She gave Chief Kalel her best attempt at an even stare. "So, am I voted off the island?"
"We're in the Great Plains."
"The Mississippi isn't that far off."
"C'mon, Von Farmer," Kalel grumbled, "cut the wise-acre for a minute."
"Then I am, huh?"
"'Course not. Not with that finale on the last episode."
"I missed it."
"Yeah, sure you did. That final shot at the great red hen? Your drop and roll, and jump back onto your vehicle?" He paused, not believing she missed the broadcast, "The gratuitous cleavage shot?!" Her look of horror convinced him that she had not seen it. "Fogeddaboudit."
"I thought you were from Georgia."
"I've got the classic Sopranos DVD collection. Don't get me off topic!Maestro Perks is out. It was a close call."
That was a hard blow. Though he was a coffee drinker, he did have irresistable chocolate pants and a charming grin. "Dang."
"Don't feel bad. He's not really out; he's just not on the show. In fact, he's taking a few weeks in Hawaii to use his roll-over minutes."
"Oh."
Chief debriefed her on the latest sightings. They were unusual indeed. It seemed a ferocious, giant rogue Death Chicken had been ravaging McMansions thirty miles north of base. If shaky, six eyewitness testimonies were true, however, it was no chicken; it was a rooster, a capon to be exact.
"Did you talk to Crispy?" Grimironie asked. She could barely contain herself.
"He's not doing anymore over-time. He took a deal with a sponsor; it would cut into his P.R. time."
"Say what?"
"I know he wanted to tell you first, but they've offered him a six figure deal. It turns out the over-fifty female demographic is obsessed with him."
Double dog dang. Was there no end to the insanity? No wonder he's been getting facials and electrolysis for the last two weeks.
"I'm sending you in with MacHaggis."
If someone had slapped her in the face, she would have slapped back twice as hard. Unfortunately, her brain had stopped. She knew it was there, but it kept sending back a busy signal. Maybe it had caller ID and didn't want to pick up. At some point, Kalel's pert secretary walked her out into the waiting area and kindly dabbed the drool from the corner of Grimironie's mouth which was reluctant to return from the agape setting.
* * * *
Crispy's stool was empty at the bar that night. He had finally gotten a date. Ole Pappy placed her usual order in front of her. He too sensed that she had not yet located her brain. Everything took on a surreal tone. Even her cup of Constant Comment seemed menacing.
Could it be that Capon Frank waited within scant miles of base? Crispy had abandoned her. He'd left her to go it alone, and Chief tacked Three onto her shoulder for the ride. Three, she actually thought "Three." He was a distraction. She'd never worked with anyone except Crispy, and now, near the culmination of her goals, she was stuck with a pretty boy out to prove himself.
* * * *
After she felled the last Death Chicken, she walked away, upwind of the fowl odors. Something in her head still hadn't clicked back into place. Her best assessment was that she was still in shock. Crispy patted her shoulder and walked off, sensing that she needed some time. She stopped under a lone pine and scanned the fields ahead of her. The clouds formed an endless gray blanket and grasses spread for miles beneath. She squinted at the horizon, searching for a sign.
The last thing she wanted to hear was the rustling step of Maryn Stew coming after her. "I've been thinking, Grimironie- can I call you Grimironie?- that it would be Fan-Tas-Tic if I could put a cordless mike on you for your next stint in the field. And you need a catch phrase, something kitchy, catchy! For example, "Reap the whirlwind!" or "I'll be back!" It would be great for your image; the fans would eat it up. Tell me, if it's okay, just between you and me, what's it like to be out there? To kill a monster?"
Grimironie peered at the horizon. This host was like Three: thrilled at the spectacle with no real understanding of the game. "It's a hell of a thing, killin' a Death Chicken" she said between clenched teeth, "you take away all she's got, and all she's ever gonna have."
"Well that ain't me, Grimironie," Maryn sputtered, "Not no more. I don't need no fancy basters or a state pension. You keep it."
"Of course I will. The state wouldn't give you a pension anyway. Ask your employer about IRAs." The wind murmered. Maryn Stew retreated quietly, and thankfully she had some time alone.
It was dark when she got back to her ATV. She was surprised to see Crispy parked next to her.
"Glory is for the young, duckling. You're ready to go it alone. I gotta cut the apron strings sometime."
She had many rehearsed quips to sling at him, but suddenly none were appropriate. She was glad it was dark. "You do what you gotta do," she croaked, "I know you deserve it."
