Monday, December 10, 2007

III. 12/10/07

Her ATV, Ole’ Plucky, was filled up with ethanol, detailed, and ready to go. Grimironie jumped on and raced Crispy down the street, sure that they’d be the first two at the site. They usually were; all the other Death Chicken Distribution Assistants (DCDAs) wasted precious time tracking the radar back on base. It was simple: the Death Chickens went where the grain was. They had been spotted twenty minutes ago heading West of Piccata City, just past the Colonel’s. There was only one granary for miles. Grimironie saw the red silo first, and then the tail feathers of a particularly large hen. She accelerated towards the field, but nearly spun herself when she saw another ATV fifty yards ahead that was already engaging the chickens. Crispy rolled past her, and took her out of her momentary shock. She rolled the baster over her shoulder and feinted to the left of the most ornery looking Death Chicken of the bunch. With a few well-aimed blasts, he was reduced to a large piece of marinating poultry.

The rest of the DCDAs arrived, and the feathers really began to fly. The situation had almost been contained when the media arrived in choppers. It was unbearable; after only three weeks, Death Chicken Watch had become the biggest reality show to hit the networks, and now they decided to film in Kansas. Grimirone slid the engine into neutral and stood as the ATV rolled. She had a clear shot at the last hen, straight at the wishbone. She cocked her baster, pulled the trigger and was knocked backwards ten feet as a sleek, black ATV smacked into her left front tire. As she pulled herself up from the husks, she noted the flame paint-job and name above the wheel well: Billy-Ray. She cocked her baster again, this time to prepare for Mr. Billy-Ray, who was either underneath or on the other side of the last felled Death Chicken. She walked around it.

“So, tell me, Billy-Ray MacHaggis…” the Death Chicken Watch host sputtered in front of a camera.

“That’s Billy-Ray MacHaggis III, babe. My friends call me Three. It’s spelled I I I.” He pulled off his helmet which let loose a long mane of well-conditioned blond hair, and unzipped the front of his leather jacket to expose a tanned and waxed torso.

“Damn rookie.” Grimironie glared and contemplated death by marinade on national tv.

“Let the chicken nugget have ‘is moment, Grim. Have ar drink wi’ me an we’ll give a little payback when he ain’t being watched.” Crispy had a lot more patience than she did.

No comments: