Werthers’s guts were brimming with locusts as he walked from the public outhouse back to the waiting room of the floating fantasy welfare office. He walked past the stinky warlock from earlier as he reached the doorway, and for a fleeting moment the odors of their putrification distracted him from his troubles.
Werthers stepped inside the waiting room only to notice that his seat was taken. As was every other seat in the room.
“Number thirty two?”
A woman that looked as hard as granite walked up to the counter. Werthers did his best to worm past her.
“Excrete me. What about me? I’m number twenty three.”
The rocky woman turned to him and growled like a mastiff. The receptionist cleared their throat.
“Sirrah. We already called twenty three ten minutes ago. Nobody came up. Take a new number.”
The receptionist handed Werthers a small slip of paper. On it was the number fifty two. He sighed and plopped down in the igneous woman’s former seat, sulking like a dehydrated orchid.
“Werthershire?” bumbled a familiar bafoonish voice.
Werthers turned to his left, nearly jumping. “Officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish?”
“Shhhh! Here I’m going by the name of ‘Herbert.’ I’m in what they call deep doodoo.”
‘Deep doodoo’ was secret special gourdian agent speak for deep cover, which usually implied an assumed identity.
“Don’t give me away, Werthingtuttle! Anyhowitser, what brings you here?”
Werthers reminded officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish of his pink slip, massive debt and lack of hireability.
“Dear me, Werthshterson! That’s quite a vinegary cucumber you’ve gotten yourself stuck inside. And with no melted butter to lube your way out, either!”
Werthers didn’t know what to make of officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish’s strange food analogies. Fortunately the office seargeant continued to spill his beans, and then his soup and then a couple of sandwiches worth of nonsensical smalltalk into Werthers’ ears with no indication of stopping.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The receptionist’s scream cut through even Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish’s dense speech patterns. Werthers looked up to see the volcanic woman that was number thirty two still stood at the reception desk. And then, when she swiveled around, Werthers realized it was not a woman at all. It was Ronaldo Skripper in drag. And he was holding a magic machete.
Magic machetes were identical to regular machetes in every way except that when you twisted the magical handle in just the right way they fired tiny machetes at whatever or whoever the tip of the blade was pointed at.
“Alrightedy-doodles! Everybody on the floor and nobody gets hurt!…Probably. I dunno I’m still twerking on my aim with this thing but I promise I’ll do my best not to kill any of you. On the floor!”
The crowded waiting room quickly felt even more crowded as everyone pressed themselves on the floor like vacuum-packed sardines. Werthers turned to Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish.
“Does this have anything to do with your mission, ‘Herbert’?”
“What? Hownowbrown, that’s classified information!”
The fabulous Ronaldo Skripper grew red as a beet stained tongue. “Who’s whispering?!”
Literally everyone in the room was whispering, making Ronaldo’s bellowing fairly faint.
“Pay attention to me this is a serious situation!”
“Oh, alright, Werthettuttle, alright, you got me, this guy has everything to do with my mission! But that’s all I can tell you, okay? It really is classified. To be candid, I could get my ass tossed in the griddle for telling you what you already know.”
“Everybody shut the cluck up already!!” fumed Ronaldo, waving the magic machete as his mascara smearing.
A dark suited string beany figure sauntered into the waiting room.
“Mother of cock, Ronnie! What is wrong with youse? Those pants with that top? I mean what the cluck were youse thinking?” scolded Pripkin with glints of joy in his eyes.
“Stop trying to put me down for my creativity, you cranberry!”
The irony of Ronaldo calling Pripkin a cranberry at this moment was not lost on anyone. Except Ronaldo.
“Anyhow, haven’t youse ever held a hood batch of hostages before? I knew that magic machete was a bad idea. Lucky for youse I just brought a gun.”
Blithers Pripkin whipped out a large assault rifle from a nebulous area behind his back where in the past he had retrieved his cigarette holder.
“Once again, everyone, I’m sorry about him. I shoulda known he wouldn’t give youse all a proper hostage experience. But don’t any of youse worry, don’t any of youse worry at all, I’m going to set it all right, I know what I’m doing.”
