Tangible Schizophrenia


The Fandom Turkey Cookbook

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: Hovers around PG-13.
Pairing: Multiple.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: None belongs to me.
Notes: Multiple fandoms. Thanksgiving humor. About as serious as the debate over who gets to stick their hand in the turkey and retrieve the giblet bag.
Summary: There are many, many ways to serve turkey. We suggest you avoid the following.



“He, uh, doesn’t look too happy. See, Connor? See? I told you it wouldn’t fucking work. We should’ve gone with the forty-rod whiskey.”

“We were going to, nimrod, till you and Da drank it all in celebration of Saint fucking Columban’s day.”


*chorus* “Yeah, Smecker?”

“You get lost in goddamn Pennsylvania for two weeks, forcing me to hunt through the wild and woolly and goddamn inbred Appalachians in an effort to keep up and not blow my cover, and you bring me what for my troubles? A turkey. A turkey with no fucking head that is dripping God knows what on my nice floor that was just redone because you fuckheads bled on it the last time you were here. Now, am I getting this right?”

“Er. Connor?”

“Er. Well, forgiveness is divine, man. Right? Right? Smecker?”

* * *


“I simply don’t understand. I’ve cleaned, basted, and roasted it exactly to specifications, yet when I slice into it, it’s still bloody.”

“Did you use the right rule of thumb? It takes longer if there’s still frost on the bird.”

“Yes, I took that into consideration when I made my calculations. Though it hadn’t been that long since William shot it, so I can hardly see how that would greatly affect it…Archie? Where are you going?”

“Well, I’m hungry and while I don’t mean to cast aspersions on your cooking skill, Horatio, might I suggest that it’d be tactically better to go charm that cluster of girls? They look like they know which end of a turkey is which, and the blonde one’s already been staring at you for the past quarter-hour.”


“Oh, good. I knew you’d agree with me.”

* * *


“Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s broth soaking into your hair.”

“Oh, I know. And in a moment you’re going to want to take that gravy off the stove if you want to save it…hello, pretty. I didn’t know you had a cat, Godley.”

“I don’t. It must’ve come in through the window smelling the spilled stuffing. Get! Get! Sir, if you knew I was going to spill it, then why didn’t you move?”

“What would have been the point? The future’s unavoidable.”

“Maybe it is, but to my line of thinking, broth in your hair isn’t. All right, up we go…better get that rinsed out before you have all the cats in the neighborhood heading this way.”

* * *


“Jack, the rum is supposed to go on the turkey. On it. The sugar in the rum caramelizes during the roasting process and that is what produces that appealing golden glow. You are familiar with the idea of basting, yes?”

“*hic* Should be. Lizzie gave him a fun lesson in it last night. Notice the lovely rich color it’s given *hic* his skin.”

“Damnation, Turner, you are not helping. And are you…yes, you are drunk. Disgraceful.”

“Oh, leave off the boy, James. ‘s easy, anyway…you take the…I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I’m making here…rum and slosh it over the bird like this and then you ram the spit like so--”

All men wince with varying degrees of sympathy on their faces.

“—and then you roast. Takes just long enough to get the blacksmith prepared, if you’ve paced out your rum so’s to have enough. Which I’ve cleverly done, so no need to thank me.”

“Jack Sparrow.”


“I’m pulling rank. Hand me that basting brush. Will, hold still.”

* * *


“I’m a demon. I was born from hellfire and sulfur fumes, with a dash of black bubbling sin thrown in for character. What were you expecting?”

“Well, to go by the quality of your suit, something that actually qualified as food. Not this…this…I maybe could sell it to Midnite as a rare charcoal briquette from St. Basil’s in Moscow. I don’t think he knows much about the Orthodox Church.”

“John. Do you actually think my suits say I personally know how to cook? Or that I’d waste my chef on satisfying your appetite?”

*fwishclick* “Balthazar, I’m going to have this cigarette. While I’m doing that, I want you to consider very carefully what a guy with a big fucking pair of white wings, God’s grace and the ability to yank you out of Hell deserves.”

“You don’t even like turkey.”

“It’s not about what I like, it’s about tradition.” Pause. “Actually, that makes no sense. And now we have all this cranberry sauce and nothing to go with it…on second thought, spend the time saying good-bye to that suit you’re wearing. I’m not too fond of it, either.”

* * *



“Yes, Neo?”

“As The One, I can shape the Matrix as I see fit, right?”

“That is how it seems to work.”

“Then why can’t I get a deep-fried turkey to come out right? This looks more like a jalapeno pepper popper. I can’t find the meat, the skin’s so crispy.”

Hey, Neo. Sorry, man, but I can’t find a how-to-cook upload disc. You’re on your own here.

“Thanks anyway, Link.” *sighs* “Well, when Trinity gets back, I’ll ask her. You think she’ll know?”

*undignified snickering* “Neo, I suggest we leave this discussion to another time. Perhaps the Oracle will know.”

“Well, she does make good cookies.”

* * *


“I just, it was taking too long, so I just thought I’d rev it up a little. Just to speed things up.”


“It’s the oven, man! Something’s up with the oven! That damned thing was rattling and shit, and I had to do something! I just saved us from dying, man!”

“And you pretty much made sure nobody’s ever saving this turkey. Jesus. I can’t even…did you see that? I touched the bone and it just fell apart! It—oh, goddamn it, Richie. Let’s go get a couple of burgers.”

* * *


“I don’t think Miho likes it.”

“Why not? Can’t be the blood. She doesn’t mind that, not with the way she swings her swords around.”

“Well, it’s…uh, Gail, it’s kind of raw beneath the, uh, crust.”

“So’s sushi.”

“Chicken’s not really the same. Listen, why don’t I make some spaghetti? You look pretty wiped.”

*snorts* “Keep on sucking it, pretty-boy. That’s what Mama likes at the end of the day…oh, don’t look like that, Miho. You can swipe meatballs from Dwight after me.”

* * *


“El, when I say we keep Fideo out of the fucking kitchen, I mean we strap him to his fucking explosives and launch him to the goddamn moon. I do not mean let him near the fucking turkey.”

//Hey, I found the head! Looks like that guy I shot the other day. Same bulging eyes.//

//Good for you, Lorenzo. Now find the legs, please.// Quick cough. “There’s a good roast chicken stand down the street.”

“If I wanted godfucking chicken I’d whack Lorenzo and get rid of the strutting beanpole of a bastard. This is Thanksgiving. Maybe you don’t celebrate it on this side of the border, but this is one of the few days that I don’t feel cynical about keeping my American citizenship and by all that’s fucking holy with blessed bullets, I’m getting turkey. Comprende, compadre?”

Sighs. “Si. I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t kill Lorenzo and don’t let Fideo pass out in the toilet again.”