Capitalism, At Last
Down a lonely and winding highway in Iowa of all places filled with parlous mosquitoes, locusts, tractors, silos, and rectangular fields that were green in summer and brown in winter, there was a cozy old farmhouse that had been converted to McMillan’s tavern. It had been decorated by McMillan himself and as such, it was replete with a taxidermized deer, a few bears, a moose even, a rack of antlers, and a stark plow that hung on the smoky walls along with famous pics of Chicago Cubs players that all the locals knew. The pictures were framed on the wall, with the air of an altar, with the signatures of the likes of Ernie Banks, Ryne Sandberg, Ron Santo, Greg Maddux, and Sammy Sosa. The days were noticeably longer. Winter’s weight had just lifted as March went out like a lamb. Easter was approaching as Billy Bob and Jake were playing eight ball and swindling each other’s beer money back and forth with their usual ribald complaints.
A storm was brewing west of Ottumwa and there were even reports of tornadoes touching down when Old McDonald came in as lightning struck and strangely illuminated his silhouette, creased face and bulbous nose that spoke volumes of all the days he had labored in the fields, fighting his way to win at mostly everything and in becoming the richest man in Wapello County, bar none.
Copiously, they drank into a night that would be soon forgotten. A strange warmth traveled like an elixir, and like raconteurs, they shared stories, making themselves the hero of their own adventures much like the Greeks and the Romans once did; only these men were from an Iron Age, when the ledger was the most important thing and the only colors that mattered were not those belonging to regal banners nor a royal family and a castle, but those signifying credits and debits and whether one had enough money for buying more lands and equipment, and stocks.
The fields stood outside as a testament to their hard work and they were water logged and fresh; and soon planting would occur, and corn, soybeans, hay and wheat would be grown in abundance and the feeding of hogs would go on as religiously as they had before, before they were brought in for slaughter.
Jimmy McMillan was tending bar humming tunes to himself as the waitress weaved in and out of tables deftly bringing the patrons’ orders of rib eyed steak and home fries, and specially made Pennsylvania Dutch pies during a cold blustery night of bad weather. The TV was blaring the news about Russia annexing Crimea as the world took notice.
“They got their asses kicked in the Cold War,” Jake said as looked up from his eight-ball shot, “and now they are up to their old slippery games. But don’t worry, these Russkies can’t do much these days except saber rattling.”
“Why not?” Billy Bob asked.
He began downing a Tequila shot after his eighth beer as he was wont to do.
“Cause their economy is nothing but a big gasoline station,” Jake added. “Putin and his gang have created a kleptocracy. And things are gonna get a lot worse before they get better.”
“They’ve got a lot of brainy people, don’t forget ol’ Sputnik and them being the first to orbit the Earth,” Old McDonald said as he put his coat on a rack, “But they needed to become not only democratic but capitalistic overnight and the Russian bear just couldn’t do it. “They’re sore losers,” Billy Bob added slurring his words some.
“Marx fell. Leningrad fell and became Saint Petersburg, and those Eastern European countries fell like heavily stacked dominoes all over the place back in 1989.”
He played with his Rollie Fingers mustache and eyed some of the ladies at the bar that were young enough to be his daughter. “They might have had a chance.” “How?” “Hell, those Russkies could have made computers, supercomputers, commercial jets and become capitalists in aerospace and have generated a lot of wealth and had a very high-tech economy that would have been the envy of most others,” Old McDonald said as he was prone to give blustery speeches when his brain was slogging about in Jack Daniels. “But they didn’t understand diddly shit, I mean, market forces and how to operate in a global economy. Maybe if they had partnered up with Germany or France that might have made a difference. But they didn’t.”
“The only commies left are the Chinese,” Billy Bob said as he lined up the eight ball in the upper left hand pocket, “and they’ve got state?capitalism now.”
“And Cuba’s falling with a hard thud, too. Seems ol’ Castro bit the dust.”
“It’s the end of history, boys. Mark my words. The ideological wars are over,” Old McDonald said looking at his nails and his hand sans a thumb which he always tried to keep clean thinking he could claim he was a gentleman to the ladies. “From here on out, there will be only democracy and capitalism, Alexander Hamilton and Adam Smith. Thank God!” They clicked beers and drank to a victory in a sanguine mood that had never been celebrated through newspaper articles or TV shows or tickertape parades in Manhattan.
