Chapter 185: SinBin Thanksgiving II

JAKE’S POV

"Fine," Bear muttered, inspecting the saucepan. "Now, tell me how you plan on injecting that into a twenty-two-pound raw turkey without a meat needle?"

A wicked lightbulb flickered in my brain.

"Give me two minutes," I said, dashing toward the garage.

I sprinted past my beat-up truck, tore open the red steel toolbox on my workbench, and grabbed my prized possession: a massive, gleaming chrome fluid syringe with a six-inch industrial steel nozzle.

I sprinted back into the kitchen, slamming it onto the counter with a loud thud.

Bear took one look at it and took two full steps back. "Connelly. Is that the syringe you used to bleed your truck’s brake lines last month?"

"It has been honorably discharged from automotive duty," I declared proudly.

"It was pumping synthetic brake fluid three weeks ago!" Bear roared. "You cannot inject toxic automotive chemicals into poultry!"

"Watch me," I said.

I grabbed our largest pasta pot and filled it to the brim with hot tap water. Then, I added half a bottle of blue Dawn dish soap until the water turned bright blue.

I dropped the steel syringe into the pot with a loud clang and slammed it onto the front gas burner, cranking the flame to maximum.

"There," I said, crossing my arms as soap bubbles foamed up to the rim. "That will sanitize and sterilize it. We boil it for twenty minutes."

Milo stared into the foaming cauldron, horrified. "The turkey is going to taste like mountain spring dish soap."

"Relax guys... just trust the process," I shot back, grabbing a pair of long barbecue tongs.

Thirty minutes later, steam was rolling across the kitchen ceiling. I fished the scalding chrome syringe out of the boiling suds, scalded it under cold tap water, and drew up our spicy butter-beer concoction with a triumphant slurp.

"Pin the bird, rookie," I commanded.

Milo held the slippery twenty-two-pound raw turkey down on the roasting pan, squeezing his eyes shut.

I jammed the steel nozzle four inches deep into the turkey breast and slammed the plunger down.

SQUIRT.

The turkey plumped up like a basketball, spicy red butter oozing from the puncture wounds.

"Behold," I declared, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. "Hydraulic flavor injection."

"We are going to get tetanus and botulism before dessert," Milo whimpered.

"Shut up and help Bear carry it outside," I ordered.

While Bear was outside in the freezing driveway calibrating the propane burner, the sheer, deranged majesty of the day hit me.

I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and started documenting history for the masses.

Story clip number one: Bear outside in freezing wind, wearing Knox’s leather motorcycle gauntlets, an apron tied over his winter coat, and neon-pink ski goggles, solemnly poking forty gallons of roiling peanut oil with an infrared thermometer gun.

"Here we have the Pittsburgh Mountain Troll in his natural habitat," I narrated into the camera, zooming in on Bear’s lethal glare. "Forty gallons of combustible oil. Zero municipal permits. God bless America."

Bear flipped off the camera without turning his head.

Story clip number two: Milo sitting on an overturned cooler on the porch, clutching the empty Frank’s RedHot bottle against his chest like a holy relic, tears still streaming down his cheeks from dicing onions.

"Rookie Vance," I captioned it with a skull emoji. "Praying for his digestive tract."

Story clip number three: A slow-motion boomerang of me hoisting the steaming chrome brake syringe with barbecue tongs like Excalibur, the text glowing in bold white font:

SinBin Orphan Thanksgiving. 40 gallons of boiling peanut oil, 22-lb mutant bird, zero parental supervision. Bring folding chairs, drinks, or whatever sides you got. Drop time: 3:30.

I tapped Share to Story, chuckled to myself, and pocketed the phone.

I figured maybe four guys from our defensive line would wander over with leftover chips. Briar’s campus was a ghost town over the holiday break.

Not even ten minutes later, the front doorbell chimed.

DING-DONG.

"Already?" I muttered, walking through the foyer and yanking the front door open.

Standing on the welcome mat were two Swedish exchange students from the varsity alpine ski team, shivering in oversized puffer jackets and holding two foil-wrapped pans.

"Hello," the taller one said with a polite, lilting Scandinavian accent. "We saw your Instagram story. Is this the orphan turkey house?"

I blinked at them. "Uh. Yeah. What’s in the foil?"

"Vegetarian spring rolls," the other offered hopefully. "And lingonberry jam. May we join?"

"Driveway’s on the left, ladies," I said, pointing past the porch. "Don’t stand downwind of the burner."

I closed the door, shaking my head with a grin.

I took three steps back toward the kitchen when...

DING-DONG.

I turned around and pulled the door open again.

Three girls from the women’s cross-country team were standing on the porch in wool beanies and running tights, carrying three nylon folding camp chairs, two family-size bags of cheddar jalapeño Doritos, and a twelve-pack of ginger ale.

