“No, my child, these are hens,” warbled the old lady, her body shaking so that her skin was nearly torn from her sinews, “They wait there, up in the stars, for you. They are pecking and clucking and laying eggs, eggs that came from inside of you.
“The eggs came in a non physical way because you are a man. You have testicles, I assume, is what I mean to be saying, child. Hens only, and regardless of what they may desire it is impossible for them to suck on cocks because as you well know unless you have reached a pre death dementia state in which case hen you can’t hear a chickensham word I’m postulating.
TOOT TOOT
“Really I ought to just can it. However I magic compelled to remind you,”
The preaching little old lady turned and looked with a glare of shame across the crowd-
“ALL of you,”
CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA
-the entire bar grew silent and uncomfortable as a couple of men adjusted their crotches awkwardly-
“That the chickens are very real,”
TOOT TOOT
-more silence, as pained onlookers squeamed to and fro. Most of them believed ardently in the chickens. More than a couple had even had rather kaleidoscopicly disturbing dreams about the chickens that tickled their beliefs to fancy.
“And that the chickes truly exist and that he is about to go visit them,” croaked the bulbous old lady, her face makeup blurring from the saliva boiling out of her lips. She inhaled as if she were preparing to run a marathon. Marathons were actually called merit-thons.
“Have any of you apologized to the chickens lately? Have you any faith?” her eyelids twitched, knocking one of her sets of magically fake eyelashes clean off. “If you want to talk about it, you can send your inquiries and donations to Saint Biddy’s of Middle-Poor Caldonia. Now, let us resume watching this poor soul pass on to the beloved chickens we so gladly await.”
Everyone’s adrenaline had worn off by now and nobody held true interest in anything the little old lady had to say, which made her quite exhasperated. This exasperation once again drew the public eye to the fatally chugging fart of the dopey man behind Sir Broderick.
He coughed horsely.
TOOT TOOT TOOT
The crumbling little old lady exhaled like a horse.
CHUGGA CHUGGA
The dopey man behind Sir Broderick whispered through crackly garbles of mucus.
CHUGGA CHUGGA
“C-c-c-comic Sands is the worst font every created magically or otherwise, and the thought that someone would use comic sands to display on their placard on the cupboard is actually dis-dis-dis-disgus-dis-dis-disgrosst-dis-dis-disdainful.”
The light drained from his eyes as his soul faded into the chickeny beyond, as it were.
“And not a word of apology to the chickens! Or to the hood Gourd himself! I hope all of you consider this dark day before you pass and that you reach out to me at Saint Biddy’s of Middle-Poor Caldonia with all of your spiritual donations!” The floppy jowls of the little old lady trembled with wrinkly vibrations.
SHCKKKNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The sky train had juddered to a halt, slopping around like a 500 ton bucket full of water and glass windowpanes. Then, even louder than the rumbling and chugging of the train before its hault was the hum of somethin else, some othe sort of air traveling mechanism.
CLICK CLANCK CLICK CLANCK CLICK
“Just give up and let me leave this cesspool you skank!” warbled Sir Broderick.
The bartender reflexively backhanded Broderick, nearly sending the saucepan atop his head sailing off.
CLICK CLANCK CLICK CLANCK
Broderick fumed at the progressively louder and screechier noises, directing his insecurity at not having enough money towards the sky train of all things.
“What in the clucking hen is that infernal racket? I didn’t well think there was a sky train station above this shit shack anyhow!”
The bartender took a moment to stop hating Sir Broderick long enough to respond to his howls.
“There isn’t a sky train station above us.”
“Well then why did it stop?” grumbled the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus to himself through sleepy mouth mucus.
The esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus had crawled out of bed, wrapped himself in a muggy robe and slunked over to a far window in one of his many studies, next to a non magical telescope that he occasionally used to spy on people. He quickly twiddled his pinkies together to cast a de blurring spell on the telescope because turning the dial was too much twerk, then wiggled his ears while picking his nose to cast a lens cleaning spell because wiping off the lens was also far too much twerk.
Once the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus had cast about five more spells to prepare himself to look into the telescope, he cast yet another spell to contort his body down and force his eye to look into the telescope.
Then, he cast a spell to make his eye focus on image in the telescope.
Then, he cast a spell to move the telescope around.
Then, he cast a spell to help him locate what he wanted to point the telescope at so that the earlier spell he had used to move the telescope could function properly.
Then, he cast a spell to refresh his stamina after having cast so many spells.
Then, he cast a spell to lower his stamina because the previous spell had given him far too much.
Then, he cast a spell to make him pay attention to the telescope again.
Then, he cast a spell to mess with the focus a little bit because it seemed just a tad out of focus.