Old McDonald never one to be bashful pulled out a piece of paper from his breast pocket.
“I just got my ninth ranch today, boys, in the Hawkeye State, and God help me, but I’m on a frightening roll here. Greed is good. Awfully good. It took a lot of ballsy negotiations with Dunske and his lawyers. Can you believe it? The bastard wanted $10 million and I got them down to $7.5 as I had done my assessment and brought my own bookkeeper to finagle and analyze the numbers. I’ve got over 2000 acres and 300 cattle and an interest free loan by George.”
“How did you do that?”
“I threw in some Australian sheep since I knew Old Dunske was a widower and couldn’t catch a lady’s eye even if he had the Hubble telescope all to himself.”
“You gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Billy Bob chuckled. The men guffawed. “No, I just go by Sun Tzu’s Art of War, and I’ve read it more often than the Bible. We live in the era of Industrial Wars, boys, and they’ve created more perennial havoc and discomfort than our world wars. Capitalism is more than an efficient system of distributing goods and services like I’ve told you a hundred times. It is war against your neighbor, against competitors in the state and the nation and even internationally. Whenever I enter into negotiations I liken it to raising an army and marshaling forces, which is expensive to do in the first place as Sun Tzu says, and as he has reminded people for thousands of years, war is not a thing to be trifled with.
“In short, what Sun Tzu says is: ‘The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy.
‘To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.’
“And lastly, what weeds out the most: ‘To see victory only when it is in ken of the common herd is not the acme of excellence.’”
“Didn’t know you slept with that under your pillow at night, Donny,” Jake chuckled. “No wonder you’ve been divorced four times.”
“Well, it should be survival of the fittest just like Darwin proposed,” Old McDonald said as he took another shot of whiskey grimacing since he had an ulcer. “I mean, when I came to Wapello County fifty years ago I didn’t have a bucket to piss in and two nickels to rub together. But you know what? I realized way back when that I had to stand up for myself and fight for my slice of the American apple pie in the market place. That no one was gonna give me somethin’ on a silver platter.”
“Well, Donny, a lot of people around here would say you’ve got three-quarters of the Apple pie, and a lot of your farm hands have nothing but the crumbs.”
“That’s just jealousy. Envy. And as for my hired hands, I pay what the market bears, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Well, most of us, here, could use a handout, Donny.” Boisterously, the men laughed and knew they would have to wait for one of Old McDonald’s cows to jump over the moon before any remittances would be paid by him who had a reputation for pinching pennies until Old Abe’s beard was gone.
“I’m against this kind of socialism crap,” Old McDonald said as he grew flustered from other people not seeing what he saw. “It’s the last vestiges of communism, you know, and it still rears its ugly head when those good-for-nuthin’ youngsters are out in the streets protesting about the one percent and wanting a $15 minimum wage that would lose jobs, not create them. They should just shut their mouths which gets ‘em into trouble more than most and secure a bachelor’s degree and a MBA if need be. They should be cut throat like I was and maybe even more. Personally, I can’t stand all this talk from a bunch of losers about how the playing field is unleveled and how we need to make the U.S. more fair and how the government should give you a house, food, and medical, and even do your laundry like they do in France. Hell, in Norway, if you can’t get to work, the government will buy you a car!”
“Sounds good, Donny. Up until a point,” Jake said.
“Yeah, a lot of us needed a helping hand once in our lives.”
“Well, guess what? Things have never been fairer than now as we have always lived in a den of iniquities. Did they have these discussions of welfare when the West was being tamed over two hundred years ago? Or during Medieval times? Or during the times of our Lord when he took the road to cavalry? No, siree. Because people understood that you had to make it on your own.” “So you don’t believe in welfare,” Billy Bob asked him. “Nope.” “How about food stamps?” Jakes pressed him as he himself had to take some help when he had hip surgery last year. “Nope.” “What about declaring bankruptcy?” “A waste of time.” “So what should we have?” “Debtor’s jail, if you ask me.”
