The suns were beginning to set. It would be gas before they knew it. Of course if they had asked the chicken’s stomache then it was already well into gas, and Broderica, Lady Krumbumbum and Barroness von Biscuit Pisser were magicing stinging pains in their olfactory systems as a result.
“Is something wrong with our chicken?”
“It’s not our chicken, Biscuit Pisser,” chided Krumbumbum, “And it never will be. Chickens belong to the Gurth.”
“But Krumbooty,” interjected Broderica through swigs of liquor, “what about when the chickens get turned into small brown gremlins? Surely they belong to the wizards who do that.”
“I’m talking on a spiritual level here.”
“Oh hood cock,” she groaned, swigging a gracious helping of liquor.
After a moment of liquor swilling silence, Biscuit Pisser asked another question.
“How do chickens fly?”
“Oh, it’s a marvelous thing, truly. They start with the flap flapping, that’s how they take off, but if you’ll observe now the chicken is just gracefully gliding through the wind, its majestic wings flowing with the air. Some say chickens were the first to use magic, before wizards, before witches. Even before cock hamn warlocks.”
“So what you’re saying is you want to cluck a chicken.”
“Hood cock Broderica! You’re absolutely repulsive,” Lady Krumbumbum spat and replaced the dress strap that had once again tumbled off her shoulder. “A woman in a chicken suit is more than enough, thank you.”
Broderica hacked and choked on her liquor, almost falling off the chicken.
“So uh hypothetically,” asked Biscuit Pisser with a worried edge, “if um if there wasn’t any wind in the air would um would the chicken not be able to fly?”
“I guess so? But the only place anywhere near us without any wind whatsoever would be in…Western Caldonia? The Windless Forests. And that’s a hood five hundred blompometrics from where we took off from.”
“One more question. What is the air speed velocity of a giant unladen chicken?”
Broderica hacked and spat. “We don’t know if this chicken is unladen!”
“Oh, a giant unladen chicken could easily top out at eighty blompometrics an hour. Why do you ask?”
“Well it’s been a couple hours and you know when you asked me to look at the chicken’s wings well I looked and I mean they don’t really look like they’re gliding through anything like no wind buffeting or anything and when I uh when I looked down while Shitface was falling I uh I saw trees for the first time since we uh since we took off.”
“What?” Krumbumbum ejaculated with concern. Then she looked down.
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!” she ejaculated, this time much louder and more forcefully so that both her dress strap flung from her shoulders and the entire top tumbled, revealing her hard nipples for the countless time that day. They had clearly been chaffing.
“Get a bra already, woman!” belched Broderica.
“You’re just jealous I don’t have two overstuffed garbage sacks sewed to my chest.”
“You leave my tits out of this, Krumbuttkisser. I’ll cluck you up.”
“Can we fuss about the fact that we might be about to crash?”
They looked around. The clouds were fading, and the treetops were growing in size and detail with every fleeting moment.
“That’s preposterous,” snorted Broderica, “It’s a chicken! A flying bird! It can’t just crash!”
PFPFPDFPSDPTTTPDPTSPPTGSKGKPSDKGKDGKKKKKK
Bristles and branches and leaves and bugs and stingers and twigs whamed into everyone as the chicken crashed brilliantly into a thick patch of trees, flinging the three women from its back and into the windless wir, where they sailed rather quickly into—
WHJAAACKKK
—some more branches—
WHAKKAKDKDKD
—even more branches, these ones being spiky—
WHJAKAKSKKSK
—branches that were more similar to the first patch of branches—
FFASFKASKFSADDFFFFF
—some spiky underbrush—
FFFDSFSFFFFFF
—some less spiky underbrush—
BLBPFDOKBOFDKBFBBBF
The rough forest floor. All of their skirts were up, their panties in full embarassing display.
“Motherclucking cock hamnit!” ejaculated Broderica, pulling herself upright and glaring at her companions. “Get up you cock hamned fools! Pull yourselves together! You look like you’ve never crashed a chicken before!”
“And you have?” asked an almost nude Krumbumbum as she scrounged for her thin robes and draped them back over her bodice.
“Well no but at least I can handle it well enough.”
“Where’s the chicken?” asked Biscuit Pisser, stumbling to her feet and tussling her moustache.
Broderica swiveled around, the squishy bowling balls on her chest flopping to and fro. “I’m not sure, I can’t well see it anywhere.”
“Up there!” Krumbumbum pointed upwards, her top falling down once again.
They looked up to see a tall, thick tree trunk as wide as a large house. It looked like multiple trees twirled around each other in a pretzel-esque fashion. High in the air, from the thick brush of its bottom branches, hung the humongous feet of the chicken. They jiggled nervously.
BUKAAAAWFSSSHH
The chicken barfed a geyser of flame aimlessly into the air.
BUKAWFFSHH
Three perfectly cooked blackbirds fell out of the sky and bounced on the forest floor. Without a word, everyone grabbed a blackbird and began gnawing into them with a startling veracity. Soon enough they were all left crunching on unsatisfying bone and grisle and discarded the mess.