Then he loaded it and fired into the ceiling, nearly draining the magazine.
BRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTBRTTTTTTBRTBRTTBRTTTTTTT
“HAHAHAHAHAAHHAAAA!”
People were still whispering louder than even Pripkin could shout. The gunfire barely seemed to faze them. It was like he was attempting to shepherd a crowd of deaf sheep.
“Hamn, Ronaldo, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize these guys were so difficult.”
Ronaldo was already gone, off to cock knew where. Now Pripkin really was starting to look like a cranberry.
“That’s enough! You!” he growled, pointing at Werthers. “Get the cluck over here.”
Werthers laid in a pool of his own sweat, looking around, hoping Pripkin was pointing to someone else. Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish was whispering at light speed about something convoluted and at least metaphorically food related.
“I’m not clucking with you! Get the cluck over here or I’ll fill you full of fantasy lead!”
Werthers did not move. Maybe Pripkin was pointing to someone close to him. He wasn’t about to look up and check.
“Cock hamnit that’s it!” Pripkin strutted up to Werthers and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck like a feline. Then he pointed his gun at Werthers’ neck. “Time for youse all to learn a lesson!”
No reaction from the crowd. Werthers was unsure whether he was going to have a fart attack or an aneurysm or a stroke or if he’d actually get shot, but he felt horrible.
Werthers noticed officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish winking at him, and then mouthing ‘Stick to the plan. Remember what we just talked about.’
Before Werthers could inform officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish that he hadn’t the slightest idea what they had talked about, other than that it included mayonnaise, he was walked off past the reception desk and down a foreboding hallway. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
He could but walk two doors down before Pripkin gripped Werthers’ entire body and thrust him headfirst like a battering ram into the doorway. It swung open, papers flying everywhere. Werthers ears rung and his vision blurred as Pripkin turned him right side up and pressed him against the wall. Then, he raised his right hand for a fist bump.
“W-what?” gasped Werthers.
“Bump it. Come on, Wormy, bump that shit.”
Werthers bumped that shit.
“Awesome. Hamn, Wormy, you’re too hood. If I hadn’ta know better I’da thought youse had no idea what was going on!”
“Oh. Heh.”
“Youse’re a genius, Wormy, really. Youse know your top notch acting skills are gonna land youse in a real hood place in our organization.”
“Oh?”
“But enough about that. I don’t want the other hostages thinking I’m not killing youse or anything!”
Pripkin whipped his gun up right beside Werthers’ right ear and fired into the wall maniacly.
BRTTTTTTTBRTTTTBRRRTTTTTT CLICK CLICK CLICK
“Well there that was. Now go ahead and fall on the floor like you’re a cadaver.”
Werthers slumped to the floor, his right ear ringing like church bells.
“What the cluck are you doing, Pripkin? Why’d you go and kill him?! Are you mad? Have you no decency?” berated a streamy faced Ronaldo.
“Look at youse, talking about decency! Hen no I didn’t kill him! It’s all an act! Wormy tell him it’s an act!”
“It’s an act,” croaked Werthers.
“Oh thank clucking cock,” exhaled Ronaldo, “Worms, I don’t know where we’d be without you. This whole plan would probably fall apart. thanks for keeping your cool.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hands up, you bass turds!” bellowed the bejowled lips of none other than ‘Herbert.’
“Who in the hen are you?” spat Pripkin, brandishing his rifle.
“I am s—I am Herbert.”
“Well s—I am Herbert, you are kindly invited to go cluck yourself!” cackled Pripkin, squeezing the trigger.
TIK TIK TIK TIK
“Oh shit,” he muttered, “magazine’s empty. Cock hamnit.”
Herbert raised back his fist.
BFFFFF
Pripkin staggered back, blood pouring from his mouth. He hacked up a tooth.
“C-c-cluck. My…my toof,” whistled Pripkin. It was one of his front teeth.
“Why you clucking piece of shit! I’ll send you straight to the chickens!!” rumbled Ronaldo as he fired a myriad of miniature machetes at ‘Herald’.