The roughshod men who farmed every day continued drinking and playing pool until about one-thirty a.m. within the illuminated comforts of McMillian’s Tavern as the menacing tornadoes that did touch down were in nearby Missouri – and missed them. The Great Flood never materialized although the Mississippi River, otherwise known as Old Man River, overran its banks and destroyed homes and frolicked past Iowa and Missouri towards its lovely delta and then out into the Gulf. Finally, the boys put on their coats and hats and left. They howled at the moon. The moon howled back as a yellowy wisp floated around it. Old McDonald got into his rusty truck turning the engine over, once or twice, and then drove down Highway 34 swerving right and left, back and forth avoiding oncoming cars and Mack trucks, and even a deer as he drove around Cliffland as the clouds had opened up like a sudden chasm and disappeared, and his truck seemed to ride into the colorful nebulae and stars, and even into the Milky Way itself on sheer ribbons of light.
In the morning, the Iowan air was fresh, the Sunday paper was folded on the doorstep, tied by a rubber band, as always, and the plentiful dew on the grass were like goblets of wine. It was nine o’clock now. Milly was busy cooking breakfast of hash browns, blueberry pancakes, bran muffins and pineapple ham just like her husband liked it. Old McDonald woke up late with an aching head and a nauseous stomach. His grizzled maw began cursing the daylight as he felt irritated, again. He felt himself to be the smartest man in the dumbest world, and that no one truly understood him, and if he hadn’t been a high school dropout because his old man had been a wino, he could have had graduated from Carnegie Institute or could have been a highly esteemed businessman on Wall St. who men looked up to like a Rockefeller or a Morgan Stanley. But he wasn’t! He would never become that, and despite the millions in his bank account, that hurt him more than anything.
A tapping on the window.
A ruby-throated humming bird had come to pay a daily visit. A million times a second, its feathers flew as it hovered and moved up and down. It had iridescent feathers and a whitish-brown underbelly and it chirped: “How are you, Old McDonald? You seem to have seen better days. Life’s gotten a bit old and stuffy for you. Well, hold on tight. This ride’s about to get interesting.”
“Oh, go away! I’m not feeling well. Shoo!”
Then Buster came – McDonalds’ ever faithful, homely looking hound dog with his skewed droopy face, slowly wagging tail, and slightly disguised curiosity – carrying his slippers. He plopped them down. Then jumped up on his Master who once had had dominion over all the animals on the farm and who had given them all names and had unbeknownst to himself endowed them with personality, and life, and even secret thoughts and language.
Buster licked Old McDonald’s grizzled face that had been long deeply etched in disappointments with sallow cheeks and darkened eyes.
“It’s okay, boy. I’m up.” Buster barked: Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Old McDonald still half-asleep replied: “I’m not that hung over, Buster.”
Buster barked again, with a slightly different cadence.
“Yes, I know the missus is cooking brunch. And yes, you can have a buttered biscuit with a bit of jam.”
Leisurely, he took a hot shower trying to relieve those aches and pains and remember exactly what took place last night, not that it mattered. Then Old McDonald looked at this half-dripping scarecrow in the length-wise mirror that was gonna be sixty-four next week and realized Time had been exceptionally cruel. His face was hoof marked, beaten by the sun, and sad. His lanky skeleton from lifting hay his whole life was a chiropractor’s dream. His legs shivered and were now hairless and his manhood looked shriveled. He had been an Iowan farmer and rancher for over forty years during good times and bad times and through bull markets and even recessions and one agonizing drought?filled depression making sure that the breadbasket of America was always filled with fresh vegetables and fruit and even hog’s meat. But no one really cared about farmers these days with the corporations taking over.
At the breakfast table, Old McDonald felt better. He began eating eggs sunny side up with Tabasco sauce and a slew of blueberry pancakes. He drank his coffee straight black and grumbled a few words about pork bellies as a commodity dropping to an annual low.
Busily, Milly was nonplussed, and was making a meatloaf for Sunday dinner as her hands mashed the meat and the specially made sauce together in a pan. She wore a couture blue and white dress tapered at the waist as her hair was in a long bun and occasionally, asked her husband if he wanted anything more for breakfast. Then at the back door, there was a loud knock as Milly despite being a big boned Missouri woman nimbly opened almost like a ballerina.
