The Story of Thanksgiving

In 1621, after the Pilgrims (not to be confused with the Puritans) had landed at Plymouth Rock and just before initiating the centuries long rape of the Native Americans,  William Bradford who ran the Pilgrim Party Supply store, decided to invite their savage neighbors to a town social and get to know Squanto and the Patuxet people.  So Bradford sent Myles Standish, a mild-mannered dingus with a singing voice of the angels, to deliver a singing telegram to Squanto and his tribe.

Impressed with Standish’s golden pipes, Squanto asked him if he’d be interested in joining his jam band with other tribe members Running Wind and Fog Horn.  However, Myles, suffering from stage fright, quickly brushed off the question and returned to the telegram.  “We’d truly love it if you and your dirty savages would join us for a giant feast in celebration of bringing our two clans together and getting to know one another.”  Squanto, who’s English was limited at best, missed the insult but excepted the invite.

The next day, the Pilgrims and Indians gathered to share their plentiful bounty with each another.  During this feast, Bradford and Squanto engaged in deep conversation.  But what Squanto didn’t realize was that Bradford was employing mind control techniques and hypnosis to steal the Indians secrets about harvesting and eel fishing.  Bradford thought to himself “Stupid redskins!  Soon I will possess the power of the electric eel and it will be me who invents electricity and not that arrogant prick Benjamin Franklin!”

After the celebration, the Patuxet tribe returned to their camp to play some high stakes Hold ‘Em.  Meanwhile, Bradford was in his study, writing down the information he had gleaned from Squanto’s brain scan.  “Now I will be the most powerful man on Plymouth Rock.  Me!  MWHA-HAHAHAHA,” he quietly thought.

Bradford quickly employed a few ex-military types who had sailed with them to the New World and begin to develop electro-charged ray guns.  Months passed as Bradford and his men finalized the designs of their weapons of death.  Bradford knew that only the white man should possess this power and any loose ends had to be tied up.  Squanto and the Patuxet must die.

Remembering what a good job Myles Standish had done in unknowingly tricking the Patuxet into joining the “Get To Know Ya Feast Food Celebration Banquet”, Bradford went to see him.  “Myles, would you mind going and seeing if our mud monkey neighbors would be interested in joining us for an Arts and Crafts festival that the town is holding?”  Myles, being the dumb bulb fuck-stain that he is, excepted Bradford’s request, completely unaware of the sinister underlying machinations of his task.

Myles hiked to the Patuxet camp as Bradford and his men followed at a safe distance.  He soon arrived there with a smile on his face, glad to see his new friend Squanto again.  The two men shared a platonic embrace of mutual respect and love.  “Singing White Face, what brings you camp, friend?  Me glad see me friend,” Squanto said.  Sadly, their reunion didn’t last very long.

Suddenly, Pilgrims brandishing electric ray guns entered the camp.  Unaware of the immediate danger, Squanto waved to his white neighbors.  “More friends!  Welcome me camp!  Take what wish”  Bradford, salivating with malicious glee, raised his electric musket at Squanto and said,”Don’t mind if I do!”

His finger quickly squeezed the trigger and a blast of electrical energy sparks out of the barrel of the gun, striking Squanto in the shoulder.  Myles, shocked and afraid, screams out his friend’s name as he fell.  “SQUANTO!!!  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”  But his cries of pain and betrayal fell on the deaf ears of his Pilgrim brethren as they continued their assault on the Patuxet people.  Nothing in the Pilgrims sight had safe harbor.  Not men or women or children or horses or even animal spirits.  Everything had to die.  Everything.

When the massacre was over, Bradford and his cronies, picked up the juiciest looking Indians to take back to Plymouth Rock for yet another feast.  Myles, tears streaming down his cheeks, approached Bradford.  “You used me,” said Myles.

“That’s what humans do,” responded Bradford.  “We use others for our own gain.  That’s what they were doing to us back home in Europe.  But they were the only ones gaining.  Not anymore.  We’re top of the food chain here.  And not these dirty natives.  They have sticks and bows.  We got ray guns, mother fucker!  So, get in line or join their fate.”

“You know this is wrong, William,” pleaded Myles.  “This is not why we came here!”

“Maybe it’s not why you came here.  But I did,” said Bradford.   “This is my world now.  So, whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the side of good.”

Bradford raises his weapon, “Too bad.”  But death would not be coming for Standish on this day.

Myles opened his mouth wide and belted out a long, sustained high-pitched note that rumbled the earth and shook the trees.  The note pierced the eardrums of Bradford and his men, incapacitating them, causing them to drop their weapons.  Myles continued to hold his note until the men dropped to their knees in pain, their bodies unable to process the decibel’s that were assaulting them.

“NO,” cried Bradford!  “Not like this!  Not by a god damn dingus like you!”

And with those last words, Bradford’s head exploded!  Then one by one, the other men’ heads exploded as well.  Myles, satisfied with his revenge, stopped singing the note.  Sadden by the greed of his people and the death of the Patuxet tribe, Myles fell to the ground, grieving.  “Why?  We could’ve lived together!  Co-existed equally, sharing our knowledge of the world with each other.  We could’ve been as one!  One tribe nation under God!  WHHHHYYYY?!?”

Just then he felt a cold hand on his shoulder and turned around to see the spirit of Squanto standing behind him.

“Squanto,” he asked, “is that really you?”

“Yes.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Before I move on to that big casino in the sky, I wanted to answer your question of why,” stated Squanto.

“Your English has drastically improved,” Myles remarked.

“It’s an afterlife perk.  You’ll see one day.  But let this horrible massacre be a lesson to you and your people.  Be thankful for what you have.  Or else your greed will result in mass genocide.”  And with that nugget of wisdom, Squanto disappeared.

Myles returned to the village and told them of the horrors he had just been privy too.  Afterward, the townspeople agreed to never succumb to greed.  So, the invented an annual holiday to give thanks for what they had, be it wealth or companionship.  And thus Thanksgiving was born.

THE END.

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