On the morning of the hottest day in June, Michael Ike, a dairy farmer in the small village of Granzberry, turned to his wife of 40 years and said:
“Margo, my dear. Yesterday I became infatuated with someone who isn’t you. And she is everything you are not, and has all the characteristics I could ever value in a woman. So pack your things, take the news well and be gone from here by noon. I am leaving you.”
And so he did – Michael left.
And poor Margo – paling at the notion, watched it all unfold, as he – her easy lover (whistling a tune) skipped down the steps, jumped into his car, started the engine, lit a cigarette, yelled “Turrah.” and vanished for good, like some poltergeist, into the thick haze of that early day.
Her first thought after he had gone – not that she ever had many – was to believe that this was all just a big elusive dream of some kind. That she was just going a little bit mad and it was, in fact, much earlier in the day than it actually was. In her mind, she was still fast asleep in her warm bed upstairs, with him. And all she had to do to remedy the dark situation, was wake herself up as best she could, and like that
BANG!
her troubles would be over. And she would be back in the real world again.
“Yes.” she thought. “That’s exactly what I will do.”
So she pinched herself hard on the arm a couple of times, around where the skin sags, hoping that would do the trick and sort it all out.
“Come on, you old bag you.” she grunted, screwing up her eyes and munching her lip. “Wake up! WAKE UP GOD DAMMIT!”
But nothing happened. Not a budge.
Instead, the whole ordeal just stung like an old form of buggery and left her afterwards with a slow and nasty bruise as a memento.
“Well how about that.” she sighed, staring at the back of the closed door. “This can’t be real, is it? I refuse to believe it. I do. He must come back to me. My dear husband. He must. What would I do without him?. . .He says he loves me for crying out loud . . .”
Outside, the settling brown dust fell like a blanket over the porch and all of Margo’s favourite golden hedges. Taking this into account, and the severity of the mess, she’d make big plans in her mind for someone to come along at some stage, and clean it all up. The woman was, in all respects, much too old and frail for that kind of labour, and couldn’t possibly, in her wildest dreams, ever reach all those high and demanding nooks and crannies about the chimney and the gutters.
“There’s no way in hell.” she thought. “I’m no spring chicken anymore. Even sweeping the floor inside does half kill me.”
She would need someone young and strong for the task. Preferably a boy. A young strapping boy with good manners, long legs and arms like a gibbon’s for all those niggly bits.
“It could be the heat, you know.” she then thought. “Perhaps the heat of today is causing me, and him, to go a little bit mad. Demented even. Because it does do that to people, right? It does, and can, drive people mad and absolutely demented from time to time. Particularly people my age. . .”
And on that thought, she quickly reset herself into her favourite chair and twined her scrawny fingers on her lap.
“What probably happened here.” she thought. “Was that my love said he was quickly nipping down to the shop to get the papers and some milk and that he would be back to me in a tick. And all I did, being the classic old fool that I am, was misunderstand his meaning. Aha yes.” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in merriment. “That’s probably what it was. In fact, I’m bloody well sure of it now.”
Thrilled with her conclusion, Margo leaned forward taking a hearty slurp of tea into her mouth. This was a victory sip if anything. A congratulations. In this moment, the woman had wanted to kindly reward herself for the effort.
For thinking so fast.
For coming to such a sound resolve in such a delicate matter.
And when she had the tea finished, some five minutes later – she sat up straight and wiped her lips. The cup was in her left hand now, and she was bouncing it up and down like it were a tennis ball. Looking at it intently – just like Matilda would do – when she’s busy trying to move all those different things with just her mind.
Right then, in a sudden fit of rage, and screaming – Margo took up the cup and threw it against the wall that was nearest to her. Straight away of course, it exploded like TNT into a thousand different little pieces.
“The feeling was good.” Margo said. It felt so good that she kind’a started to like it.
Soon after that, the tables got it. BIG TIME. Then the chairs. Followed by all of the nice ornaments and pillows.
Using all her strength, Margo would rip down any good cupboard she could find, whether she had bought it or not. And anything else that crossed her path.
It only took a few seconds.
Suddenly stunned by this new destruction, and shocked to see she had the capability in her for such violence – Margo eventually stepped back. And with a hand quivering over her mouth she said –
“Oh my gosh! I don’t know why on earth I did that. That was my favourite cup and everything.”
She said “Oh well, I can always buy some more can’t I? It’s probably just the heat at the moment, driving me a little bit crazy. That’s probably why I trashed the place. Yes.” she said. “I have no doubt that’s probably what it is.”
A small thought crossed her mind then as she surveyed the carnage. A small and dark thought. So she pulled open the front door, slid on his work boots, and went outside into the yard.
The ‘Litter Box’ she liked to call the yard because it was just that – a farmer’s paradise of knotted concrete, hay bales, collapsed sheds, loose straw, chickens, weeds and excrement.
But she was no fly, Margo – and would forever claim that the immense heat made her do it. It being: What was about to happen next.
* * * *
For years and years, Margo had known about the BIG GUN. That there was a big gun out there somewhere, hidden slyly away in one of the sheds, and her ‘Grand Master Plan’ now – all of a sudden – was to take this big gun for herself,
nobody else,
load it up to the gills with bullets, or slugs, and use the damn thing on a handful of items that were close to HIM because
WHY THE FUCK NOT?
