Welcome to Capon Frank! This serial began as a post on the AW Silly Friday thread. I had the overwhelming urge to continue the story, and produced its second installment today. I'd like to thank davids for inspiring silliness with his lobsterly exhuberance!
I. 10/19/07
The pork-pie hats rustled as a light zephyr brought smells of methane and number two pencils. The enticing mixtures of odor and the snapping of rubber bands woke Grimironie, who flicked back her sassafras and noted, duly, that the Death Chickens were due to arrive in less than ten million milliseconds, or slightly later, depending on the price of cantaloupes in Brisbane.
"I have no use for this!" shouted Handy Manly, and he stomped across the relish cartons. Grimironie shook her head; he was always like this on Tuesdays. She took a few smelts out of her pocket and flicked them across the room and into Handy's mouth. He chewed, flipped his hands in delight, and skipped down the hall to disturb the next Death Chicken Distribution Assistant.
"Great Gatsby! I've been through a peck of smelts already?" Grimironie muttered. As the timer-button popped on her alarm turkey, she pulled out her automatic baster, turned off the safety, and made sure it was loaded and cocked. There would be some sweet and sour sauce for her tonight, "Oh, yes," she thought, “there would be sweet and sour sauce tonight.”
II. II. 11/16/07
“Haw, haw. Yer turnin’ into a freakshow usin’ that relish, duckling.” Tyson Crispy said in a gravelly voice. His clanking walk rattled the floorboards; as a practical amputee, he had long turned in the en vogue machine gun leg for a 50 calibre baster-leg combo. “All the other youngin’s are usin’ balsamic in the marinade.”
“Yeah, and you’re using single malt.” Grimironie shot back. She’d never wanted a partner, but Crispy and she were like an old guidance counselor and a well-used photocopier; she knew just what to do to prevent paper jams and adjust the toner. She was always comfortable in his presence, despite the snide gossip going around the coffee room. If only she drank coffee! Then she’d finally know what went on in there. “Tea Drinkers Not Allowed” read the sign on the coffee room door. Bah!
“What’s up with you? Did Manly ruffle yer feathers?”
“No, but he’s useless. They just keep him around here for eye candy.”
“You’d be surprised what he can do in the kitchen. The birdseed don’t mix itself yanno.”
They zipped their jackets in silence, and Grimironie grabbed the Ultra-harpoon. There was an unmentioned alliance between the two. They were the only Death Chicken Distribution Assistants who believed in the legend of Capon Frank, The Great Albino Rooster. The last man to see him vanished in the cornfields of North Southwestern Iowa forty years ago, and that man was Grimironie’s grandfather, Otto Von Farmer. By the time Crispy was a young intern, Otto had already achieved celebrity status as a Death Chicken Distribution Master.
“Come on. I gotcher back.” Crispy barked. She knew he did.
Friday, November 16, 2007
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