"Thanks duckling. Come on, you be my date tonight. Make all the other women jealous."
She laughed, "All right Mr. Metro-sexy."
Friday, January 25, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
VII. 1/23/08
It was their last rampage before the sun went down. They kept coming; it was the biggest flock she'd seen in years. Behind her, Crispy's ATV hummed as they circled through the center of the melee. The golden rays of light receeded from the cornfield, and Grimironie knew that if they didn't make a dent in the midst soon, they'd be in for another marathon in the morning. She reacted instinctively as the hen she was stalking turned, and she fired. She hit her in the sweet spot, cocked the wheel to the right and quickly straightened. They were about to stampede. If she didn't get the alpha Death Chicken now, they'd all have to turn and run, and hope that the Death Chickens bed down before they could inflict any more damage.
"Starboard!" Crispy yelled. Grimironie turned Ole' Plucky so fast that she nearly lost balance. A wiry Death Chicken was charging her. She grabbed her back-up baster and let off a deafening round. When she hit her mark, the flock panicked and dispersed at the sound of the blast. By the ringing in her ears, she knew her mistake before she noted the weapon in her hands. She hadn't grabbed the back-up baster; she had fired the ultra-harpoon. A cloud stole the sun's last rays, and the Death Chickens began to bed down. "Stow that thing fast, Grim." Crispy muttered. She did before the other DCDA'a were in sight. It was best to play dumb if anyone questioned her, and retrieve the harpoon before the Poultry Collectors arrived.
There had to be forty Death Chickens left in the flock. Damn egg industry! She could have them all dead within an hour, but she knew the rules: no killing after dark. The egg farmers were soon to arrive with their night-vision goggles and enormous recycled cardboard egg cartons.
A shower and change later, she grabbed her favorite bar stool and ordered a double darjeeling. Crispy stared at the tv behind the bar and said quietly, "You ever think about takin' time off? Yanno, to clear your head."
"You think I need it?" Grimironie accused.
"Not that. Maybe I'm sayin' you should hunt 'im down. Get it outta yer system."
"And would you go with me?"
"I'm gettin old, Grim." Crispy said, his voice much softer than usual.
"That's a load of pellets," Grimironie said in disbelief. "You're one of the best."
"In this arena. When you start talkin' a sixty foot capon, I don't think I got it in me."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but she kept her mouth shut for once. He really meant it.
* * * *
Grimironie closed the blinds in her condo, put a large mug of chamomile tea on the end table and turned her tv on to Real-a-View. She prayed that no one would stop by to find her watching Death Chicken Watch.
The opening song rang out as stills of each DCDA popped onto the screen. Maestro Perks grinned seductively; Kate Thornton, bedecked in ammo, glimmered; Ben Bradley looked limber in his after-work disco togs, and Robie Ae and William Haskins glared menacingly. Then she winced. Grimironie Von Farmer looked like she just got audited; Tyson Crispy gave a weathered yet perky wink; Chief Kalel, arms folded, exuded confidence, and ... Billy Ray MacHaggis III dazzled all with his pearly whites. Yep. He was the star.
In a flash to the host, Maryn Stew, a pouty young brunette, strolled by a red silo which nicely accentuated her highlights. "This is week two of our stay with Dundee Precinct, Dundee, Kansas, and we've had no shortage of action. As Death Chickens rip through the heartland, only the most skilled Death Chicken Distribution Assistants dare to stop them. But before we share the bravery and terror," she smiled, "lets meet a few of our heroes, after our commercial break."
The interviews were corny. She watched Crispy's attentively. "Well, yanno, after leavin' the Bayou, my family settled inland on Holly Farms. Then I got my degree at Purdue University. Them days were different. We weren't famous an' bastin' techniques wern't so well developed." They cut off the rest of his interview because it was too informative. Her own face came on the screen next. She looked hesitant and wary, but her new conditioner turned out to be the best buy in months! Her hair no longer looked lifeless and dull.
"Is there anything you'd like to share with our viewers?" asked Maryn Stew.
"No."
Billy Ray MacHaggis III, she still couldn't bring herself to call him three, spewed truisms and gratitude like a professional ball player, smiling all the while. He managed to make it through the interview without one substantive comment. The footage from the Death Chicken melee was over-edited and sensational. Compared to a normal day at work, the show was actually boring. She started to channel surf before the show ended.
