Werthers stumbled over himself and face planted, sending Number 69 flying forward.
“LOOKS LIKE THAT ONE IS DOWN!”
BUKAWFSHHHHHHH
Before any ostrich could reach the finish line, a blast of crackling flame incinerated all of them to charred, black dust.
“LOOKS LIKE THERE’S A CHICKEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIELD THAT JUST BURNED UP ALL THE OSTRICHES!”
Werthers, not daring to look towards the center of the field, scrambled to his feet and ran forward, dragging Number 69 along by his latched in heels. Before Werthers could finish hyperventilating they had crossed the finish line.
“LOOKS LIKE THAT ONE WENT FROM DEAD LAST TO ALIVE FIRST! THAT’S A FIRST TIME FOR THE PLUCKY, RUBBERY LOOKING FELLOW FROM SOUTHWEST CALDONIA. AND YES, THAT’S NUMBER 69 RIDING HIM, AND BY RIDING OF COURSE I MEAN BEING DRAGGED BY HIM. THOUGH HE DID START OUT RIDING THAT ONE IT JUST DIDN’T END THAT WAY, OR, IT LOOKS LIKE IT DIDN’T END THAT WAY.
“LOOKS LIKE THE GUY WITH THAT ONE’S GOLD MEDAL JUST GOT BURNED IN A FIERY CHICKEN INFERNO, ALONG WITH A LARGE PERCENTAGE OF THE PEOPLE THAT HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO ME. LOOKS LIKE I’M PRETTY LUCKY TO STILL BE HANGING IN THERE IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF.”
“Coahck ham’t!” swore Number 69. “Ah wahwnted thaht gahwld medahwl!”
Ronaldo emerged from a pile of burnt bodies, covered in soot. “Me too, chuppy. Me too. You did hood. Even though you fell.”
“Thahnk yah, kahnd sauhrrah.”
“Not you! You did horribly! I was telling my ostrich she did well. She got back up and finished the race. You just laid there like a sack of moldy oranges!”
Werthers pondered over the fact that the ostrich he was dressed as was a she while Number 69 mumbled something about the general populace’s lack of respect for ostrich jockeys.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
Werthers looked over to the chicken, which was stomping around at some strange looking idiots underfoot. Werthers squinted as he watched one of them seemingly dry hump their way into the air and then collapse in ecstacy on top of the chicken. Werthers felt strangely violated watching this, and more violated when the chicken turned to look almost directly at him.
“Let’s get the cluck out of here!” Werthers screamed and scrambled off, Ronaldo following slowly, and then faster as he saw the chicken open its beak.
Number 69, frozen in shock, looked to the open beak of the gargantuan chicken and mumbled. “’d thayt awstrich jahst tahwk?”
BUKAAAAAAAAAAWFSHHHHHHH
Werthers dashed through tents, interrupting ostrich grooming and ostrich feeding and ostrich orgies, eventually finding his way into the seemingly enclosed outer band of the race balloon where people gathered to gamble their money away and buy food that was often even more of a gamble. Then, Ronaldo yanked his lead tight, causing him to asphyxiate and give a rough heave.
“Quiet you! Let’s go get our money!”
Werthers trotted quarterfartedly around, watching as people ran around in maddening circles screaming at the top of their lungs about the chicken. Some of them were on fire, others still missing new limbs. Ronaldo lashed him twice in the ass, telling him he could dawdle and sulk after they had their money, but now it was time to look like a winner.
They approached the nearest gambling stand, headed by a hulking elf with thick, shaggy hair, the top of which was aflame.
“Hello sirrah. Hello, That One. Here to collect your winnings?”
“U-um, sirrah?” Ronaldo stuttered, pointing at the elf’s flaming follicles.
“Yes, yes, it’s a toupee, I know I know. Just let me have this.”
Ronaldo wondered whether this elf did not have minor clairvoyance.
