"Someone's been baiting the fields," Three said.
"What?"
"Look over here." Grimironie crouched down and examined the pile of birdseed. There was something in it, something man-made. She pulled a vial from her pocket, donned latex gloves and carefully scooped up a sampling. Background music and artistic close-ups of she and Three looking pensive added to the drama as they marked off the fields with flags and tied off a rope grid to plot the evidence.
"We have to send this to the lab," she said. "I'm calling Gristle." Three nodded grimly. When the chopper landed, they gave their most serious and purposeful stares.
Gristle studied the vial; his blue eyes revealed that he was thinking many intelligent thoughts.
"What is it? Do you know?" Grimironie asked.
"It isn't Bam," Gristle mumbled, "I can't be sure. I have some ideas but I'll need a few hours to run tests. Good work. Right now you two need to get back on the case."
"Yes sir."
* * * *
They crossed the Wisconsin border. Had they run ahead of Capon Frank's path? Perhaps not. The Death Chickens they encountered were more frenetic, and strayed further from their usual feeding and nesting habits.
As they pulled into a pleasant little town for a decent meal and stay at a quality hotel, like a Comfort Inn, Grimironie searched for a silver trailer. She found none and relaxed a little. A banner announced "Annual Cheese and Brat-Fest." Heathens. She bit her tongue; she needed to loosen up a bit if she wanted to blend in with the locals.
They got seperate rooms at the Super 8. When Grimironie came out of the shower, she found a quaint Wisconsonian outfit draped across her bed: a Packers jersey and a pair of Wranglers. She was touched. She put them on, but left the cheese hat in the hotel room.
She met him at the festival. Three sat at an outdoor table. His white, silk shirt accentuated his man-cleavage, and his white pants said Look at me! I have joie de vivre! He waved a foam "We're Number One" hand when he spotted her.
"Exotic, isn't it?" Three smiled.
"Yes. And thank you for these," she said, curtsying as best as she could in the oversized jersey.
She was having the time of her life. Among the crowd of rowdy natives and full of Milwaukee's best, she wanted to abandon herself to the moment. She sauntered to a blazing garbage can, swilled her cup of beer, and dropped it into the flames. The melting plastic smoked like red-hot passion. Three walked to her.
The music swelled, and they danced the forbidden dance. She wanted the song to last forever- Hey! Marcarena!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
XV. 2/25/08
She awoke hugging the bolster. A fuzzy blanket had been draped over her, and her neck was stiff. Too much oolong. Three was outside stoking the fire.
"Just don't talk too loud," he said, "I feel like my head's been pressed in a quesadilla." She was glad to see that she wasn't alone in her misery. She remembered blabbering about pork, the other white meat, with vehemence and blaming Oscar Mayer for the DCDAs' financial woes. She'd bored many people to sleep once she started on those rants.
Popcorn lay everywhere. Snake. Her ire returned, and with it the desire to do some unconventional basting. She packed up camp clumsily.
A young lad from a nearby farm stared at her from a distance. She smiled at him, and he moved in closer.
"I liek choklit mielk," he said.
"Me too," Grimironie answered. "What's your name, son?"
"Ben." He was an adorable little moppet who probably wanted an autograph.
"Is there something that you wanted to ask me?" she asked, reaching for her pen.
"I want chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets! CHICKEN NUGGETS!" he chanted while running through their supplies.
"Flee!" yelled Grimironie. She and Three grabbed their bags and peeled out into the field.
"Chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets!" the boy screamed after them. The world was going to hell in a bucket of original recipe breasts and thighs. Something was the catalyst, but what? Had PETA resurfaced to rile the continental poultry? Was is the media's fault? She slammed on her brakes to avoid a group of children who had emerged from the rows of corn.
"Chicken nuggets!" they chanted, and waved corn husks woven into double arches. It was unsettling, uncanny, and even a little weird. Normally children wanted fries. It seemed as if it were yet another harbinger of the apocolypse.
"Just don't talk too loud," he said, "I feel like my head's been pressed in a quesadilla." She was glad to see that she wasn't alone in her misery. She remembered blabbering about pork, the other white meat, with vehemence and blaming Oscar Mayer for the DCDAs' financial woes. She'd bored many people to sleep once she started on those rants.