“Oh, it’s Perry the Pig, Donny.”
“Perry?” Old McDonald gruffly asked as he craned his head left to get a better look.
At the back door was Perry the Pig clean as a whistle after a quick dip in the pond, and smelling nicely from some aftershave lotion, and who had a rather handsome pinkish face with a long snout and clear blue eyes. Humbly, he stood on two feet on the patio as his wriggly tail moved a little, and in his small hoof’s hand, he held a court document that he wanted to discuss with Old McDonald, before things became overly litigious.
“Oh, let him in,” McDonald said at last. “I must have had a lot to drink last night. Or worse, I’m still in bed having a nightmare.”
Perry came in on his hoofed feet.
He was nearly eight years old and had been reared by the McDonalds, for simply slaughter, and then as an exemplary male pig who could sire several drifts every season, and be of more value to them, especially, as an overseer of other piglets.
Perry broached the awkward silence with his Master by clearing his heavy throat and then belting out with a clarion ring: “Oink! Oink! Oink!”
Naturally, Old McDonald having heard many moo’s, bleats, oinks, bow wows, quack quacks, neigh neighs, cluck clucks, and baa baas as a farmer could clearly understand their different languages and various dialects, too. In short, what he heard was this: “Dear Farmer McDonald, We are glad to be your farm animals, and we hope that things are well with you and your family, too. It’s been not only an honor but a privilege to be in your steadfast employment at Old McDonald’s farm, a farm that is sung about by children far and wide, and that remains one of the oldest and most prestigious farms in Iowa.
“Like most concerned workers, we realize that the farming business is growing more competitive and difficult by the year. So, in short, we, as farm animals, don’t want to remain ignorant and burdensome, but to become knowledgeable and educated in order to help you increase your annual profits so that everyone can benefit.”
Signed Perry the Pig – President of the Union of Farm Animals
And His Shop Stewards
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Old McDonald said. “I’m finally getting help from Perry the Pig, and many of his associates.”
Perry then belted out a somewhat cursory, but purely perfunctory,
“Oink! Oink!” that when translated became: “I’ll leave this document here with you, sir, and I’ll be back with my shop stewards to talk about how we might increase our production tomorrow if you want.”
“I must be losing my mind,” Old McDonald muttered mostly to himself. “I’ve got Perry the Pig wanting a slice of my bacon?”
“Isn’t it sweet? Perry the Pig and the other farm animals want to help our farm, Donny.”
“Oh, shut up!” Old McDonald yelled. “A man’s house is his castle! And if you want to take my castle and lands then you better bring an army, a greater one than at The Battle of Hastings!”
The rest of Sunday afternoon was relatively quiet as Old McDonald drank beer, watched a few TV westerns, and occasionally, he went out to his lonesome porch to look at his farm as Perry the Pig seemed to be talking to Willy the Horse who would then talk to Samantha the Sheep as there was a lot of discussion going on for such a quiet farm that had spent a long repose during a bitterly cold winter. He noticed that the barn door was unlatched and opened, and there was a strong glow emanating from there. A lot of piglets were running excitingly around as there were a brood of ducks being shepherd back and forth by Tommy the Duck who always oversaw that the ducks on the farm were in good shape and made sure that only that fattest and most unctuous ones were offered for a tight market place. Old McDonald didn’t know what to think other than he would call Mike Callow, his personal attorney, in Des Moines in case there was some crazy insurrection on Old McDonald Farm. He didn’t want to slaughter the poor sons of a bitches. But if pushed to the brink he knew he would. He was growing meaner and stubborner by the day, as there was less 4-in-1 oil flowing through his limbs, and God help the next person who trespassed against him.
At night, Old McDonald lay in bed hearing the coyotes yelp, Willie the Horse neigh from his usual insomnia, and even an occasional bark by Buster the Dog, and he swore he could yet hear Perry the Pig counseling the other farm animals about their rights and their need to share in the profits of the farm which they themselves had helped assiduously build. Finally, in the middle of the night, getting up to go to the bathroom, he saw them near the barn congregating, and then he saw Sallie the Cow jump over the yellowish moon as all the animals cheered and yelped with joy.