"Jake!" the lead runner beamed. "We saw the story! The dining hall shut down at noon and we were starving. Can we use your bathroom?"

"Sure, the second door on the left," I pointed. "Chairs go around the driveway."

I hadn’t even let go of the brass doorknob when boots stomped up the wooden steps.

DING-DONG.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

"Open up, Jake!"

It was two rink attendants from the athletic center and a club lacrosse defenseman, lugging two red coolers full of ice and three cases of soda and beer.

"We heard there’s an OSHA violation happening in your driveway!" the lacrosse guy shouted, grinning ear to ear. "Where do we set up?"

"Down the driveway!" I shouted back.

Before I could even step onto the porch to see what was happening outside, another figure walked up the gravel path, puffing white clouds of breath in the freezing air.

It was an engineering grad student carrying an enormous, cast-iron stockpot wrapped in a flannel towel. The rich, mouthwatering aroma of toasted cumin, garlic, and coconut curry billowed into the foyer, smelling so incredible my knees almost buckled.

"Excuse me," the guy said, adjusting his glasses. "My roommate drove home to Ohio, the campus market is locked, and Reddit said the hockey house has forty gallons of boiling oil."

"Come on in, brother," I said, ushering him toward the back. "Put that curry right on the counter."

Bear came stomping in through the back kitchen door to grab a roll of paper towels.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The hallway was packed with winter coats, boots, and people laughing.

Outside, the driveway was buzzing with thirty students, folding chairs forming a ring around the snowbanks, and Milo had dragged his mammoth JBL party speaker onto the front porch, blasting classic rock while demonstrating hockey stickhandling to a crowd of cheering runners.

Bear looked at the crowd, then looked at me.

His pink ski goggles were pushed up on his forehead. "Jake."

"Yeah, Big Man?"

"What did you do?"

"I built community, Bear," I said with a dazzling grin. "Now get your motorcycle gloves on. We have thirty people waiting for a show!"

"Ten minutes to drop!" Bear’s booming voice cut through the music.

The crowd gathered around the chalk perimeter Bear had drawn on the driveway with an old piece of sidewalk chalk.

Bear looked like a mad scientist.

In his right hand, he held a steel lowering hook through the twine-wrapped turkey.

The forty gallons of peanut oil were churning violently, sending ripples of scorching heat into the freezing Massachusetts air.

"Stand clear of the splash zone!" Bear barked, checking his digital infrared thermometer. "Three hundred and seventy-five degrees! Jake, get the shield!"

I grabbed an aluminum snow shovel from the porch, holding it in front of me like a riot officer. "Shield is up! Lower the beast!"

Bear slowly, millimeter by millimeter, eased the twenty-two-pound turkey into the vat.

The second the chilled skin hit the boiling oil, the kettle let out a sound like a crashing freight train.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH!

A blinding plume of white steam erupted into the sky, towering fifteen feet above our heads. The peanut oil foamed violently, bubbling up to the very lip of the cauldron.

"Easy!" I shouted through the steam. "Easy, Bear!"

A single bubble of boiling oil popped, spilling over the steel rim.

It struck the open propane flame below.

WHOOOOOOOSH!

A five-foot wall of orange fire erupted from the base of the burner, leaping straight toward the wooden eaves of our adjacent tool shed!

The crowd shrieked and scrambled backward into the snowbanks.

"Fire!" Milo screamed, dropping his hockey stick. "The shed’s going up!"

"Extinguisher!" Bear roared, keeping his arms steady as he wrestled the steel hook to keep the turkey from crashing to the bottom of the pot. "Jake, kill the base!"

I didn’t think. I dropped the snow shovel, lunged for the yellow chemical fire extinguisher propped against the porch railing, yanked the cotter pin, and squeezed the trigger.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!

A blinding cloud of yellow dry-chemical powder blasted across the gravel, choking the fireball into submission.

At the exact same instant, Milo sprinted forward with a scoop shovel full of dirty driveway slush and hurled it against the smoking wooden wall of the shed.

Hiss!

The flame vanished.

The smoke cleared into the crisp autumn wind.

Inside the cauldron, beneath the swirling steam, the turkey was bubbling away at a smooth, steady, golden sizzle.

Complete silence hung over the driveway.

Bear slowly pushed his ski goggles up onto his knit hat. His face was covered in a circular layer of soot, except for two pale, clean rings around his eyes.

My hoodie was coated in yellow fire-retardant powder, and my bangs were singed at the tips.

Bear looked down into the kettle, then looked over at me.

"Is the shed alive?" Bear asked calmly.

"Shed is intact," I coughed, dusting yellow powder off my sleeve.

Bear grabbed the hook, gave it a gentle test pull, and grinned. "Then the bird is cooking."

The entire driveway erupted into wild, deafening cheers.