AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, one of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
Vince looked at the dead bird in distaste. “This is some interesting contraband.”
“The stuff you asked me to get was hidden inside. The turkey is still pretty fresh—doesn’t stink yet or anything.” Ozone gave a little shrug. “I thought we could eat it.”
A few of the other gang members sat on the dusty concrete floor. Speedball had been obsessively disassembling and putting back together his guns for the past half hour, and was too jumped up on cocaine to care about food. But Fausto looked up from polishing a stolen watch with a dirty bandana, and fixed Ozone with a level look. “I'd kill my own mother for a decent meal right about now, but how do plan on cooking it, genius?”
“Roast it on a spit?”
Vince didn’t like building a fire inside the abandoned building his gang called home, but sometimes he would risk it if the weather was cold enough. Unnecessary cooking was a different matter, though. “I don’t know if the ventilation is good enough for anything like that.” He looked around. “Someone get Gitana.”
Ozone found her sleeping off a hangover in the next room, and he brought her in, sleepy and sullen. She perked up when she saw Vince and shoved her corkscrew curls off her face.
Vince tried to ignore her soulful look. Gitana was all right, but she wanted him to be exclusive and that just wasn’t going to happen. “We’ve got his turkey and we’re not sure the best way to go about cooking it.”
A scowl crept over her face. “You think just because I’m a girl, I can cook or something?”
“No, I think because you say you used to live on a farm, you can cook. Or something.”
“I suggested roasting it on a spit,” Ozone said.
Gitana shook her head. “Too hard to get it right. It would probably end up burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”
“My sister has a hot plate, when the electricity is working,” Vince offered.
“And we’d do what, fry it?” Gitana squatted next to the turkey and poked it. “The most obvious thing would be to bake it an oven.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “I'll send someone right out to steal one.”
“We can make one.” Gitana picked the bird up and examined it thoughtfully. “All you need is bricks and mortar. Or mud. But a hole in the ground would work, too.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. “Dig a hole, line it with rocks, and build a big fire. When the fire dies down, put the turkey in and cover with more heated rocks and some dirt. Wait a few hours, and you’ve got turkey dinner.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.” Vince jingled a few coins in his pocket as he pondered. “Panzón owes us a favor," he told Ozone. "Take it to his place and tell him to cook it for us. Remind him what we did to the guy who stole his delivery cart, and tell him this is how he can pay us back.”
Ozone stuffed the bird in a canvas bag.
“And tell him to bake us a few potatoes or yams, too. Whatever he’s got,” Vince added. “And we want some bread. Day-old is fine.” He rummaged in his pocket and took out a coin. “What the hell, get one of those pies he makes, too.” He handed Ozone the coin. “He’ll want to be paid for that, I’m sure.”
Ozone frowned in confusion. “Sure thing, boss, but what’s the occasion?”
“Pretty fancy dinner for just every day,” Gitana agreed.
Vince looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t need a reason to celebrate,” he said. “Life’s not easy, but we always find a way. Sometimes a guy just wants to give thanks for what he’s got.”