Popcorn lay everywhere. Snake. Her ire returned, and with it the desire to do some unconventional basting. She packed up camp clumsily.
A young lad from a nearby farm stared at her from a distance. She smiled at him, and he moved in closer.
"I liek choklit mielk," he said.
"Me too," Grimironie answered. "What's your name, son?"
"Ben." He was an adorable little moppet who probably wanted an autograph.
"Is there something that you wanted to ask me?" she asked, reaching for her pen.
"I want chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets! CHICKEN NUGGETS!" he chanted while running through their supplies.
"Flee!" yelled Grimironie. She and Three grabbed their bags and peeled out into the field.
"Chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets!" the boy screamed after them. The world was going to hell in a bucket of original recipe breasts and thighs. Something was the catalyst, but what? Had PETA resurfaced to rile the continental poultry? Was is the media's fault? She slammed on her brakes to avoid a group of children who had emerged from the rows of corn.
"Chicken nuggets!" they chanted, and waved corn husks woven into double arches. It was unsettling, uncanny, and even a little weird. Normally children wanted fries. It seemed as if it were yet another harbinger of the apocolypse.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
XIV. 2/20/08
The trail was long, and she missed her stool at Bmwhtly's Pb and Grb, and its lack of vowels except for the "sometimes y." Ol' Pappy probably missed her too, or not if the newbie in her stool tipped better. She missed Crispy's chatter.
Because Three had gotten his own tent after the Snake B. Bauer incident, she sat alone with her baster and lantern. On impulse, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed Crispy. His holograph popped up in her tent, holding a pint of ale.
"Tha's my girl," he grinned. "I got someone I wantcha to meet!" Crispy pulled a smiling brunette into the holograph. She was slightly bohemian and at least fifteen years his junior. "This is Paprika, Paprika Pink!" She waved. "Lovely, ain't she? She's my ghost-writer. Got a book deal yanno."
"You're kidding!"
"No ducklin'! A sweet deal too. I tell her about my life, and she's writin' it all down, all poetic and stuff."
Paprika laughed, "Really he's a great storyteller. I just take out the apostrophes and add "g's"." She did seem sweet.
"Good for you, Crispy."
He leaned in towards her, "Spicy little thing too, har, har! I'll letcha go. Why don'tcha go see what Three's doin'. Yanno, he ain't so bad, like I said."
She coughed, "Gotta go! Coughing...fit... 'kay thanks bye!" She thought about it: the tent next door and the golden boy within who was taut like turkey jerky on a stick. The roar of an engine brought her out of her reverie. She rushed outside with her baster raised.
"Son of a pullet!" she snarled. Snake B. Bauer was riding in circles around their camp. He threw popcorn kernals into the camp fire with explosive results. She aimed her baster and pulled the trigger, but he had swerved at the last minute and disappeared into the night. At least she hit his ATV; he'd smell like garlic for a week. She shared her expletives.
"Three motioned to his tent. "Will you come in? You want to talk?"
She dropped her head and entered his tent. It was very fancy; he had cable. "Why don't you tell me more about the chickens in your past?" she asked, more subdued than usual.
"No way," he said as he pulled out a bottle of Oolong spirits. She hadn't seen any of that since Crispy's last toga party. "Tell me about you. I want to know why you're such a cranky old hen."
She chuckled and sat down on a goose-down bolster. "It's a long, sad story. You've probably heard it before...
I was once the new hotshot in the hen house, reckless and cocky. All I thought about was glory back then." She took the snifter from Three. "Crispy took a liking to me, and we blasted through a ton of chickens. I was young and had no sense of mortality. I just wanted to make a name for myself to rival Grandpa Otto's."
"What changed?"