At 5 a.m., Old McDonald went out to milk Sallie whom he always had good relations with. In the stall, he put a gentle and reassuring hand on the heifer as he dropped a metal pale below, and then squatted on a wooden stool before pulling on her udders. Squish. Squish. Squish. But no milk. “What the hell?” Old McDonald asked himself. He tried again. Squish. Squish. “What’s going on here, girl?” Sallie the Cow said, “Moo! Moo!” which Old McDonald because of his extensive years farming immediately understood to be: “Look, I provide one of the most cost-effective staple foods in all of America! I’d like to be compensated for it!”
“Why, you too stupid heifer? After I’ve raised you like one of mine own! Was there for your birth! Got you your shots! Fed you daily! And now you want to put me out to pasture?! You’re lucky I don’t shoot here right here,” McDonald said as he tossed the pail and stormed off to the hen house as he heard another moo that was obscene.
In the hen house, he fared no better than a very clever fox who had simply become outfoxed in his old age.
Anxiously, he began reaching under the hens and felt nothing but damp hay. And then frantically, he began lifting Charlene the Hen and all the other hens up to make sure that their nests were barren and that his egg cartoons that he was going to take down Sam’s Market would remain empty.
Old McDonald quivered with rage: “What’s happening here? A goddamn mutiny of dumb farm animals? You think this is Manor Farm? And I’m Mr. Jones who’s just gonna run off at the first sign of trouble?!”
Charlene the Hen, gregarious, even for a hen, then boldly spoke up for the entire group of poultry saying, “Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!” which was more like Gregg shorthand for: “We provide the essential ingredients for morning breakfast and ample amounts of protein as established by the FDA, and you, Farmer McDonald, don’t want to nor ever intend to give us any fair remittance.”
“I kept you from the sharp axe all these years, Charlene. I could’ve sold you wholesale,” Old McDonald said as he could hear nothing but a clatter of clucking from all these old hens which told him: “Go away!” “We work for someone else now!” “Talk to Perry the Pig! He’s our boss!”
Viciously, they began biting him and flapping their wings with a resounding fury heretofore unseen in this neck of the woods.
“If this keeps us,” Old McDonald shouted from outside the hen house while waving his strong knuckled fist, “I’m gonna take you all and drown you in the nearest crick!”
Daylight had come, at last, to the rural fields of Iowa where most were farmers or tradesmen. From his large barn, Old McDonald could see that door was wide open and there was that strange glow emanating, again. He went in and was aghast at what he saw: There were, at least, ten computers and laptops with high speed internet and TV’s with the finest DVD systems replete with High Dolby sound, and beside all this expensive equipment sat a brood of ducks and hens, a peep of chicks, a gaggle of geese, a herd of calves, and even a litter of puppies. What on Earth were they doing? They were all learning English through Berlitz and Rosetta Stone classes while a few of the elder pigs, horses and hens were working on their online degrees in Business, Agriculture, and Corporate Management. Many of the chicks, ducklings and puppies slightly turned their heads to see their Master look astonished before a few strong taps by a pointer on a large blackboard by their teacher refocused their efforts. Soon, he could hear their choral cries: “Old McDonald had a farm! E-I-E-I-O! And on this farm he had a pig! E-I-E?I-O! With an oink, oink here! And an oink, oink there. Here a oink! There a oink! Everywhere an oink, oink! Old McDonald had a farm E-I?E-I-O!”
Then with a cavernous mouth, he saw Jenny the Gander who had been a faithful employee for many years ask the class: “Who owns Old McDonald's farms?” The class replied: “We do!” “And what is Old McDonald’s farms?” “A Corporation!” “And where is it incorporated in?” “Delaware!” “Why?” “In order to lower our annual taxes!”
Old McDonald stormed off towards his ranch house as he could see Millie hanging laundry and the rest of the farm animals busily doing various chores. But along with way, he bumped into Perry the Pig who was now carrying an Iowan statute book in his hand. “What the hell?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Farmer McDonald, I’m studying for my juris of doctorate. I should complete it by this summer and take my bar exam by late fall.”