SH SH SH SH SHHHHKCCCCKCKKTLTLLTK
“AAAAARGH!” cried ‘Herbert’ as a line of five machetes punctured his left hand, the final one severing the hand completely. “My hand! My clucking hand! Cluck you!”
“Loof, youfe cluffing idioff,” gurgle, “cuf thif ffhit out! Who giffef a cluff who fevered whofe hand or who knocked my CLUFFING toof out. Ffhit haffens. Whaf fe all feed to keef in min if that thif plafe if gonna flow up in, life, free minufff.
“Furfermore, I coulf and ffhould kill efferyone in thif room in half a fecond! Effeft youfe, Formy, youfe if a hood guy, a real hood guy, I don’t fink I would kill youfe. I coulf, though, I fure could.
“Anyfayf, you fefered-left-hand baff turd, you toof affaffinating wumple-trout. Youfe keep your diftanf from uf or youfe’ll be fery fery forry. I could gut youfe like a fifh juft by looking at youfe funny. Underftood?”
Everyone blinked for a little bit af their brainf tried to proceff everything he had faid.
Then, realizing that the floating welfare office was soon to explode for undefined reasons, everyone scrambled to their feet and ran a different direction. Unfortunately they all picked opposing directions so that instead of escaping eachother they all congealed into a fleshy knotted lump in the middle of the hallway.
Somehow in all this confusion, Werthers managed to recieve a pat on the back from both ‘Herald’ and Ronaldo, who seemed incredibly impressed with his acting abilities and furthermore posited that he may be the most competent member of their immediate association, whatever on Gurth that meant. He settled for nodding and smizing to the nines, though he felt it barely masked his intense fear.
In a blur, Werthers found himself standing alone in the hallway as ‘Herbert’ ran off in one direction and Ronaldo and Pripkin ran off in another. Werthers sighed in relief, blinking to focus on a small leak in the ceiling.
Then, the building exploded.
Werthers’s guts were brimming with locusts as he walked from the public outhouse back to the waiting room of the floating fantasy welfare office. He walked past the stinky warlock from earlier as he reached the doorway, and for a fleeting moment the odors of their putrification distracted him from his troubles.
Werthers stepped inside the waiting room only to notice that his seat was taken. As was every other seat in the room.
“Number thirty two?”
A woman that looked as hard as granite walked up to the counter. Werthers did his best to worm past her.
“Excrete me. What about me? I’m number twenty three.”
The rocky woman turned to him and growled like a mastiff. The receptionist cleared their throat.
“Sirrah. We already called twenty three ten minutes ago. Nobody came up. Take a new number.”
The receptionist handed Werthers a small slip of paper. On it was the number fifty two. He sighed and plopped down in the igneous woman’s former seat, sulking like a dehydrated orchid.
“Werthershire?” bumbled a familiar bafoonish voice.
Werthers turned to his left, nearly jumping. “Officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish?”
“Shhhh! Here I’m going by the name of ‘Herbert.’ I’m in what they call deep doodoo.”
‘Deep doodoo’ was secret special gourdian agent speak for deep cover, which usually implied an assumed identity.
“Don’t give me away, Werthingtuttle! Anyhowitser, what brings you here?”
Werthers reminded officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish of his pink slip, massive debt and lack of hireability.
“Dear me, Werthshterson! That’s quite a vinegary cucumber you’ve gotten yourself stuck inside. And with no melted butter to lube your way out, either!”
Werthers didn’t know what to make of officer seargant Seargeant Officer Jarmish’s strange food analogies. Fortunately the office seargeant continued to spill his beans, and then his soup and then a couple of sandwiches worth of nonsensical smalltalk into Werthers’ ears with no indication of stopping.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The receptionist’s scream cut through even Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish’s dense speech patterns. Werthers looked up to see the volcanic woman that was number thirty two still stood at the reception desk. And then, when she swiveled around, Werthers realized it was not a woman at all. It was Ronaldo Skripper in drag. And he was holding a magic machete.
