There are some places that are known for their landscapes, beautiful greenery and lush gardens. Some are better known for their bustling cities and monumental skyscrapers. Others have a vivid and exciting history behind the glorious historical structures that they alone exclusively possess.
But New Turkey was famous for none of these – it was an adorable little farming town somewhere in the vast unpredictable Texas – and it had been established as the most popular tourist destination for a very specific type of tourist. A type of tourist who was local and yet appeared for only a short amount of time only to disappear as soon as it did, letting everyone – even those outside the town – knowing that it had been there. It had the sort of presence like one of those hooligan motorcycle gangs. Those who roared in on those thunderous motorcycles while everyone looked at them and scowled, and the owners of bars and other properties quaked in their boots praying that they had insurance for the fight that did not yet happen.
The would burst in, with their fake teeth, queer necklaces and oversized punching rings, make noise with horrendous laughter, break a few dishes and more teeth that could not be spared, then leave shocking amounts of destruction for those who didn’t lose either. It’s like they had a vendetta against the town itself – a town that did nothing to them.
But the terrible visitor was not a motorcycle gang – in truth it is much worse than a drunk gang of cave-man like ruffians.
The visitor was more like a bully – like that mean kid who steals the scarves of littler kids every snowy day and uses it to whip them. But there’s no snow in Texas, is there? Maybe they’re more like those bullies who would steal your lunch money and push you over, steal your basketball and push you over, tear up your books and push you over, or just push you over for no reason at all. Or perhaps because it was fun to toss your tiny being around like a ragdoll.
The visitor does do that to everyone – but it’s not an angry bully with mental issues – if only it were.
Fortunately, the town was not completely defenseless and utterly hopeless against the invader. Even in Texas, they somehow had their own gypsy to predict when their doom would arrive. Every time it was thought to, she would rush out of her hut and scream, “It’s over, the end is near! Kiss your children, hold those you love dear near! Pray your home does not implode, that it’s somehow survives! Because it is nearly here!”
It was the same anthem of doom every time. The calm and serene streets would immediately wake up and begin to thrown all those upon then in all directions as if they were parasites on its being. The fleas would scatter and dive to anyone’s house and invade everyone’s privacy for their own survival.
Many efforts would be in vain – as in moments the dreaded visitor would say hello. It would be like it was being propelled by the eagle in Norse myths. The one with the great big wings that held responsibility for the winds. Except to conjure up this visitor, it needed a few steroids.
Yes, indeed the destructive power this regular visitor would bring cannot be conjured by anything alive – so what is it exactly.
New Turkey was famous for its bewildering and absolutely overpowering tornadoes that had no constructive purposes in their lives.