“You’re studying law?” “Yes. I’m in a Stanford Law program, right now.” “You know my language?” “Well, we’re learning it very quickly.” “English through online Berlitz programs?” “No, the language of business. Corporations. Corporate Boards. A pyramid-like management structure. Product Development. On-time deliveries. Seasonal Forecasts. Agriculture trends. Supply and Demand. Business Cycles. Human and Animal Resource Management. Lobbying and K-Street and ….”
“I’m not giving up my farm, Perry!”
“Quite respectfully, we’re not asking you to, Farmer McDonald. We’re just asking you to sign this, our FAUA Collective Bargaining Agreement so that farming operations can resume smoothly to our mutual benefit.”
Carefully, he perused it. “Twenty-five cents a chicken? Fourteen dollars ten cents a cow for each one slaughtered?”
Perry looked very calm, like a seasoned diplomat, stating “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Farmer McDonald. We’ve done a thorough sales and marketing analysis and you can simply raise your wholesale prices to recover these extra costs in production. Pass them off to the consumers." “Medical insurance?!” “Significantly lower than other unionized workers.’” “Life insurance?!” “Minimal, to say the least. But compounded annually.”
Old McDonald’s face was flushed like an Irish brogue’s as he tore the legal document in the pig’s face and shredded it into a thousand and one pieces that began to float like confetti in the wind. He stormed off to call his Des Moines-based attorney, Mike Callow, who assured him that he would drive up to Ottumwa and give him the very best representation that his money could offer him. Old McDonald tried to think rationally and to compose himself, but he was just about hyperventilating and his blood pressure was skyrocketing over the horizon. It proved to be a fruitless endeavor. “It’s like the entire world’s gone topsy turvy, Mike,” Old McDonald wailed into the phone. “Everything I’ve known is gone, and these animals, dumb as I thought they were, are gettin’ smarter every day.” He hung up. A fly was buzzing about his face. The Sun wasn’t even near its zenith in the sky and the work day was young, still. Old McDonald asked Millie to cook him a very big tonight dinner and to go get him some Epsom salts as he was gonna take the Seed Drill and plant a hundred acres of corn while his blood was still up.
The day went along much more smoothly.
Then night fell like a big wooly blanket over all the town folk of Ottumwa.
The next morning Old McDonald got up early. “I’m gonna show ‘em that I ain’t an old man, and that I got what it takes to run this farm another twenty years.”
It was ten days before Easter as the world continued to perilously wobble on its axis. The Sun was aglow as it peaked above the horizon with flat pancake clouds, hovering above. A brisk spring breeze blew. The ground was soft, as expected, and most of the animals were not awake yet. Perhaps, things were calming down on the farm. Maybe, it would rain today. But who knew, especially, with all this crazy weather? Old McDonald trudged to fill the feed and water bins as he did every morning taking care of these animals as though they were his own children. Billy the Sheep came and nuzzled him a bit. “How are you today, boy?” “Baa! Baa!” Which in sheep-speak meant: “I’m fine.” Old McDonald looked about and reminded himself to call vet Akins for some more de-worming medicine as he wanted to make sure none of his flock suffered from something entirely preventable such as worms. Once in the red barn, he took the nail clippers, toe clippers, and halter so that things would go smoothly and he wouldn’t have to wrestle them by putting each one in a ruthless headlock like Hulk Hogan at wrestle mania. Old McDonald then tried to coax, Tammy the Sheep, into a halter who always had gone along with the program. She began trotting away, at first, and then as Old McDonald gave pursuit she bolted running around the corral in a perfect circle. He gave chase for a couple minutes like on a damn treadmill going nowhere fast before wheezing from all the cigarettes he had smoked. He needed to stop before he got a Widow Maker and wound up giving the farm away. Frustrated, he walked towards Beatrice the Sheep as she waddled nearer thinking she would finally get her vaccination shot. But as Old McDonald lunged forward, she bolted like flying fireworks. “Damn it!” Old McDonald cried, “Billy the Kid, you’re supposed to be managing these wily sheep and helping me.” But Billy replied with a curt bleat: “Up yours, Old McDonald. You owe me a helluv a lot of back pay with interest!”