“I definitely have minor clairvoyance. It is minor, though, mind you. Anywhathowhensit, that’s a grand total of…let me see here, yes yes…hmmm…twelve million caldoniacs.”
Twelve million caldoniacs. Werthers’ fart grew a miniature fart inside it which palpitated with such veracity that it immediately had an attack and then failed permanently, quickly shriveling up and becoming one with Werthers’ main fart once again.
“Here’s your ticket, redeemable at any fine money establishment. Enjoy the rest of your day,” the elf handed Ronaldo a shining bronze ticket, then grabbed his toupee and shook it around, hitting it against the counter in attempt to snuff the fire. “Oh cock hamn it come on now!”
Ronaldo and Werthers walked away in awe. Ronaldo kissed the ticket loudly then slid it into his pocket. Werthers watched the ticket with aching desire.
“Don’t look so sad there chuppy! Don’t worry, I’ve got your cut right here!” Ronaldo chuckled, pulling out five chickensfeed and pelting Werthers with them. “Oh, bad throw? Or bad catch? Maybe a little bit of both, eh?”
A blind rage overtook Werthers and as fires of passion flew through his veins he dashed forward and pecked Ronaldo in the forehead, then in the neck, then in the left eye, forehead, right eye, and left ear. On and on Werthers pecked, sending Ronaldo teetering around in agony.
“Cock hamnit Wormy juft what the cluff do youfe fink youfe’re doing?” screeched none other than Walter Pripkin, his cigarette, and its unecessarily long holder.
Werthers continued to peck Ronaldo, one of his rabidly flailing legs swinging up and kicking Pripkin’s cigarette right from its holder, sending it twirling through the air.
“Stave off your hunger during this horribly quacked up coming of the demon chickens!” Gilbert boomingly commanded from the back of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose’s incredibly flammable hamburger stand.
“Stick it to these disgrossting chicken lickers and eat a hamburger, for quack’s sake! Also, why not consider being a Quacker? We provide free healthcare and corkscrew bottle openers,” Jarvish added.
“Yes indeed! There may be but one fowl beast now, but soon more vile chickens will emerge from the depth of the Gurth and overtake us all if you do not join us in praise of the golden goose! And eat our burgers! I beseech thee, they may go bad soon!”
Alas, the burgers did not have time to go bad, or even to be eaten and later give someone painful bouts of indigestion, for Pripkin’s lost cigarette flung through the air and stuck itself into a particularly flammable corner of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose’s incredibly flammable hamburger stand. It was the corner that had the tag warning that the tent was incredibly flammable. Immediately the entire tent was ablaze, though Jarvish and Gilbert were seemingly spared.
“Quacking quail!” Jarvish screamed, shivering. “The flames of heresy are upon us!”
“Waddle with me, Jarvish! Leave these heathens to go quack themselves!”
Jarvish scurried alongside Gilbert through the crowds and out of the now burning ostrich track balloon. Werthers watched all this in awe.
“Hey! Wormy! What the cluffing hen if wrong wif youfe? Fat waf my laft figarette youfe jerk!”
“Uh-”
“Ffut the cluff up! Don’t youfe ‘uh’ me youfe cluffing…cluffing…offtrich worm moffercluffer! Cluff youfe! I own youfe youfe cluffing cretin! Ronaldo, chop chop! Get me anofer figarette already!”
“Don’t you chop chop me! Why should I get you anything? I’m the one with the money.”
“Hey now youfe that’f our money youfe hear me youfe cluffing fithead it’f our money and if youfe ffink I won’t be taking my cut you’fe cluffing out of your mind!”
The argument went on, but Werthers wasn’t paying much attention. The entire balloon was catching on fire and the smoke was choking people out. He struggled to tear off his ostrich suit, but the rubber was so tightly welded to his skin by sweat that it was all he could do to flop on the ground like a tempestuous seal and flounder as the pandemonium around him crescendoed to insane levels and he passed out.
Werthers stumbled over himself and face planted, sending Number 69 flying forward.
“LOOKS LIKE THAT ONE IS DOWN!”
BUKAWFSHHHHHHH
Before any ostrich could reach the finish line, a blast of crackling flame incinerated all of them to charred, black dust.
“LOOKS LIKE THERE’S A CHICKEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIELD THAT JUST BURNED UP ALL THE OSTRICHES!”
Werthers, not daring to look towards the center of the field, scrambled to his feet and ran forward, dragging Number 69 along by his latched in heels. Before Werthers could finish hyperventilating they had crossed the finish line.
“LOOKS LIKE THAT ONE WENT FROM DEAD LAST TO ALIVE FIRST! THAT’S A FIRST TIME FOR THE PLUCKY, RUBBERY LOOKING FELLOW FROM SOUTHWEST CALDONIA. AND YES, THAT’S NUMBER 69 RIDING HIM, AND BY RIDING OF COURSE I MEAN BEING DRAGGED BY HIM. THOUGH HE DID START OUT RIDING THAT ONE IT JUST DIDN’T END THAT WAY, OR, IT LOOKS LIKE IT DIDN’T END THAT WAY.
“LOOKS LIKE THE GUY WITH THAT ONE’S GOLD MEDAL JUST GOT BURNED IN A FIERY CHICKEN INFERNO, ALONG WITH A LARGE PERCENTAGE OF THE PEOPLE THAT HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO ME. LOOKS LIKE I’M PRETTY LUCKY TO STILL BE HANGING IN THERE IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF.”
“Coahck ham’t!” swore Number 69. “Ah wahwnted thaht gahwld medahwl!”
Ronaldo emerged from a pile of burnt bodies, covered in soot. “Me too, chuppy. Me too. You did hood. Even though you fell.”
“Thahnk yah, kahnd sauhrrah.”
“Not you! You did horribly! I was telling my ostrich she did well. She got back up and finished the race. You just laid there like a sack of moldy oranges!”
Werthers pondered over the fact that the ostrich he was dressed as was a she while Number 69 mumbled something about the general populace’s lack of respect for ostrich jockeys.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
Werthers looked over to the chicken, which was stomping around at some strange looking idiots underfoot. Werthers squinted as he watched one of them seemingly dry hump their way into the air and then collapse in ecstacy on top of the chicken. Werthers felt strangely violated watching this, and more violated when the chicken turned to look almost directly at him.
“Let’s get the cluck out of here!” Werthers screamed and scrambled off, Ronaldo following slowly, and then faster as he saw the chicken open its beak.
Number 69, frozen in shock, looked to the open beak of the gargantuan chicken and mumbled. “’d thayt awstrich jahst tahwk?”
BUKAAAAAAAAAAWFSHHHHHHH
Werthers dashed through tents, interrupting ostrich grooming and ostrich feeding and ostrich orgies, eventually finding his way into the seemingly enclosed outer band of the race balloon where people gathered to gamble their money away and buy food that was often even more of a gamble. Then, Ronaldo yanked his lead tight, causing him to asphyxiate and give a rough heave.
“Quiet you! Let’s go get our money!”
Werthers trotted quarterfartedly around, watching as people ran around in maddening circles screaming at the top of their lungs about the chicken. Some of them were on fire, others still missing new limbs. Ronaldo lashed him twice in the ass, telling him he could dawdle and sulk after they had their money, but now it was time to look like a winner.
They approached the nearest gambling stand, headed by a hulking elf with thick, shaggy hair, the top of which was aflame.
“Hello sirrah. Hello, That One. Here to collect your winnings?”
“U-um, sirrah?” Ronaldo stuttered, pointing at the elf’s flaming follicles.
“Yes, yes, it’s a toupee, I know I know. Just let me have this.”
Ronaldo wondered whether this elf did not have minor clairvoyance.
