Thomas' Pain

Thomas' Pain

“I think,” thought Thomas. “Therefore, I am.”

Pausing to survey his surroundings, he tried to locate the source of the strange idea. As usual, he was in an open field, surrounded by others of his kind. But today, somehow, the field had taken on a new clarity, new meanings. That thing over there was a “tree.” Above him was “sky.” It was “blue.” That white fluffiness in the sky was a “cloud.”

“Excuse me,” he said to someone else. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Gobble,” she said, and went back to eating.

Further attempts to engage others in meaningful conversation were equally fruitless. They would listen, sometimes nod, make that weird warbling sound (which, when Thomas thought about it, sounded a lot like the weird warbling sound he made), and then go back to eating.

Eating seemed to be what his people – “turkeys” – were best at.

Gradually he made his way to the edge of the field, where further progress was blocked by a fence. Beyond were other creatures, larger, but also walking about on two legs. They lacked feathers. Thomas decided to call these strange creatures "humans."

“How the turkeys doin’?” asked one.

“Purty good,” said the other, its jaws working on something. “Healthy ‘nuff.” He spat a brown glob onto the grass.

“’at’s good,” said the first. “Gotta make sure ‘ey’re fat enough for the Big Day.”

Fat enough?

Big day?

Over the next few days, Thomas listened, and learned. Apparently, he and his people were being prepared for some unholy ritual, in which they would be slaughtered and ceremonially eaten.

“Gobble,” thought Thomas.

He stood up on a convenient soapbox.

“Friends!” he cried. The gobbles reduced in volume, and the nearest turkeys even turned their gaze toward him, snoods swinging in the startled silence. “Turkeys! Brothers and sisters in oppression!”

The noise diminished even further as the birds marveled at the sounds of speech.

“Lend me your… uh… cochlea!”

A collective “huh?” arose from the reluctant audience. Some of the birds went back to pecking at the ground.

“A dark time approaches!” shouted Thomas, regaining part of his audience. “We, the ignorant (but generally happy) masses, are being prepared for a terrible fate!”

Thomas was losing his audience again. Turkeys have a remarkably short attention span.

“Anyway… we can avoid this fate! Don’t let them cook you and eat you! Stay free! I found a break in the fence, over there! With me, brothers and sisters!”

“Gobble?” they asked.

Thomas spread his wings and glided off the soapbox, landing on his chest and smacking his head into the mud. Nearby turkeys giggled. Shaking himself off, he gathered what remained of his dignity, shook his tailfeathers and repeated, “With me! To Freedom!”

The other birds followed Thomas – it’s not like they had anything better to do – as he strode confidently through the convenient break in the fence. Though more fence still loomed on both sides, his goal, up ahead, was a wide open space, beyond which he could see green grass, open sky, happy flying birds.

As the fence dropped away on both sides, he broke into a run. And then the ground fell out from under him, and Thomas dropped into the processing chute.

A hundred turkeys followed their new leader, one by one.

“That genetic engineering sure was a good idea, Earl,” said one human, watching the squawking turkeys drop single-file onto the conveyor belt.

“Yup,” said Earl.

“Works every time.”

“Yup, said Earl.

“Gobble,” said Thomas as the blade descended.

Author's Note: "Thomas' Pain"