At 6:30 AM, a tremor jolted Grimironie from her couch. She paused, uncertain if it had been imagined, but a second shock wave left her without doubt. Her teacups began to rattle, and she ran to the aid of her curio cabinet. She could see the end of the street from her dining room window. Feathers swirled through the air like a ticker-tape parade. The Death Chickens were becoming more agressive; they had never chanced a gated community before. At that moment, she knew with perfect certainty that her life was about to change. The buffalo wings of destiny had arrived to carry her to uncharted lands, perhaps even Nebraska. In her heart, she knew she was ready.
"Starboard!" Crispy yelled. Grimironie turned Ole' Plucky so fast that she nearly lost balance. A wiry Death Chicken was charging her. She grabbed her back-up baster and let off a deafening round. When she hit her mark, the flock panicked and dispersed at the sound of the blast. By the ringing in her ears, she knew her mistake before she noted the weapon in her hands. She hadn't grabbed the back-up baster; she had fired the ultra-harpoon. A cloud stole the sun's last rays, and the Death Chickens began to bed down. "Stow that thing fast, Grim." Crispy muttered. She did before the other DCDA'a were in sight. It was best to play dumb if anyone questioned her, and retrieve the harpoon before the Poultry Collectors arrived.
There had to be forty Death Chickens left in the flock. Damn egg industry! She could have them all dead within an hour, but she knew the rules: no killing after dark. The egg farmers were soon to arrive with their night-vision goggles and enormous recycled cardboard egg cartons.
A shower and change later, she grabbed her favorite bar stool and ordered a double darjeeling. Crispy stared at the tv behind the bar and said quietly, "You ever think about takin' time off? Yanno, to clear your head."
"You think I need it?" Grimironie accused.
"Not that. Maybe I'm sayin' you should hunt 'im down. Get it outta yer system."
"And would you go with me?"
"I'm gettin old, Grim." Crispy said, his voice much softer than usual.
"That's a load of pellets," Grimironie said in disbelief. "You're one of the best."
"In this arena. When you start talkin' a sixty foot capon, I don't think I got it in me."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but she kept her mouth shut for once. He really meant it.
* * * *
Grimironie closed the blinds in her condo, put a large mug of chamomile tea on the end table and turned her tv on to Real-a-View. She prayed that no one would stop by to find her watching Death Chicken Watch.
The opening song rang out as stills of each DCDA popped onto the screen. Maestro Perks grinned seductively; Kate Thornton, bedecked in ammo, glimmered; Ben Bradley looked limber in his after-work disco togs, and Robie Ae and William Haskins glared menacingly. Then she winced. Grimironie Von Farmer looked like she just got audited; Tyson Crispy gave a weathered yet perky wink; Chief Kalel, arms folded, exuded confidence, and ... Billy Ray MacHaggis III dazzled all with his pearly whites. Yep. He was the star.
In a flash to the host, Maryn Stew, a pouty young brunette, strolled by a red silo which nicely accentuated her highlights. "This is week two of our stay with Dundee Precinct, Dundee, Kansas, and we've had no shortage of action. As Death Chickens rip through the heartland, only the most skilled Death Chicken Distribution Assistants dare to stop them. But before we share the bravery and terror," she smiled, "lets meet a few of our heroes, after our commercial break."
The interviews were corny. She watched Crispy's attentively. "Well, yanno, after leavin' the Bayou, my family settled inland on Holly Farms. Then I got my degree at Purdue University. Them days were different. We weren't famous an' bastin' techniques wern't so well developed." They cut off the rest of his interview because it was too informative. Her own face came on the screen next. She looked hesitant and wary, but her new conditioner turned out to be the best buy in months! Her hair no longer looked lifeless and dull.
"Is there anything you'd like to share with our viewers?" asked Maryn Stew.
"No."
Billy Ray MacHaggis III, she still couldn't bring herself to call him three, spewed truisms and gratitude like a professional ball player, smiling all the while. He managed to make it through the interview without one substantive comment. The footage from the Death Chicken melee was over-edited and sensational. Compared to a normal day at work, the show was actually boring. She started to channel surf before the show ended.
At 6:30 AM, a tremor jolted Grimironie from her couch. She paused, uncertain if it had been imagined, but a second shock wave left her without doubt. Her teacups began to rattle, and she ran to the aid of her curio cabinet. She could see the end of the street from her dining room window. Feathers swirled through the air like a ticker-tape parade. The Death Chickens were becoming more agressive; they had never chanced a gated community before. At that moment, she knew with perfect certainty that her life was about to change. The buffalo wings of destiny had arrived to carry her to uncharted lands, perhaps even Nebraska. In her heart, she knew she was ready.
Monday, January 7, 2008
VI. 1/7/08
Crispy's right foot perculated in the pedicure tub while his baster-leg combo rested on the magazine rack. "Givin' the whole Alpha Team off was a good ideer. Tha' Chief's got a soft spot yet."
"He's nervous about the ratings. They come out at 4:00." Grimironie looked at her feet in the bubbling, blue water. It had been too long since her last pedicure; her pinky-toes were shaped like wedges from her favorite Death Chicken killin' boots. "It's a good thing Death Chickens aren't nocturnal," she added, glad to relax.
"Why ya look so sour?"
"Me?" she laughed, "I'm sweet and sour." Crispy barked a hoarse laugh. They chatted happliy about cuticles as the pedicurists finished their work. When they got up to pay, Crispy looked over her shoulder with an odd expression that didn't suit him. She turned to follow his gaze; Billy-Ray MacHaggis III walked out of the waxing and tanning station. He waved and Crispy waved back.
"What are you doing?" Grimironie whispered through clenched teeth.
"'Es not so bad once you get to know 'em." Crispy had lost his mind.
"Hey there, two legends," Billy-Ray grinned as he walked to meet them. "How about joining me for an early dinner" He winked and added, "or an afternoon tea? I never got my chance to apologize to you, Ms. Von Farmer." Grimironie stared in disbelief. Crispy gave her a jab in the back.
"You kids go on. I'm stayin' for a facial -getting my metro-sexy on." Crispy stomped back to the hostess desk. Grimironie's feet felt so soft and comfortable in her complimentary flip-flops that she followed Billy-Ray out onto the sidewalk.
~FACT: Women may be in a good mood after a pedicure, and susceptible to forgiveness.
They headed for the off-the-beaten-track restaurant district, and Grimironie felt relieved. She didn't want any co-workers to see her with Billy-Ray MacHaggis III. Those coffee drinkers would never let her live it down. It had been ages since she'd been in Sebby's Bar and Eggplant Grill. The sparkly ambience reminded her of another time in her life, a time when she was young and trusting. "Strike that," she thought, "when I was younger and trusting, young-ER." They ordered a round of neurofizzes. She was still unsure of how to act toward Billy-Ray MacHaggis III.
"It was my fault," he started, "I was too eager and excited. You're the reason I lobbied for this position, and it wasn't an easy ride." Billy-Ray unbuttoned an extra button on his white, silk shirt before continuing. "You're a legend in the academy. I wanted to impress you."
"Giblets" Grimironie said.
"Scorn me if you like," he let out a deep breath. "I probably deserve it."
"I don't know you and don't know what you deserve, but I do know what can happen when a when a DCDA gets reckless." She swilled her neurofizz. "Look: I'm no legend, so get that out of your head, MacHaggis."
"Call me Three, please." He leaned forward quickly. "You don't understand! I want to get inside your head! I want to run my toes through your synapses and fondle your adrenal glands! I want to know what makes you tick, you sullen little vixen!"
Grimironie was shocked, flattered and embarassed. She didn't believe that she would ever share her past with this wild-eyed, yet devilishly handsome upstart. "Adrenal glands aren't in the head; they're above the kidneys." was the best answer she could offer.
He nodded slowly, "Even better."
She eased up on him a bit, and got him talking about himself and his time at the academy. By the time they finished their after-dinner biscuits, she actually felt sorry that the meal was ending. It was a pleasant change to hear an enthusiastic perspective on Death Chicken acquisition. Before he could ask her to talk about herself, she thanked him for dinner and caught a cab back home.
Morbid fascination and fear prompted her to turn on Death Chicken Watch to see the first episode at her precinct. She breathed easier afterwards. She had only been in the background brielfy in the episode, but next time she might not be so lucky.
"He's nervous about the ratings. They come out at 4:00." Grimironie looked at her feet in the bubbling, blue water. It had been too long since her last pedicure; her pinky-toes were shaped like wedges from her favorite Death Chicken killin' boots. "It's a good thing Death Chickens aren't nocturnal," she added, glad to relax.
"Why ya look so sour?"
"Me?" she laughed, "I'm sweet and sour." Crispy barked a hoarse laugh. They chatted happliy about cuticles as the pedicurists finished their work. When they got up to pay, Crispy looked over her shoulder with an odd expression that didn't suit him. She turned to follow his gaze; Billy-Ray MacHaggis III walked out of the waxing and tanning station. He waved and Crispy waved back.
"What are you doing?" Grimironie whispered through clenched teeth.
"'Es not so bad once you get to know 'em." Crispy had lost his mind.
"Hey there, two legends," Billy-Ray grinned as he walked to meet them. "How about joining me for an early dinner" He winked and added, "or an afternoon tea? I never got my chance to apologize to you, Ms. Von Farmer." Grimironie stared in disbelief. Crispy gave her a jab in the back.
"You kids go on. I'm stayin' for a facial -getting my metro-sexy on." Crispy stomped back to the hostess desk. Grimironie's feet felt so soft and comfortable in her complimentary flip-flops that she followed Billy-Ray out onto the sidewalk.
~FACT: Women may be in a good mood after a pedicure, and susceptible to forgiveness.
They headed for the off-the-beaten-track restaurant district, and Grimironie felt relieved. She didn't want any co-workers to see her with Billy-Ray MacHaggis III. Those coffee drinkers would never let her live it down. It had been ages since she'd been in Sebby's Bar and Eggplant Grill. The sparkly ambience reminded her of another time in her life, a time when she was young and trusting. "Strike that," she thought, "when I was younger and trusting, young-ER." They ordered a round of neurofizzes. She was still unsure of how to act toward Billy-Ray MacHaggis III.
"It was my fault," he started, "I was too eager and excited. You're the reason I lobbied for this position, and it wasn't an easy ride." Billy-Ray unbuttoned an extra button on his white, silk shirt before continuing. "You're a legend in the academy. I wanted to impress you."
"Giblets" Grimironie said.
"Scorn me if you like," he let out a deep breath. "I probably deserve it."
"I don't know you and don't know what you deserve, but I do know what can happen when a when a DCDA gets reckless." She swilled her neurofizz. "Look: I'm no legend, so get that out of your head, MacHaggis."
"Call me Three, please." He leaned forward quickly. "You don't understand! I want to get inside your head! I want to run my toes through your synapses and fondle your adrenal glands! I want to know what makes you tick, you sullen little vixen!"
Grimironie was shocked, flattered and embarassed. She didn't believe that she would ever share her past with this wild-eyed, yet devilishly handsome upstart. "Adrenal glands aren't in the head; they're above the kidneys." was the best answer she could offer.
He nodded slowly, "Even better."
She eased up on him a bit, and got him talking about himself and his time at the academy. By the time they finished their after-dinner biscuits, she actually felt sorry that the meal was ending. It was a pleasant change to hear an enthusiastic perspective on Death Chicken acquisition. Before he could ask her to talk about herself, she thanked him for dinner and caught a cab back home.
Morbid fascination and fear prompted her to turn on Death Chicken Watch to see the first episode at her precinct. She breathed easier afterwards. She had only been in the background brielfy in the episode, but next time she might not be so lucky.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
V. 1/2/08
An excess of tea indulgence left her antsy and dehydrated, but Grimironie made it into work on time only to find out that she had to see the Chief right away.
“There’s a new twist to the game,” Chief Kalel grumbled into a stack of files. “First, I need you to pose for some Death Chicken Watch PR photos, and second, you’ve got to up your attitude. The DCDA with the lowest viewer rating status gets voted off the precinct next Friday, and I don’t want to lose one of my best because she has a sour-puss 99% of the day.”
Unbelievable. “Are you out of your mind? You agreed to this? Why do you hate cats?” Grimironie reached for her hip, but she hadn’t had time to don her baster holster.
“Easy Grim,” Kalel said, finally looking her in the eye. “There was the usual loose talk in the coffee room, and if you want, you can blame Haskins for planting the seed in my head.”
“Everyone blames Haskins for everything. I at least want to be original.” Grimironie seethed.
“Nonetheless, I don’t know what the ratings will say when they come in, but I don’t want to take chances.”
She sulked for a moment until her frustration mounted. “But the world loves a curmudgeon! Look at House; it’s in its 80th season!”