“H’hey! Wh’what are ya th’inkin’ you’re d’oin there? C’can’t y’a read?” undulated the lackadasical voice of cock knew who. Everyone looked around for the source of the voice, to no avail. “R’right h’ere! Up in th’is t’ree!”
They saw perched in the tall tree beside their stuck chicken a dusty man dressed in some sort of designer clothing made out of leaves with oxidated copper tips. He sprung from the tree like a cricket and landed beside the ladies with his legs bent out like a frog’s.
“H’ow d’do yew p’retty l’adies d’o? I’I’m Frinkles, n’ice ta m’eet y’oowe!”
Krumbumbum turned to Broderica and Biscuit Pisser and mouthed ‘Frinkles?!’
“Frinkles? What the hen kind of a name is Frinkles? Are you a man or a packet of chips?”
Frinkles blinked, looking visibly slapped by Biscuit Pisser’s affront. “’s a f’amily n’ame. I’m a m’an, m’es’irrah, a m’man th’rough an’ thr’ough. N’awe, i’fns y’ou don’t m’and me a’askin, wh’hat b’rings ya tew th’e W’indless F’orests?”
“Ah, Frinkies, if I may call you that, Frinkies, my chuppie, why wouldn’t we come to the most beautiful and most windless forests known to Caldonia?”
“W’ell th’at’s some mah’ty f’ayn f’flattery ya got g’oin awn in th’that th’ere n’awggin ah yowers. ’s j’ust we d’don’t awft’n g’et an’y ta’rists r’ound th’ese pa’rts.”
The ladies looked almost nauseated by the Windless Forest denzien’s grating voice, which bobbed between high and low like popping bubbles.
“Th’then ag’in, i’fns ya a’re a b’buncha ta’rists t’day ‘sthe d’day fer ’t. W’r h’havin awr a’nual s’olstice sh’show th’iyus g’gas, i’fns ya want s’um f’ree ent’tain’nt. ’s a g’hood’n sh’ow, t’ew.”
The ladies blinked, none of them wanting to be the one to voice the thought they had all had that the last thing they wanted after having met Frinkles was to absorb any windless culture. Broderica inhaled to blurt a fart no when Frinkles opened his jagged lips once again.
“A’n of c’course yew c’an e’at a’t th’e p’re sh’ow s’olstice fea’sts ‘fns ya wa’nt tew.”
Immediately their dim eyes grew bright, and the ladies followed Frinkles with magnetic, giddy glee.
The suns were beginning to set. It would be gas before they knew it. Of course if they had asked the chicken’s stomache then it was already well into gas, and Broderica, Lady Krumbumbum and Barroness von Biscuit Pisser were magicing stinging pains in their olfactory systems as a result.
“Is something wrong with our chicken?”
“It’s not our chicken, Biscuit Pisser,” chided Krumbumbum, “And it never will be. Chickens belong to the Gurth.”
“But Krumbooty,” interjected Broderica through swigs of liquor, “what about when the chickens get turned into small brown gremlins? Surely they belong to the wizards who do that.”
“I’m talking on a spiritual level here.”
“Oh hood cock,” she groaned, swigging a gracious helping of liquor.
After a moment of liquor swilling silence, Biscuit Pisser asked another question.
“How do chickens fly?”
“Oh, it’s a marvelous thing, truly. They start with the flap flapping, that’s how they take off, but if you’ll observe now the chicken is just gracefully gliding through the wind, its majestic wings flowing with the air. Some say chickens were the first to use magic, before wizards, before witches. Even before cock hamn warlocks.”
“So what you’re saying is you want to cluck a chicken.”
“Hood cock Broderica! You’re absolutely repulsive,” Lady Krumbumbum spat and replaced the dress strap that had once again tumbled off her shoulder. “A woman in a chicken suit is more than enough, thank you.”
Broderica hacked and choked on her liquor, almost falling off the chicken.
“So uh hypothetically,” asked Biscuit Pisser with a worried edge, “if um if there wasn’t any wind in the air would um would the chicken not be able to fly?”
“I guess so? But the only place anywhere near us without any wind whatsoever would be in…Western Caldonia? The Windless Forests. And that’s a hood five hundred blompometrics from where we took off from.”
“One more question. What is the air speed velocity of a giant unladen chicken?”
Broderica hacked and spat. “We don’t know if this chicken is unladen!”
“Oh, a giant unladen chicken could easily top out at eighty blompometrics an hour. Why do you ask?”
“Well it’s been a couple hours and you know when you asked me to look at the chicken’s wings well I looked and I mean they don’t really look like they’re gliding through anything like no wind buffeting or anything and when I uh when I looked down while Shitface was falling I uh I saw trees for the first time since we uh since we took off.”
“What?” Krumbumbum ejaculated with concern. Then she looked down.
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!” she ejaculated, this time much louder and more forcefully so that both her dress strap flung from her shoulders and the entire top tumbled, revealing her hard nipples for the countless time that day. They had clearly been chaffing.
