully destroyed tomato patch, but he couldn’t force open the door. He moved to the window beside it and spotted the familiar tendrils of a tomato vine gone rogue and the tiny yellow flowers that meant he’d soon have even more tomatoes. He allowed himself one hard, self-punishing slap of his head against the wall. Of course this had happened. He’d left the chickens in the garden and chicken manure was a great fertilizer.
Time to get a sword and go full knight on the thing trying to invade his castle. Just another day on earth for Farmer Murphy.