"It was a hot summer in southern Kansas. We were on a spree, racking up oven-stuffer-roasters as if there were no tomorrow. I still remember that day: ninety degrees, a hot wind from the South, and the smell of chicken feed. A rowdy flock of Death Chickens clucked in our path. We started on the perimeter, but I wanted more. I broke rank and dove into the center of the bunch. Marinade squirted in all directions; it was a slaughterhouse and I was the executioner. I lost sight of Crispy, but I paid no mind. Next thing I know I had them on the run- straight into Crispy. He fought and worked through them, but he was flanked by the two toughest, stringiest birds on the field. I tried to circle back to him, but it was sheer chaos. Wattles and claws blocked my path time and again. I saw it in slow motion. An enraged hen grabbed him by the leg and flicked him in the air. I can still hear the thud he made when he landed at my feet. He was unconscious, dripping blood. I fought off the Death Chickens in blind fury. If the rest of the team hadn't moved in for reinforcement, I would have lost him. Our best team sniper took out the last chicken as she plunged at Crispy. I had run out of marinade. Bad judgement, bad tactics: I was a bad partner. That was me. I was like a cheap chicken patty,all breading with no real meat inside. Crispy never blamed me for losing his leg. He should have." She finished off her snifter. Three poured her another.
Because Three had gotten his own tent after the Snake B. Bauer incident, she sat alone with her baster and lantern. On impulse, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed Crispy. His holograph popped up in her tent, holding a pint of ale.
"Tha's my girl," he grinned. "I got someone I wantcha to meet!" Crispy pulled a smiling brunette into the holograph. She was slightly bohemian and at least fifteen years his junior. "This is Paprika, Paprika Pink!" She waved. "Lovely, ain't she? She's my ghost-writer. Got a book deal yanno."
"You're kidding!"
"No ducklin'! A sweet deal too. I tell her about my life, and she's writin' it all down, all poetic and stuff."
Paprika laughed, "Really he's a great storyteller. I just take out the apostrophes and add "g's"." She did seem sweet.
"Good for you, Crispy."
He leaned in towards her, "Spicy little thing too, har, har! I'll letcha go. Why don'tcha go see what Three's doin'. Yanno, he ain't so bad, like I said."
She coughed, "Gotta go! Coughing...fit... 'kay thanks bye!" She thought about it: the tent next door and the golden boy within who was taut like turkey jerky on a stick. The roar of an engine brought her out of her reverie. She rushed outside with her baster raised.
"Son of a pullet!" she snarled. Snake B. Bauer was riding in circles around their camp. He threw popcorn kernals into the camp fire with explosive results. She aimed her baster and pulled the trigger, but he had swerved at the last minute and disappeared into the night. At least she hit his ATV; he'd smell like garlic for a week. She shared her expletives.
"Three motioned to his tent. "Will you come in? You want to talk?"
She dropped her head and entered his tent. It was very fancy; he had cable. "Why don't you tell me more about the chickens in your past?" she asked, more subdued than usual.
"No way," he said as he pulled out a bottle of Oolong spirits. She hadn't seen any of that since Crispy's last toga party. "Tell me about you. I want to know why you're such a cranky old hen."
She chuckled and sat down on a goose-down bolster. "It's a long, sad story. You've probably heard it before...
I was once the new hotshot in the hen house, reckless and cocky. All I thought about was glory back then." She took the snifter from Three. "Crispy took a liking to me, and we blasted through a ton of chickens. I was young and had no sense of mortality. I just wanted to make a name for myself to rival Grandpa Otto's."
"What changed?"
"It was a hot summer in southern Kansas. We were on a spree, racking up oven-stuffer-roasters as if there were no tomorrow. I still remember that day: ninety degrees, a hot wind from the South, and the smell of chicken feed. A rowdy flock of Death Chickens clucked in our path. We started on the perimeter, but I wanted more. I broke rank and dove into the center of the bunch. Marinade squirted in all directions; it was a slaughterhouse and I was the executioner. I lost sight of Crispy, but I paid no mind. Next thing I know I had them on the run- straight into Crispy. He fought and worked through them, but he was flanked by the two toughest, stringiest birds on the field. I tried to circle back to him, but it was sheer chaos. Wattles and claws blocked my path time and again. I saw it in slow motion. An enraged hen grabbed him by the leg and flicked him in the air. I can still hear the thud he made when he landed at my feet. He was unconscious, dripping blood. I fought off the Death Chickens in blind fury. If the rest of the team hadn't moved in for reinforcement, I would have lost him. Our best team sniper took out the last chicken as she plunged at Crispy. I had run out of marinade. Bad judgement, bad tactics: I was a bad partner. That was me. I was like a cheap chicken patty,all breading with no real meat inside. Crispy never blamed me for losing his leg. He should have." She finished off her snifter. Three poured her another.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
XIII. 2/19/08
Mongoose. The twin exhausts blew smoke like an all day smoker working on a pulled chicken feast. Three had suped up his ATV, and they tore across fields, heading northeast.