“Get a bra already, woman!” belched Broderica.
“You’re just jealous I don’t have two overstuffed garbage sacks sewed to my chest.”
“You leave my tits out of this, Krumbuttkisser. I’ll cluck you up.”
“Can we fuss about the fact that we might be about to crash?”
They looked around. The clouds were fading, and the treetops were growing in size and detail with every fleeting moment.
“That’s preposterous,” snorted Broderica, “It’s a chicken! A flying bird! It can’t just crash!”
PFPFPDFPSDPTTTPDPTSPPTGSKGKPSDKGKDGKKKKKK
Bristles and branches and leaves and bugs and stingers and twigs whamed into everyone as the chicken crashed brilliantly into a thick patch of trees, flinging the three women from its back and into the windless wir, where they sailed rather quickly into—
WHJAAACKKK
—some more branches—
WHAKKAKDKDKD
—even more branches, these ones being spiky—
WHJAKAKSKKSK
—branches that were more similar to the first patch of branches—
FFASFKASKFSADDFFFFF
—some spiky underbrush—
FFFDSFSFFFFFF
—some less spiky underbrush—
BLBPFDOKBOFDKBFBBBF
The rough forest floor. All of their skirts were up, their panties in full embarassing display.
“Motherclucking cock hamnit!” ejaculated Broderica, pulling herself upright and glaring at her companions. “Get up you cock hamned fools! Pull yourselves together! You look like you’ve never crashed a chicken before!”
“And you have?” asked an almost nude Krumbumbum as she scrounged for her thin robes and draped them back over her bodice.
“Well no but at least I can handle it well enough.”
“Where’s the chicken?” asked Biscuit Pisser, stumbling to her feet and tussling her moustache.
Broderica swiveled around, the squishy bowling balls on her chest flopping to and fro. “I’m not sure, I can’t well see it anywhere.”
“Up there!” Krumbumbum pointed upwards, her top falling down once again.
They looked up to see a tall, thick tree trunk as wide as a large house. It looked like multiple trees twirled around each other in a pretzel-esque fashion. High in the air, from the thick brush of its bottom branches, hung the humongous feet of the chicken. They jiggled nervously.
BUKAAAAWFSSSHH
The chicken barfed a geyser of flame aimlessly into the air.
BUKAWFFSHH
Three perfectly cooked blackbirds fell out of the sky and bounced on the forest floor. Without a word, everyone grabbed a blackbird and began gnawing into them with a startling veracity. Soon enough they were all left crunching on unsatisfying bone and grisle and discarded the mess.
“H’hey! Wh’what are ya th’inkin’ you’re d’oin there? C’can’t y’a read?” undulated the lackadasical voice of cock knew who. Everyone looked around for the source of the voice, to no avail. “R’right h’ere! Up in th’is t’ree!”
They saw perched in the tall tree beside their stuck chicken a dusty man dressed in some sort of designer clothing made out of leaves with oxidated copper tips. He sprung from the tree like a cricket and landed beside the ladies with his legs bent out like a frog’s.
“H’ow d’do yew p’retty l’adies d’o? I’I’m Frinkles, n’ice ta m’eet y’oowe!”
Krumbumbum turned to Broderica and Biscuit Pisser and mouthed ‘Frinkles?!’
“Frinkles? What the hen kind of a name is Frinkles? Are you a man or a packet of chips?”
Frinkles blinked, looking visibly slapped by Biscuit Pisser’s affront. “’s a f’amily n’ame. I’m a m’an, m’es’irrah, a m’man th’rough an’ thr’ough. N’awe, i’fns y’ou don’t m’and me a’askin, wh’hat b’rings ya tew th’e W’indless F’orests?”
“Ah, Frinkies, if I may call you that, Frinkies, my chuppie, why wouldn’t we come to the most beautiful and most windless forests known to Caldonia?”
“W’ell th’at’s some mah’ty f’ayn f’flattery ya got g’oin awn in th’that th’ere n’awggin ah yowers. ’s j’ust we d’don’t awft’n g’et an’y ta’rists r’ound th’ese pa’rts.”
The ladies looked almost nauseated by the Windless Forest denzien’s grating voice, which bobbed between high and low like popping bubbles.
“Th’then ag’in, i’fns ya a’re a b’buncha ta’rists t’day ‘sthe d’day fer ’t. W’r h’havin awr a’nual s’olstice sh’show th’iyus g’gas, i’fns ya want s’um f’ree ent’tain’nt. ’s a g’hood’n sh’ow, t’ew.”
The ladies blinked, none of them wanting to be the one to voice the thought they had all had that the last thing they wanted after having met Frinkles was to absorb any windless culture. Broderica inhaled to blurt a fart no when Frinkles opened his jagged lips once again.
“A’n of c’course yew c’an e’at a’t th’e p’re sh’ow s’olstice fea’sts ‘fns ya wa’nt tew.”
Immediately their dim eyes grew bright, and the ladies followed Frinkles with magnetic, giddy glee.