“Maybe. Maybe you’ve been spending so much of your downtime preparing relish that you’ve gone and pickled your own brain. Go out and find yourself someone who’ll make you happy. Take the day off and get a pedicure or something, but lighten the heck up already and get out of my office!”
Grimironie slammed the door and muttered her way down the hallway, resplendent with expletives. She slowed as she neared the coffee room and stepped quietly. The door was ajar. She saw Billy-Ray MacHaggis III holding a low-fat soy mocha latte and chatting with Maestro.
“I gotta say, man” Billy-Ray MacHaggis III elbowed Maestro in the side, “those are some smokin’ chocolate pants you’ve got on.”
“Yeah,” Maestro laughed, “the chicks really dig ‘em.”
“I bet the women love ‘em too,” Billy-Ray nodded.
“Oh yeah,” Maestro smiled, “almost as much as those cute, furry little chicks down in the holding station!” They laughed and sipped their nasty, brown coffees. Grimironie skulked past the door and nearly bit through her lip. What could possibly happen to make things worse? To her relief, the Death Chicken Watch photographer told her that “angst-ridden and surly” was all the latest rage. She didn’t have to summon any happy thoughts for the photo shoot.
“But what are my happy thoughts?” Grimironie wondered as she walked back to her office. A nice, crunchy breading on a cordon bleu? Stealing into the garage and adding restrictor plates to Billy-Ray MacHaggis III’s ATV? That made her smile, but it didn’t feel like the pinnacle of happiness. She leaned against the cinder-block wall and closed her eyes. She saw a gargantuan, clawed and red foot stepping down amongst rows of corn, and looked up to a mass of white feathers. She’d imagined it many times, her secret obsession. “I will find him and take him down,” she thought. “I will conquer Capon Frank.”
“There’s a new twist to the game,” Chief Kalel grumbled into a stack of files. “First, I need you to pose for some Death Chicken Watch PR photos, and second, you’ve got to up your attitude. The DCDA with the lowest viewer rating status gets voted off the precinct next Friday, and I don’t want to lose one of my best because she has a sour-puss 99% of the day.”
Unbelievable. “Are you out of your mind? You agreed to this? Why do you hate cats?” Grimironie reached for her hip, but she hadn’t had time to don her baster holster.
“Easy Grim,” Kalel said, finally looking her in the eye. “There was the usual loose talk in the coffee room, and if you want, you can blame Haskins for planting the seed in my head.”
“Everyone blames Haskins for everything. I at least want to be original.” Grimironie seethed.
“Nonetheless, I don’t know what the ratings will say when they come in, but I don’t want to take chances.”
She sulked for a moment until her frustration mounted. “But the world loves a curmudgeon! Look at House; it’s in its 80th season!”
“Maybe. Maybe you’ve been spending so much of your downtime preparing relish that you’ve gone and pickled your own brain. Go out and find yourself someone who’ll make you happy. Take the day off and get a pedicure or something, but lighten the heck up already and get out of my office!”
Grimironie slammed the door and muttered her way down the hallway, resplendent with expletives. She slowed as she neared the coffee room and stepped quietly. The door was ajar. She saw Billy-Ray MacHaggis III holding a low-fat soy mocha latte and chatting with Maestro.
“I gotta say, man” Billy-Ray MacHaggis III elbowed Maestro in the side, “those are some smokin’ chocolate pants you’ve got on.”
“Yeah,” Maestro laughed, “the chicks really dig ‘em.”
“I bet the women love ‘em too,” Billy-Ray nodded.
“Oh yeah,” Maestro smiled, “almost as much as those cute, furry little chicks down in the holding station!” They laughed and sipped their nasty, brown coffees. Grimironie skulked past the door and nearly bit through her lip. What could possibly happen to make things worse? To her relief, the Death Chicken Watch photographer told her that “angst-ridden and surly” was all the latest rage. She didn’t have to summon any happy thoughts for the photo shoot.
“But what are my happy thoughts?” Grimironie wondered as she walked back to her office. A nice, crunchy breading on a cordon bleu? Stealing into the garage and adding restrictor plates to Billy-Ray MacHaggis III’s ATV? That made her smile, but it didn’t feel like the pinnacle of happiness. She leaned against the cinder-block wall and closed her eyes. She saw a gargantuan, clawed and red foot stepping down amongst rows of corn, and looked up to a mass of white feathers. She’d imagined it many times, her secret obsession. “I will find him and take him down,” she thought. “I will conquer Capon Frank.”
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