She thought she was hallucinating, but the sound grew louder:
“There was something in the air that night
The stars were bright, Fernando!”
Ben Bradley? She looked to her right and saw the full Alpha Team converging on her path. Ben’s ATV stereo was on full blast. That meant only one thing: big chickens ahead. She nodded at Three to keep going.
The pack was on them in seconds. Manic, stampeding Death Chickens cried out in blood lust. Death Chickens. They put their name to the test.
Her baster was hot from rapid fire. Death Chicken after Death Chicken charged and then collapsed in a blast of garlic and olive oil. The Italian restaurant market would get a nice choice of cuts thanks to her work today. She skidded past Kate Thornton who was taking down bird after bird with her full-auto baster. Grimironie smelled a hint of rosemary; it was a subtle, but nice touch on the marinade.
Haskins had jumped on the back of a vicious hen and fired his baster into her back. She bucked, but he had wedged his heels into her feathers. Crispy was working two Death Chickens that were taunting him in tandem. She sped to his aid, and fired a fatal blast at one as he took the other. He doubled back for a high five.
No time to waste! An over-fed super sized Death Chicken waddled to her, snapping her beak hungrily. Grimironie fired twice. Fat absorbed the shots. The Death Chicken waddled faster, zesty with garlic and white wine. She aimed the final blast at the head. It was a waste of good marinade, but it was necessary; the Death Chicken was about to sit on her and her new ATV, Mongoose. The headless bird struck the ground. Her wings kept flapping like a chicken with her head cut off. She was a chicken with her head cut off. Okay.
The Death Chicken Watch choppers roared overhead, and then retreated.
“You can dance, you can jive
Having the time of your life!
See that girl, watch that scene
Dig in the dancing queen!”
Grimironie scanned the horizon on all sides, and saw only carcasses. They’d gotten them all. What had made them stampede in such a hen-pecked frenzy? She met with larger groups, but this flock descended upon them with extreme fury. The pieces were adding up to something; she just had to sort the white from the dark meat to make sense of it all.
Three strolled over to her. “It smells like the San Gennaro festival over here. I see you’re taking chances with you spices. Maybe you’re ready for something new.” He continued on past to the camera crew, and left her staring and perplexed.
She thought she was hallucinating, but the sound grew louder:
“There was something in the air that night
The stars were bright, Fernando!”
Ben Bradley? She looked to her right and saw the full Alpha Team converging on her path. Ben’s ATV stereo was on full blast. That meant only one thing: big chickens ahead. She nodded at Three to keep going.
The pack was on them in seconds. Manic, stampeding Death Chickens cried out in blood lust. Death Chickens. They put their name to the test.
Her baster was hot from rapid fire. Death Chicken after Death Chicken charged and then collapsed in a blast of garlic and olive oil. The Italian restaurant market would get a nice choice of cuts thanks to her work today. She skidded past Kate Thornton who was taking down bird after bird with her full-auto baster. Grimironie smelled a hint of rosemary; it was a subtle, but nice touch on the marinade.
Haskins had jumped on the back of a vicious hen and fired his baster into her back. She bucked, but he had wedged his heels into her feathers. Crispy was working two Death Chickens that were taunting him in tandem. She sped to his aid, and fired a fatal blast at one as he took the other. He doubled back for a high five.
No time to waste! An over-fed super sized Death Chicken waddled to her, snapping her beak hungrily. Grimironie fired twice. Fat absorbed the shots. The Death Chicken waddled faster, zesty with garlic and white wine. She aimed the final blast at the head. It was a waste of good marinade, but it was necessary; the Death Chicken was about to sit on her and her new ATV, Mongoose. The headless bird struck the ground. Her wings kept flapping like a chicken with her head cut off. She was a chicken with her head cut off. Okay.