“I definitely have minor clairvoyance. It is minor, though, mind you. Anywhathowhensit, that’s a grand total of…let me see here, yes yes…hmmm…twelve million caldoniacs.”
Twelve million caldoniacs. Werthers’ fart grew a miniature fart inside it which palpitated with such veracity that it immediately had an attack and then failed permanently, quickly shriveling up and becoming one with Werthers’ main fart once again.
“Here’s your ticket, redeemable at any fine money establishment. Enjoy the rest of your day,” the elf handed Ronaldo a shining bronze ticket, then grabbed his toupee and shook it around, hitting it against the counter in attempt to snuff the fire. “Oh cock hamn it come on now!”
Ronaldo and Werthers walked away in awe. Ronaldo kissed the ticket loudly then slid it into his pocket. Werthers watched the ticket with aching desire.
“Don’t look so sad there chuppy! Don’t worry, I’ve got your cut right here!” Ronaldo chuckled, pulling out five chickensfeed and pelting Werthers with them. “Oh, bad throw? Or bad catch? Maybe a little bit of both, eh?”
A blind rage overtook Werthers and as fires of passion flew through his veins he dashed forward and pecked Ronaldo in the forehead, then in the neck, then in the left eye, forehead, right eye, and left ear. On and on Werthers pecked, sending Ronaldo teetering around in agony.
“Cock hamnit Wormy juft what the cluff do youfe fink youfe’re doing?” screeched none other than Walter Pripkin, his cigarette, and its unecessarily long holder.
Werthers continued to peck Ronaldo, one of his rabidly flailing legs swinging up and kicking Pripkin’s cigarette right from its holder, sending it twirling through the air.
“Stave off your hunger during this horribly quacked up coming of the demon chickens!” Gilbert boomingly commanded from the back of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose’s incredibly flammable hamburger stand.
“Stick it to these disgrossting chicken lickers and eat a hamburger, for quack’s sake! Also, why not consider being a Quacker? We provide free healthcare and corkscrew bottle openers,” Jarvish added.
“Yes indeed! There may be but one fowl beast now, but soon more vile chickens will emerge from the depth of the Gurth and overtake us all if you do not join us in praise of the golden goose! And eat our burgers! I beseech thee, they may go bad soon!”
Alas, the burgers did not have time to go bad, or even to be eaten and later give someone painful bouts of indigestion, for Pripkin’s lost cigarette flung through the air and stuck itself into a particularly flammable corner of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose’s incredibly flammable hamburger stand. It was the corner that had the tag warning that the tent was incredibly flammable. Immediately the entire tent was ablaze, though Jarvish and Gilbert were seemingly spared.
“Quacking quail!” Jarvish screamed, shivering. “The flames of heresy are upon us!”
“Waddle with me, Jarvish! Leave these heathens to go quack themselves!”
Jarvish scurried alongside Gilbert through the crowds and out of the now burning ostrich track balloon. Werthers watched all this in awe.
“Hey! Wormy! What the cluffing hen if wrong wif youfe? Fat waf my laft figarette youfe jerk!”
“Uh-”
“Ffut the cluff up! Don’t youfe ‘uh’ me youfe cluffing…cluffing…offtrich worm moffercluffer! Cluff youfe! I own youfe youfe cluffing cretin! Ronaldo, chop chop! Get me anofer figarette already!”
“Don’t you chop chop me! Why should I get you anything? I’m the one with the money.”
“Hey now youfe that’f our money youfe hear me youfe cluffing fithead it’f our money and if youfe ffink I won’t be taking my cut you’fe cluffing out of your mind!”
The argument went on, but Werthers wasn’t paying much attention. The entire balloon was catching on fire and the smoke was choking people out. He struggled to tear off his ostrich suit, but the rubber was so tightly welded to his skin by sweat that it was all he could do to flop on the ground like a tempestuous seal and flounder as the pandemonium around him crescendoed to insane levels and he passed out.