“I’m gonna get my axe and show you who’s boss!”
Old McDonald then grabbed his axe nearby remembering that Sam’s Market had placed an order for fifty puddle ducks, namely, mallards, pintails, and widgeons, last week, and began chasing the ducks.
Furiously, Old McDonald ran as many of the ducks scattered every which way, and cried: “Quack! Quack! Quack!” which when roughly translated from duck-speak meant: “Crazy Old McDonald! YOU’RE NOT GONNA GET ME!”
But Old McDonald still had a thing or two left, and was closing on Mikey the Mallard who waddled in zig zags as much as possible. Finally, within a yard’s reach, the old man slipped but threw his axe chopping of Mikey’s right foot. A loud quack. Blood gushed over the mud. An orange duck’s foot strangely still standing. Old McDonald seemed happy as he crawled an entire football yard on all fours and viciously grabbed Mikey the Mallard – “I’ve got you at last!” Finally, the glorious prize was at hand.
But Tommy the Duck began whistling ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The other ducks began singing, this time, mostly in English and in falsetto, mezzo-soprano, tenor and baritone tones.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; he is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; he hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; his truth is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.
With that, the mallards, pintails and widgeons, attacked Old McDonald as there was nothing but a fury of wings and vicious bites. His cries were muted from all the commotion. Soon, the mules came with a “Hee Haw! Hee Haw!” and began kicking with their powerful back legs as he was rendered mercifully unconscious. The domesticated cats came next, for they had many grievances of their own, and hissed and scratched him. Then the cows came who had grown tired of their own exploitation month after month and were now milked by other animals and given a share of their own proceeds as Perry lit a ready?made bonfire, and Old McDonald was put into a large pot along with the other ingredients to cook for several hours. “A bit stringy, but done at last!” “Like chicken cacciatore!” “Cut up some fresh carrots and onions!”
When the meal was readied, the turkeys, Marge, Jason, and Tommy, who had been sick to death about being everyone else’s feast for so long came with their forks and knives and began carving Old McDonald up. “How does it feel to be the main dish? With gravy poured over you?” Plates were passed. Wine was abundantly poured as toasts were made. The festivities were downright merry as all the farm animals celebrated and the hogs came running as they were told that they would get the leftovers that needed to disappear by early morning.
The next morning the Sun rose, as usual, ever bright in the sky as Mike Callow met with Mrs. McDonald who was still distraught sitting at the kitchen table in her paisley dress, but who signed nonetheless the FAUA Collective Bargaining Agreement before he left the house. Walking outside, seeing not a single cloud in the Iowan sky, he met Perry the Pig who was now wearing a Harrods bow tie, walking continuously upright and carrying his own leather brief case and did a firm hoof-to-hand shake.
“I’m not sure what got into Old McDonald,” Callow said shaking his head back and forth. “I knew him his entire life and would’ve never guessed he would act that rashly.”
“It’s sad,” Perry the Pig rejoined. “Yes, it is.” “The police were here, along with the coroner, and they interviewed,” Perry said, “Tommy the Duck, Sallie the Cow, Charlene the Hen, and Beatrice the Sheep ….” “Yes, I know. Poor Mikey the Mallard. It was semi-manslaughter beyond a doubt.” “And self-defense, mind you.” “Of course. No one questions the veracity of the reports and the eyewitnesses, and heck, nowadays no DA in his right mind would bring charges.” “And Mrs. McDonald?” “She fully realizes that she needs to abide by these new and coming laws, and pay a basic wage, health and life insurance to the animals here, I mean, the Domesticated Farm Workers and that with time, her overall profits as a partner will decrease from ninety percent to less than ten percent with various extended payments and compounded annual interest. Her tax rate, fortunately, will commensurately drop although there will be no more loopholes for the filthy rich either.
“I told her, ‘It’s a New Day in America.’”
“And you’re willing to be co-chairman of The Union of Farm Animals United? And the salary is fully acceptable? ” Perry asked as his brow was furrowed for he was still trying to read humans.
“Of course,” Callow said, “Like we had always planned from the beginning.”