Magic machetes were identical to regular machetes in every way except that when you twisted the magical handle in just the right way they fired tiny machetes at whatever or whoever the tip of the blade was pointed at.
“Alrightedy-doodles! Everybody on the floor and nobody gets hurt!…Probably. I dunno I’m still twerking on my aim with this thing but I promise I’ll do my best not to kill any of you. On the floor!”
The crowded waiting room quickly felt even more crowded as everyone pressed themselves on the floor like vacuum-packed sardines. Werthers turned to Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish.
“Does this have anything to do with your mission, ‘Herbert’?”
“What? Hownowbrown, that’s classified information!”
The fabulous Ronaldo Skripper grew red as a beet stained tongue. “Who’s whispering?!”
Literally everyone in the room was whispering, making Ronaldo’s bellowing fairly faint.
“Pay attention to me this is a serious situation!”
“Oh, alright, Werthettuttle, alright, you got me, this guy has everything to do with my mission! But that’s all I can tell you, okay? It really is classified. To be candid, I could get my ass tossed in the griddle for telling you what you already know.”
“Everybody shut the cluck up already!!” fumed Ronaldo, waving the magic machete as his mascara smearing.
A dark suited string beany figure sauntered into the waiting room.
“Mother of cock, Ronnie! What is wrong with youse? Those pants with that top? I mean what the cluck were youse thinking?” scolded Pripkin with glints of joy in his eyes.
“Stop trying to put me down for my creativity, you cranberry!”
The irony of Ronaldo calling Pripkin a cranberry at this moment was not lost on anyone. Except Ronaldo.
“Anyhow, haven’t youse ever held a hood batch of hostages before? I knew that magic machete was a bad idea. Lucky for youse I just brought a gun.”
Blithers Pripkin whipped out a large assault rifle from a nebulous area behind his back where in the past he had retrieved his cigarette holder.
“Once again, everyone, I’m sorry about him. I shoulda known he wouldn’t give youse all a proper hostage experience. But don’t any of youse worry, don’t any of youse worry at all, I’m going to set it all right, I know what I’m doing.”
Then he loaded it and fired into the ceiling, nearly draining the magazine.
BRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTBRTTTTTTBRTBRTTBRTTTTTTT
“HAHAHAHAHAAHHAAAA!”
People were still whispering louder than even Pripkin could shout. The gunfire barely seemed to faze them. It was like he was attempting to shepherd a crowd of deaf sheep.
“Hamn, Ronaldo, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize these guys were so difficult.”
Ronaldo was already gone, off to cock knew where. Now Pripkin really was starting to look like a cranberry.
“That’s enough! You!” he growled, pointing at Werthers. “Get the cluck over here.”
Werthers laid in a pool of his own sweat, looking around, hoping Pripkin was pointing to someone else. Officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish was whispering at light speed about something convoluted and at least metaphorically food related.
“I’m not clucking with you! Get the cluck over here or I’ll fill you full of fantasy lead!”
Werthers did not move. Maybe Pripkin was pointing to someone close to him. He wasn’t about to look up and check.
“Cock hamnit that’s it!” Pripkin strutted up to Werthers and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck like a feline. Then he pointed his gun at Werthers’ neck. “Time for youse all to learn a lesson!”
No reaction from the crowd. Werthers was unsure whether he was going to have a fart attack or an aneurysm or a stroke or if he’d actually get shot, but he felt horrible.
Werthers noticed officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish winking at him, and then mouthing ‘Stick to the plan. Remember what we just talked about.’
Before Werthers could inform officer seargeant Seargeant Officer Jarmish that he hadn’t the slightest idea what they had talked about, other than that it included mayonnaise, he was walked off past the reception desk and down a foreboding hallway. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
He could but walk two doors down before Pripkin gripped Werthers’ entire body and thrust him headfirst like a battering ram into the doorway. It swung open, papers flying everywhere. Werthers ears rung and his vision blurred as Pripkin turned him right side up and pressed him against the wall. Then, he raised his right hand for a fist bump.
