A Thanksgiving for 200 People Crowded Together Without Masks

If you’re going to have a Thanksgiving with more than 10 people, it’s best to make it a fund-raising party. There are no rules for important people who hold low office. As the gang always says, “Wear a mask, rob a bank, give the money to the poor, or not.” Who will know if a con is done well.

Here’s an old short story from “Doug’s Foxes Do Short Stories.” It was written years ago (July 26, 2014) about a fictional future.

The Last Thanksgiving

    By Douglas Gilbert

Because the ration coupons expired the day after Thanksgiving, it seemed like a perfect day for the Grand Thanksgiving Fund-Raising Dinner. The Congressman would be pumped, plump, and relaxed, easily impressed by the Graceron Mansion near the confiscated coal mine, and the sound system would lull him to sleep in the warm bath of his smugness. With his help we could endure the cold days ahead.

Congressman Jason was a pushover for our fawning, as we knew what was music to his ears, but one must say that the Dog of the House of Representatives could bark or howl like the devil he was. His security entourage was more of a challenge, but our inside man saw to it that we got the contract for all the bottled water and juice the firm bought for their employees. Mary’s father had bought the bottling company on a tip: he had sold the coal mine for a fortune just before the government seized it for pennies on the dollar. Nowadays coal is forbidden on the surface. Below the surface, schemes in the seams can bite.

Wine, women, song, and stun grenades – well, no, we decided on explosion-and-gunfire sounds pumped out over the sound system that would stump the band. Mary’s women were stunning and sexy. Poor Jason, the dog.

“Welcome Congressman,” I said. The band played a fanfare, followed by “Happy Days”.

“Thank you very much my good friend, and may I say what a magnificent place this is: marvelous marble, ha… and um, great band …” He listened carefully to the sax and the giggles of the women, asking his staff to send notes to one of them. He chose Joan, one of Mary’s girls.

Joan nodded at me. “Congressman Jason, and everyone, shall we be seated at the banquet table, please,” I announced. I escorted him to the head of the table with the glistening china and polished silverware under the chandelier past the grand staircase and Roman columns. Joan sauntered over. “Congressman, may I introduce Joan…” They sat down at the table and smiled at each other as Joan reached under the table.

The band played on and everyone feasted. Joan said, “So, um, Congressman, you have said that if elected you will abolish the Vegan Department of Security and …”

“Joan, such beauty and intelligence too – perhaps we should discuss this further in private…”

“Yes, what a lovely idea,” she said. Joan could be quite entrancing and efficient, but Jason was no challenge for her. She led him up the stairs to the special bedroom. He was happy to strip off all his clothes and she promised to give him a complete oil massage, front and back. As she massaged his back she said, “Give me your hands.” She quickly tied his hands behind his back.

After a few hours, everyone had had the correct wine or the appointed bottled water, and the secret ingredients took effect. Mary and I looked at our watches. The explosion and gunfire sounds sent the security people into a panic. The adrenalin in their bodies triggered the poison and they all fell as planned.

We all went upstairs with our chefs and gang to check on the Congressman. He was oiled and hogtied. We put him on the rotisserie spit, and carried him to the kitchen. Despite the Vegan laws, we’d have plenty of meat for the coming mini-Ice Age, and tons of coal for our power plant in the basement. We don’t plan to vote for him.

2 thoughts on “A Thanksgiving for 200 People Crowded Together Without Masks

    1. Dark humor is a tricky business. I think my best thanksgiving was when I had a double triumph: I some how managed to get each person in our family to confess that they didn’t like turkey, and I convinced my Mother (in a time of weakness, I suppose) that there was no rule or law that said that we couldn’t have chicken for Thanksgiving. So she made chicken and did it well. It was great. Everything else was traditional. But every year after, Turkey was the law and it had to be made (badly) dry and without flavor. Doing it wrong was a tradition I guess.

      Like

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