The Tortoise

Things started going horribly wrong the day I found the dead tortoise behind the old abandoned church we were using as a meth lab.

I was taking a break, smoking a Marlboro Light, soaking up some of the last rays of the faint winter sun. My shirt was drenched with perspiration from wearing the heavy plastic chemical suit which Iggy made us wear while we were cooking.

“You’ll be glad I made you wear the suit if something blows up”, Iggy used to say.

We all complained vehemently of course, but we wore the suits – mainly because Iggy was the only one who actually knew what he was doing.

Iggy was proof that stereotypes are based in fact. If ever there was a cover model for the Mad Scientist’s Monthly, Iggy was it. He was tall and skinny, awkwardly skinny, with big bulging knees and elbows and knobs and ends sticking out precariously every which way. He had a long pointy face full of freckles. He wore thick rimmed glasses with lenses so thick they could be used to search for life in far away galaxies, and to top it all off he had bush of the curliest red hair I had ever seen. We were friends – good friends. We had the type of friendship that can only be forged by swimming through the same ocean of shit, dragging each other through kicking and screaming. I guess it is what guys in war movies would call spilling the same blood in the same mud.

Iggy was without a doubt the brains behind our little pharmacological enterprise. He was clever as hell and if things hadn’t turned out the way they did, he probably would have gone on to win the Nobel Prize for physics, or something similarly profound. Not for cooking meth, I’m sure, even though we were making some of the best stuff I had ever seen, or even heard of.

“Quality is key” – that was Iggy’s motto.


I finished off my Marlboro and was about to head back inside when I noticed something moving in the grass a few feet from where I had been leaning against an old rusty gate that led into the church yard. I walked over to investigate, careful not to step on any of the myriad of rusty nails and other sharp shards of debris that littered the overgrown yard. I used the handle of an old rake to slowly part the grass where I had spotted movement. The last rays of the dying winter sun had slipped behind a far off mountain range and the entire area was now draped in that eerie shadow that befalls the earth before daytime begrudgingly surrenders to the dark. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the deepening shadows. I was about to give up on my search and head back inside, sure that whatever had attracted my attention was long gone. It moved again.

It was a little tortoise, about the size of the flowery old saucers my grandmother used to serve Sunday afternoon tea on. Even in the poor light I could see the tortoise was in trouble. Its little shell had been shattered in so many places that it was hard to imagine that it had ever been in one piece. It seemed to glisten. Blood, I realized, was seeping out of the crushed remains of its shell.
I stood watching in solemn silence as the tortoise’s little life wound down like a bad pocket watch. Its mouth opened and closed spasmodically as it tried to fill its crushed lungs with life giving air. Slowly but surely, its movements became slower and less pronounced until at last it just slipped into that invisible chasm that separates one second of life from another.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the tortoise’s broken little body before reality slowly started drifting back into focus. The first thing I realized was that I was shivering uncontrollably and, although the night air had gotten quite chilly and a slight breeze had begun rustling through the long grass around me, I was certain the chill running up and down my spine was not related to the sudden drop in ambient temperature.

The tortoise was an omen. I could not explain the sudden feeling of impending doom, but it was there. It felt like some dark remnant from our prehistoric past was tearing at the corners of my mind, trying to activate a fight or flight response, trying to get my dumb ass to move out of the way of some unseen danger that was hurtling towards us like a runaway freight train, ready to crush everything in its path.
Something bad was going to happen. I tried to convince myself that I was being paranoid, that we had taken so many precautions to prevent anything from fucking up our plans that nothing could possibly go wrong, but that long forgotten terror that had gotten hold of me had sunken its claws in deep and was holding on with all it had. I could almost see the dark snarling figure, teeth bared, dripping saliva, getting ready to tear out my jugular and end my miserable existence, just as it had done with the unfortunate little tortoise at my feet.

“What’s that?”

I nearly soiled myself at the sound of Bear’s gruff voice behind me. I must’ve visibly flinched because Bear burst out laughing. His deep bellowing laughter filled the night air and almost drove away the dark beasties that were trying to rob me of my sanity - almost.

“No need to run for the hills mate,” he managed after a while.

“Not funny, asshole. Next time you sneak up on me like that I’ll kick your ass.”

“Aaw, come on. Did I hurt your little ego? Not my fault if you space out like that. I’ve never been accused of being light footed before.”

He was right, as his nickname suggested, Bear was a big boy and hardly cat footed. In fact, his gigantic muscular frame combined with his energetic demeanor, made him reminiscent of the proverbial bull in the misfortunate china shop. Bear made a lasting first impression to say the least.
He strolled over to where I was standing. Even though he had stopped laughing, he was still obviously amused at how big a fright I had gotten.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked again.

I suddenly felt very protective of the unfortunate little tortoise. It was as if a great responsibility had been placed on my shoulders, as if spending the last few seconds of its existence together had forged an unbreakable partnership between us. I had to bury it. I knew this even before the thought actually formulated into what can be called comprehensible format. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew it had to be done. I had watched the little critter die, but there was more than that – much more. Suddenly it felt as though he had purposefully attracted my attention, drawing me closer to witness his horrific death. Cold fingers crawled up my spine. That feeling of impending doom returned.

“It’s a tortoise. Something happened to it – it’s all…” I hesitated a bit. I couldn’t find the words to describe the agonizing end the poor thing had come to. “…it’s all broken.” I finally managed.

“Broken? What do you mean broken?”

“It’s all fucked up! Ok?”

Bear looked taken aback by my tone. “Hey man, sorry I asked. What the fuck do you care anyway? Did you know the fucking thing?” he turned around and, without taking a second look at the tortoise, headed back inside.

I scrounged around for a bit until I found a flat piece of metal that could substitute as a shovel. It was hard work, digging the little grave. The ground was hard and my shovel was old and rusty. I managed to injure myself pretty badly, sustaining several nasty nicks and cuts before the grave was deep enough for my liking. I wrapped the little tortoise up in my dishcloth – one of those super-absorbent ones they advertise on TV and another of Iggy’ meth lab essentials – and carefully placed it in the shallow grave. Once I had covered it up again, I dragged a big, flat stone over the grave to prevent any hungry scavengers from digging it up. Satisfied that I had done everything practical to protect the tortoise’s final resting place, I turned and headed back into the church. I still couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that trouble was coming our way but we had work to do – lots of it – and our customers were not exactly the understanding kind.




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