“W-what?” gasped Werthers.
“Bump it. Come on, Wormy, bump that shit.”
Werthers bumped that shit.
“Awesome. Hamn, Wormy, you’re too hood. If I hadn’ta know better I’da thought youse had no idea what was going on!”
“Oh. Heh.”
“Youse’re a genius, Wormy, really. Youse know your top notch acting skills are gonna land youse in a real hood place in our organization.”
“Oh?”
“But enough about that. I don’t want the other hostages thinking I’m not killing youse or anything!”
Pripkin whipped his gun up right beside Werthers’ right ear and fired into the wall maniacly.
BRTTTTTTTBRTTTTBRRRTTTTTT CLICK CLICK CLICK
“Well there that was. Now go ahead and fall on the floor like you’re a cadaver.”
Werthers slumped to the floor, his right ear ringing like church bells.
“What the cluck are you doing, Pripkin? Why’d you go and kill him?! Are you mad? Have you no decency?” berated a streamy faced Ronaldo.
“Look at youse, talking about decency! Hen no I didn’t kill him! It’s all an act! Wormy tell him it’s an act!”
“It’s an act,” croaked Werthers.
“Oh thank clucking cock,” exhaled Ronaldo, “Worms, I don’t know where we’d be without you. This whole plan would probably fall apart. thanks for keeping your cool.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hands up, you bass turds!” bellowed the bejowled lips of none other than ‘Herbert.’
“Who in the hen are you?” spat Pripkin, brandishing his rifle.
“I am s—I am Herbert.”
“Well s—I am Herbert, you are kindly invited to go cluck yourself!” cackled Pripkin, squeezing the trigger.
TIK TIK TIK TIK
“Oh shit,” he muttered, “magazine’s empty. Cock hamnit.”
Herbert raised back his fist.
BFFFFF
Pripkin staggered back, blood pouring from his mouth. He hacked up a tooth.
“C-c-cluck. My…my toof,” whistled Pripkin. It was one of his front teeth.
“Why you clucking piece of shit! I’ll send you straight to the chickens!!” rumbled Ronaldo as he fired a myriad of miniature machetes at ‘Herald’.
SH SH SH SH SHHHHKCCCCKCKKTLTLLTK
“AAAAARGH!” cried ‘Herbert’ as a line of five machetes punctured his left hand, the final one severing the hand completely. “My hand! My clucking hand! Cluck you!”
“Loof, youfe cluffing idioff,” gurgle, “cuf thif ffhit out! Who giffef a cluff who fevered whofe hand or who knocked my CLUFFING toof out. Ffhit haffens. Whaf fe all feed to keef in min if that thif plafe if gonna flow up in, life, free minufff.
“Furfermore, I coulf and ffhould kill efferyone in thif room in half a fecond! Effeft youfe, Formy, youfe if a hood guy, a real hood guy, I don’t fink I would kill youfe. I coulf, though, I fure could.
“Anyfayf, you fefered-left-hand baff turd, you toof affaffinating wumple-trout. Youfe keep your diftanf from uf or youfe’ll be fery fery forry. I could gut youfe like a fifh juft by looking at youfe funny. Underftood?”
Everyone blinked for a little bit af their brainf tried to proceff everything he had faid.
Then, realizing that the floating welfare office was soon to explode for undefined reasons, everyone scrambled to their feet and ran a different direction. Unfortunately they all picked opposing directions so that instead of escaping eachother they all congealed into a fleshy knotted lump in the middle of the hallway.
Somehow in all this confusion, Werthers managed to recieve a pat on the back from both ‘Herald’ and Ronaldo, who seemed incredibly impressed with his acting abilities and furthermore posited that he may be the most competent member of their immediate association, whatever on Gurth that meant. He settled for nodding and smizing to the nines, though he felt it barely masked his intense fear.
In a blur, Werthers found himself standing alone in the hallway as ‘Herbert’ ran off in one direction and Ronaldo and Pripkin ran off in another. Werthers sighed in relief, blinking to focus on a small leak in the ceiling.
Then, the building exploded.