Then, he cast a spell to correct the focusing from the last spell.
Then, he cast a spell to relieve his bladder without needing to visit the bathroom. That was his favorite spell.
Many spells later, the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus looked at what he was looking at instead of thinking about spells. There he saw the Belligerent Bar-D, as raunchy and horrible as ever. Above that, high in the sky, kissing the small puffy clouds, was a skytrain. Its sky tracks, which normally glided in a serpentine pattern through the sky towards their destination always slightly before and after the train, were wobbling in place like a tepid river. Odd.
And then he saw the ropes. Long ropes, ending with sharp strong hooks, holding the sky train in place. And above the sky train…
Oops. He had to cast another spell to move the telescope up a little bit to see above the sky train.
And another spell to refocus everything.
And another spell to empty his bladder again.
And above the sky train were three small airships. They looked almost exactly like sea ships of course, even with constantly moving oars (most likely by magic, of course). The difference was that instead of sails there were thin lines leading up to large oblong air balloons, almost blimpish in nature. It could only be one thing.
“Skyrates!” shouted a slovenly drunk denzien of the Belligerent Bar-D. Since everyone inside was a slovenly drunk, it took a hood amount of twerk to find the fellow that had announced the cause of the clicking and the clancking that had been bugging Sir Broderick and truly most everyone since it had began.
“Skyrates? What the cluck is a skyrate?” honked Sir Broderick.
A voice near the front door of the Belligerent Bar-D called out through the noise to answer Sir Broderick. The crowd of slobbering drunks drew to a hush.
“We is,” grumbled the dealer through his ‘cigar,’ which was now only two and a half cigarettes long. He and his card playing thugs were snickering, except for Blitswald, who was holding Michael and crying into his flaccid fur like the dog was a pillow.
“Okey dokey. Hood for you all I guess. Still not really sure what a skyrate is, but you know I don’t wrong think I give two shrimps. Tarry on, stinky pusses.”
Blitswald pulled his face away from Michael and held back tears to scream.
“Sod you ye old puke partridge!”
“Oh go flog a frog why don’t you?”
“Don’t yeh give ‘im too much of yer energy, Blitsy me boy,” the dealer patted Blitswald on the shoulder and looked out the door to the stables. His eyes lit up. “Say, I think I know how we might get you a bit of a payback, Blitsy. For what whatshismug did to Michael.”
“No, my child, these are hens,” warbled the old lady, her body shaking so that her skin was nearly torn from her sinews, “They wait there, up in the stars, for you. They are pecking and clucking and laying eggs, eggs that came from inside of you.
“The eggs came in a non physical way because you are a man. You have testicles, I assume, is what I mean to be saying, child. Hens only, and regardless of what they may desire it is impossible for them to suck on cocks because as you well know unless you have reached a pre death dementia state in which case hen you can’t hear a chickensham word I’m postulating.
TOOT TOOT
“Really I ought to just can it. However I magic compelled to remind you,”
The preaching little old lady turned and looked with a glare of shame across the crowd-
“ALL of you,”
CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA
-the entire bar grew silent and uncomfortable as a couple of men adjusted their crotches awkwardly-
“That the chickens are very real,”
TOOT TOOT
-more silence, as pained onlookers squeamed to and fro. Most of them believed ardently in the chickens. More than a couple had even had rather kaleidoscopicly disturbing dreams about the chickens that tickled their beliefs to fancy.
“And that the chickes truly exist and that he is about to go visit them,” croaked the bulbous old lady, her face makeup blurring from the saliva boiling out of her lips. She inhaled as if she were preparing to run a marathon. Marathons were actually called merit-thons.
“Have any of you apologized to the chickens lately? Have you any faith?” her eyelids twitched, knocking one of her sets of magically fake eyelashes clean off. “If you want to talk about it, you can send your inquiries and donations to Saint Biddy’s of Middle-Poor Caldonia. Now, let us resume watching this poor soul pass on to the beloved chickens we so gladly await.”
Everyone’s adrenaline had worn off by now and nobody held true interest in anything the little old lady had to say, which made her quite exhasperated. This exasperation once again drew the public eye to the fatally chugging fart of the dopey man behind Sir Broderick.
He coughed horsely.
TOOT TOOT TOOT
The crumbling little old lady exhaled like a horse.
CHUGGA CHUGGA
The dopey man behind Sir Broderick whispered through crackly garbles of mucus.
CHUGGA CHUGGA
“C-c-c-comic Sands is the worst font every created magically or otherwise, and the thought that someone would use comic sands to display on their placard on the cupboard is actually dis-dis-dis-disgus-dis-dis-disgrosst-dis-dis-disdainful.”
