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Fall had come with expectations, with forms to be signed and paperwork to be finished, with meetings to be attended and letters to be sent. Much more importantly, though, fall was the season of celebration, which meant events like school awards and ribbon cuttings were to be visited, to be held. Who else but Margaret to speak at them?
The dreadful unremarkable duty of accompanying Madame Comptroller during public outings was much too boring for the two — Noël and Bruise, specifically, Poindexter had no qualms with the matter — of them to bear. Specific instructions to not ‘screw with things’, as she had warned them, had been set.
When the three were called into Margaret’s office at the end of a rather lengthy day, they all shared looks as to what would be required of them. Even Poindexter, who’d regarded working as ‘copacetic’, had a much more furrowed brow as he stepped into the room.
“You’re all here,” she gauged, a particular lilt in her voice that implied she hadn’t been counting on them to show up. “Get me a turkey.”
“Now?” Bruise questions, a slip in his otherwise stern demeanor. He looks around, as if scouring the area for one — Noël catches his attention and shakes her head.
“By tomorrow.” Margaret holds a finger up, glances at the clock on the wall. “Mm. Make it by tomorrow evening. I have to pardon the damn thing — for publicity. Don’t care what happens to it afterwards. That’s it. Leave.”
She waves them off, returning to light a cigarette she’d been holding. Noël nods curtly, skips out of the room. Bruise nods sharply, turns on his heels, and marches out. Poindexter raises an eyebrow, lets out a sigh, and then saunters out.
They all meet each other again in a conference room adjacent to Margaret’s office, just out of earshot. Filing in, they take their usual places — this time, a bit more rushed. Bruise starts the conversation, whispers his question in a hushed and frantic tone:
“What’s a turkey?”
“The eternal question,” Poindexter remarks, folding his hands together on top of the table. “I’m afraid even that isn’t in my particular area of expertise — or perhaps I’ve simply consigned the subject into oblivion. Noël?”
“Don’t look at me, dearie!” She gives a terse laugh, waves him off. “Why would I care for any animal that doesn’t carry the spirit of Crimbo?”
Poindexter squeezes the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, eyebrows furrowed in indignation. He’d be counting on the two of them to fill in this gap of knowledge — something tells him he should’ve known better. “I’d have thought Madame Comptroller would have employed more competent commonality, considering the assignment at hand.”
“Competent?” Bruise snaps his head around. “I may not know what that word means, but I do know that it is a fighting word!” He attempts to clamber over the table and grab Poindexter’s collar, but the accountant inches ever so slightly backwards — he swipes air, then proceeds to fall flat on his face. Poindexter snickers.
“I’m sure Gray County has all kinds of turkeys!” Noël starts, ignoring Bruise on the table and sitting herself down. “They are farm animals, right? Why don’t we just go out there and grab one?”
“Affirmative.” Bruise hops off the table, brushing himself off and shooting daggers at Poindexter.
“I don’t believe any of those impecunious agriculturalists would concur with our offer, if we were to make one. Despite the lot of them being penniless, they have shown our presence there is… undesirable.”
“We don’t have to let them know we’re there,” Noël states, grinning an ear-to-ear smile that connotes something sinister — something much more fun than standing for hours on end at events and meetings. “As quiet as a mouse on Crimbo Eve…”
“We still do not know what a turkey is!”
“We’ll figure it out!”
It’s late in the night when the three find their way to Gray County, Noël’s hands enveloped in a white light that serves to brighten the way. Bruise stalks behind her, chest puffed out, and Poindexter holds his suit jacket close as the late chill begins.
“There is nothing here,” he complains, looking out into the fields of corn and wheat and squinting. “I suggest we cut our losses and — “
“Quit?” Bruise stops, but Poindexter’s already predicted that he would and sidesteps him. “Quit is not in my vocabulary — “
“Of course it isn’t. Shame on me for assuming your lexicon stretched past anything other than ‘Charlie Foxtrot.’”
“Not very holly or jolly of either of you,” Noël butts in, “to be arguing at such a moment.” She attempts to add on, but she’s interrupted by a sudden, loud BAA to her right — they all turn, and a sheep’s head juts out from a row of corn. It stares up at them, then ambles back, disappearing from view within a few seconds.
Bruise is the first to run into the corn, with Noël following. He barges through, attempting to tackle the now shaken up sheep — it bolts out of the way, and he trips to the ground. Noël conjures up a gift box, but the sheep only knocks it over as it runs away. They both hurriedly approach a clearing, flush with sheep, who are alerted to their arrival as soon as the two step from the corn and onto the grass.
“Grab that turkey,” Noël hisses, eyes flashing red and green as tinsel snakes up her arm. She holds it up, and it lunges for the nearest animal — Bruise’s foot catches, but he manages to stay upright as he tries to cut off two sheep from running. The quiet, gentle silence of the countryside is interrupted by shrill cries and thuds, loud enough for the inhabitants of the adjacent house to turn on their lights and scramble awake. When the farmer swings the door open, pitchfork in hand, Poindexter’s already there, blocking his way out.
“My apologies,” he starts, ignoring the scuffle going on outside. “General Accountant Terrence Poindexter — “
“What the hell’s goin’ on out there?”
“ — somewhat at your service. As per local law, we’re required to notify you that the 120 day grace period has lapsed and that, seeing as you have failed to pay the remaining funds, we are seizing personal property as of… right now.”
Behind him, Bruise successfully grabs a sheep, alerting them of his achievement by yelling “I HAVE GOT ONE!”. Noël woops, motions for Poindexter — he gives her a thin smile, then dodges the farmhand’s tackle as he hops off the patio and runs to join up with them. The farmer’s not fast enough to skip over the sudden sheet of ice that appears beneath his feet, too preoccupied with slipping onto the ground to watch the three make off with the sheep.
Margaret pushes open the door to her office with a sigh, running her hands through her hair. The mornings were always the worst, calling for letters to be opened and phones to be answered — at least, in the evening, most of it died down and she’d be able to catch a smoke break.
She doesn’t even notice the animal until it speaks — she pauses, blinking her eyes in surprise as the sheep sits itself down on the carpet next to her desk.
A turkey. She had asked for a turkey, a bird, the one damn animal she would ever ask them for, and the three of them had brought her a sheep. She didn’t doubt that they had stolen it, as was implied by the wool having caught debris and grass and dirt. It stares up at her, as if waiting for something, and she mutters under her breath.
She pardons the damn thing, anyways.