The Death Chicken Watch choppers roared overhead, and then retreated.
“You can dance, you can jive
Having the time of your life!
See that girl, watch that scene
Dig in the dancing queen!”
Grimironie scanned the horizon on all sides, and saw only carcasses. They’d gotten them all. What had made them stampede in such a hen-pecked frenzy? She met with larger groups, but this flock descended upon them with extreme fury. The pieces were adding up to something; she just had to sort the white from the dark meat to make sense of it all.
Three strolled over to her. “It smells like the San Gennaro festival over here. I see you’re taking chances with you spices. Maybe you’re ready for something new.” He continued on past to the camera crew, and left her staring and perplexed.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
XII. 2/14/08
"Before I go back out in the field, there's something I've gotta do. I think you know what it is." Grimironie said.
Chief Kalel stopped shucking peanuts - he was making Peanutty Thai Kabobs for the company bake-off that evening, his specialty - and gave her a knowing look. "All right. I'll have to get clearance. Give me a few minutes"
* * * *
The pneumatic doors locked behind them. Chief Kalel led her down a series of corridors, and flashed a card in front of a sensor. She heard seven unseen bolts snap back, and the door opened. The room was vast and poorly lit.
"He's a deep sea lobster;" Kalel whispered, "he doesn't like bright light." They entered. Grimironie saw a mammoth tank on the far wall; it had to be at least forty feet wide and fifteen feet tall. As she neared, she saw the giant crustacean, a top secret relic from the Gulf war.
davids.
He wore computerized head gear, and lay immobile on the bottom of the tank.
"Over here," Kalel whispered. He motioned towards a wall-mounted computer unit. She saw the speaker, but jumped when something warm shook her leg. A small dog had his paws around her calf, and was attempting unspeakable things. "Be gentle. That's Burty, davids's dog." She squirmed away and approached the speaker.
"Good evening davids." she said. She knew she had to show paramount respect to such a graceful lobster.
"Goodifericus eve, nubile visitor," davids computerized voice responded, "the pleasurification is all Burty's, or should I say, mine. Turn a 360 please."
She did.
"Next time wear leather and bring me bounties of beautification from beyond, in so much as to say, bum, bum, sweet copies of Field and Stream, dear lady!"
She was astounded. He was wiser and more syllabic than she'd ever expected. Surely, davids would guide her in her quest.
"I am hunting Capon Frank. Can you give me any guidance?"
The pause made her nervous. Had she asked too much of this delicious prodigy? She was about to apologize for her impudence when he answered.
"I must respecticate my fellow non-humaesque personages," davids said, "but if such a woman-warrior who deservicates my help asks, I can not refuse, unless you know another giant lobster of the female persuasion who might abodeify my tank... okay. I, the great seer of sonambulating seafood delectibility confess: you shall find him, but to the prudifi- purified loverliness of your heart, shall set him free, if not to appease my lustrous and wealthy claws. He summers in Wisconsin."
Bingo! Time to hit the Wisconsin Trail.
* * * *
She didn't go home that night, didn't want to lose her focus. She set up the cot in her office, and pulled the spare rubber duck patterned jammies that she kept in her locker. The wall behind her desk was a mass of newspaper clippings and glossy photos of Death Chickens who met their ovens long ago. She clapped her hands twice. The lights shut off.
"Not joinin' the bake-off, duckling?" Crispy said. She snapped her head around.
"How'd you get in here?" Crispy hovered several inches off of the floor. It couldn't be. "Crispy," she gasped, "you're not... you haven't...?"
"It's nothin' like that," he smiled and held up his wrist, "got me a nice holograph phone! Pretty snazzy, eh? Now ya call me if yer missin' me out in the field. I'll be thinkin' aboutcha." He looked to his left and winked. "Gotta go. The Chief's got his kabobs out."
"Okay Crispy," she sighed.
* * * * *
She'd repacked, but she was stalling. The insurance company replaced Ole... gave her a new ATV, but she couldn't bear to see it yet.