“But what on earth do farmers like these days?” she wondered, after a while. “What do they like more than anything else?”
In truth, she wasn’t sure at all. And couldn’t get an answer no matter how hard she thought about it.
But get this, something had indeed shifted all of a sudden. In her mind now, enough was enough. Things had officially gone beyond a joke,
a big fat joke,
and for Margo Ike, it was high time now the so called ‘Tough Men’ of this world suffered the hard consequences of their actions.
She was old too, this Margo lady. Real old. And no doubt a nightmare at times to live with and be around. But she was bull strong for her age, and had no issue with dishing out the difficult vengeance if she had to do it.
But only if she really, really had to.
And isn’t it frightening too, how quick a person’s mind can change in situations like this. A minute ago, this lady had no idea what was going on in her life or with her man. Not a clue. But now she’s out in force, thirsting for blood and eager to do all the damage she can.
“Now is my chance.” she thought. “It’s time to go.” She said “Let’s tear this son of a bitch a new fucking arsehole. Let’s see how he likes it.”
Nothing was lax for Margo anymore. Every single thing she did, every little detail that passed through her lethargic mind was now on the front foot.
and CERTAIN.
And whenever she spoke or walked, she did it with such a boisterous conviction that, to look at her, you’d think she was some high up ‘Commander In Chief’ marching a slick battalion of soldiers into a line of warfare.
LEFT. RIGHT. LEFT. RIGHT. BOOM. BOOM. GOOD NIGHT.
In the end, a few minutes of intense rooting around was all it took. She’d eventually find the gun hidden at the bottom of a crate in one of the big sheds. Just as she expected.
“AHA YES.” she said, when she found it. “BINGO.”
And when she found it, (it was an old Colt) – she dug it out, dusted it off, and held it tight into her body like it were a child.
She knew how to handle a gun this woman. That was obvious. The confidence she exuded from holding it by her side like that, as she walked, would frighten any man into submission.
The whole act of it now looked confident.
And sexy.
This dark little secret of hers, a thing she had kept under wraps for years and years was now finally out in the open.
In slow motion.
“I’ll show him.” she says, kicking open a gate. BOOM! “I’ll act now and really bring his world down around him. He’ll be sorry so he will. The FUCKER.”
Stopping herself dead in the middle of one of his fields, Margo cursed like mad the strength of the day’s heat saying it was certainly driving her a bit cuckoo and that there was no frickin doubt about it.”
Running the back of her hand across her forehead, she said “FUCK ME PINK. THE HEAT.” She said “In all my life I have never felt such trojan heat against my skin. It is wicked.”
And as she fed the bullet slugs down into the barrel of the gun, while she was doing that – she called out a handful of names with big loud yelps. The very way you’d expect a farmer’s wife to do it. Shouting
“JOHN. PAUL. GEORGE, and RINGO. Where are you my beautiful boys? Come and get it.”
Margo stood there in a half silence, listening to crickets and the sound of her own voice as it dissipated into the hot summer air. She called out the names again and straight away this time, she hears the sound of pattering. Hoofs coming in over the dead dry earth, going
“Kla-dum, kla-dum, kla-dum, kla-dum”
And as they approached the scene, Margo couldn’t help but notice how beautiful they all looked on this particular day, with their big black hooves and shimmering coats.
Everything about them amplified by the new morning sunshine.
With relative ease, she was able to make out the serial number on each of their tags. All different. As well as the deep muscular striations on their hind quarters, which seemed to ebb and flow, in and out,
like inflatables,
with each new step they took.
“There you are, my boys.” she said, curling her finger at them and smiling, urging them to come over.
“Come here my lovelies.” she said. “Come to mama.”
At this point, she was calling them names like ‘beautiful’ and ‘sweetie’ and ‘gorgeous’ and ‘honey’ – and a’course, as cows do, they ate it all up.
“My oh my.” she said. “You’ve all grown up so much since I saw you last. Just remember, this has nothing to do with you. Alright? You guys are so beautiful. It’s just. . .sometimes people want to learn things the hard way.”
“MOOOO.”
Lifting up the gun and slowly cocking it, Margo would tell each of the cows just how sorry she was, really – and she’d make sure they heard it. “Really. I am sorry.” she said. “I don’t want to do this to you at all. But I have to do it. FOR ME. FOR HIM. I have no other choice.” Finger braced ready on the trigger, she says
“Yeah luvies. That’s pretty much it.”
In the aftermath, what unsettled Margo more than anything else was the sound they made when they hit the deck. It was that immediate thud, four times over, of deadened weight slumping down onto hard patches of prickly grass, like it were concrete.
Here were John, Paul, George and Ringo, all moaning on top of each other, in their own sprawling pools of blood. Doing all they could to get away. All that unnecessary fuss just to kick dried muck and shite up onto Margo and her lovely morning sundress.
“The way they took the kill.” she would later say. “It was as if they knew all along this day would come. Maybe.” she says. “They had heard himself talking about his plans at one point or another and put two and two together. Poor things.”
Standing over them now, Margo would take aim and let rip a few more times with her trusted gun, into their heads, just in case, until they stopped moving altogether.
After that, she would leave the town of Granzberry. Literally straight away. And guess what. . .
She never came back.