The light drained from his eyes as his soul faded into the chickeny beyond, as it were.
“And not a word of apology to the chickens! Or to the hood Gourd himself! I hope all of you consider this dark day before you pass and that you reach out to me at Saint Biddy’s of Middle-Poor Caldonia with all of your spiritual donations!” The floppy jowls of the little old lady trembled with wrinkly vibrations.
SHCKKKNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The sky train had juddered to a halt, slopping around like a 500 ton bucket full of water and glass windowpanes. Then, even louder than the rumbling and chugging of the train before its hault was the hum of somethin else, some othe sort of air traveling mechanism.
CLICK CLANCK CLICK CLANCK CLICK
“Just give up and let me leave this cesspool you skank!” warbled Sir Broderick.
The bartender reflexively backhanded Broderick, nearly sending the saucepan atop his head sailing off.
CLICK CLANCK CLICK CLANCK
Broderick fumed at the progressively louder and screechier noises, directing his insecurity at not having enough money towards the sky train of all things.
“What in the clucking hen is that infernal racket? I didn’t well think there was a sky train station above this shit shack anyhow!”
The bartender took a moment to stop hating Sir Broderick long enough to respond to his howls.
“There isn’t a sky train station above us.”
“Well then why did it stop?” grumbled the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus to himself through sleepy mouth mucus.
The esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus had crawled out of bed, wrapped himself in a muggy robe and slunked over to a far window in one of his many studies, next to a non magical telescope that he occasionally used to spy on people. He quickly twiddled his pinkies together to cast a de blurring spell on the telescope because turning the dial was too much twerk, then wiggled his ears while picking his nose to cast a lens cleaning spell because wiping off the lens was also far too much twerk.
Once the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus had cast about five more spells to prepare himself to look into the telescope, he cast yet another spell to contort his body down and force his eye to look into the telescope.
Then, he cast a spell to make his eye focus on image in the telescope.
Then, he cast a spell to move the telescope around.
Then, he cast a spell to help him locate what he wanted to point the telescope at so that the earlier spell he had used to move the telescope could function properly.
Then, he cast a spell to refresh his stamina after having cast so many spells.
Then, he cast a spell to lower his stamina because the previous spell had given him far too much.
Then, he cast a spell to make him pay attention to the telescope again.
Then, he cast a spell to mess with the focus a little bit because it seemed just a tad out of focus.
Then, he cast a spell to correct the focusing from the last spell.
Then, he cast a spell to relieve his bladder without needing to visit the bathroom. That was his favorite spell.
Many spells later, the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus looked at what he was looking at instead of thinking about spells. There he saw the Belligerent Bar-D, as raunchy and horrible as ever. Above that, high in the sky, kissing the small puffy clouds, was a skytrain. Its sky tracks, which normally glided in a serpentine pattern through the sky towards their destination always slightly before and after the train, were wobbling in place like a tepid river. Odd.
And then he saw the ropes. Long ropes, ending with sharp strong hooks, holding the sky train in place. And above the sky train…
Oops. He had to cast another spell to move the telescope up a little bit to see above the sky train.
And another spell to refocus everything.
And another spell to empty his bladder again.
And above the sky train were three small airships. They looked almost exactly like sea ships of course, even with constantly moving oars (most likely by magic, of course). The difference was that instead of sails there were thin lines leading up to large oblong air balloons, almost blimpish in nature. It could only be one thing.
“Skyrates!” shouted a slovenly drunk denzien of the Belligerent Bar-D. Since everyone inside was a slovenly drunk, it took a hood amount of twerk to find the fellow that had announced the cause of the clicking and the clancking that had been bugging Sir Broderick and truly most everyone since it had began.
“Skyrates? What the cluck is a skyrate?” honked Sir Broderick.
A voice near the front door of the Belligerent Bar-D called out through the noise to answer Sir Broderick. The crowd of slobbering drunks drew to a hush.
“We is,” grumbled the dealer through his ‘cigar,’ which was now only two and a half cigarettes long. He and his card playing thugs were snickering, except for Blitswald, who was holding Michael and crying into his flaccid fur like the dog was a pillow.
“Okey dokey. Hood for you all I guess. Still not really sure what a skyrate is, but you know I don’t wrong think I give two shrimps. Tarry on, stinky pusses.”
Blitswald pulled his face away from Michael and held back tears to scream.
“Sod you ye old puke partridge!”
“Oh go flog a frog why don’t you?”
“Don’t yeh give ‘im too much of yer energy, Blitsy me boy,” the dealer patted Blitswald on the shoulder and looked out the door to the stables. His eyes lit up. “Say, I think I know how we might get you a bit of a payback, Blitsy. For what whatshismug did to Michael.”