Handy Manly stomped into the office and looked around. He approached after he spotted her in the corner. "New marinade. Special recipe." he grunted. "You get this capon, then use this." He shoved two-liter bottles into her hands and grinned vapidly.
"What is it?" she gaped.
"Beet-root! Tell no one!" He turned and pranced back into the kitchen.
"Beet-root," she mused, "exotic and unexpected!" She always had a soft spot for borscht. Maybe Crispy was right about him afterall.
She braced herself and opened the door. Three was fastening supplies onto his ATV. When he saw her, he stepped back to reveal Ole... her ATV's new replacement. It was slick with chili pepper red paint and gleaming chrome. On the side was airbrushed...
"What is that? A squashed gopher? A shadow ferret?"
"It's a mongoose," Three explained, "they kill snakes."
She smiled. "I like that. How about Death Chickens?"
"If they haven't before, they will now."
Perfect.
Chief Kalel stopped shucking peanuts - he was making Peanutty Thai Kabobs for the company bake-off that evening, his specialty - and gave her a knowing look. "All right. I'll have to get clearance. Give me a few minutes"
* * * *
The pneumatic doors locked behind them. Chief Kalel led her down a series of corridors, and flashed a card in front of a sensor. She heard seven unseen bolts snap back, and the door opened. The room was vast and poorly lit.
"He's a deep sea lobster;" Kalel whispered, "he doesn't like bright light." They entered. Grimironie saw a mammoth tank on the far wall; it had to be at least forty feet wide and fifteen feet tall. As she neared, she saw the giant crustacean, a top secret relic from the Gulf war.
davids.
He wore computerized head gear, and lay immobile on the bottom of the tank.
"Over here," Kalel whispered. He motioned towards a wall-mounted computer unit. She saw the speaker, but jumped when something warm shook her leg. A small dog had his paws around her calf, and was attempting unspeakable things. "Be gentle. That's Burty, davids's dog." She squirmed away and approached the speaker.
"Good evening davids." she said. She knew she had to show paramount respect to such a graceful lobster.
"Goodifericus eve, nubile visitor," davids computerized voice responded, "the pleasurification is all Burty's, or should I say, mine. Turn a 360 please."
She did.
"Next time wear leather and bring me bounties of beautification from beyond, in so much as to say, bum, bum, sweet copies of Field and Stream, dear lady!"
She was astounded. He was wiser and more syllabic than she'd ever expected. Surely, davids would guide her in her quest.
"I am hunting Capon Frank. Can you give me any guidance?"
The pause made her nervous. Had she asked too much of this delicious prodigy? She was about to apologize for her impudence when he answered.
"I must respecticate my fellow non-humaesque personages," davids said, "but if such a woman-warrior who deservicates my help asks, I can not refuse, unless you know another giant lobster of the female persuasion who might abodeify my tank... okay. I, the great seer of sonambulating seafood delectibility confess: you shall find him, but to the prudifi- purified loverliness of your heart, shall set him free, if not to appease my lustrous and wealthy claws. He summers in Wisconsin."
Bingo! Time to hit the Wisconsin Trail.
* * * *
She didn't go home that night, didn't want to lose her focus. She set up the cot in her office, and pulled the spare rubber duck patterned jammies that she kept in her locker. The wall behind her desk was a mass of newspaper clippings and glossy photos of Death Chickens who met their ovens long ago. She clapped her hands twice. The lights shut off.
"Not joinin' the bake-off, duckling?" Crispy said. She snapped her head around.
"How'd you get in here?" Crispy hovered several inches off of the floor. It couldn't be. "Crispy," she gasped, "you're not... you haven't...?"
"It's nothin' like that," he smiled and held up his wrist, "got me a nice holograph phone! Pretty snazzy, eh? Now ya call me if yer missin' me out in the field. I'll be thinkin' aboutcha." He looked to his left and winked. "Gotta go. The Chief's got his kabobs out."
"Okay Crispy," she sighed.
* * * * *
She'd repacked, but she was stalling. The insurance company replaced Ole... gave her a new ATV, but she couldn't bear to see it yet.
Handy Manly stomped into the office and looked around. He approached after he spotted her in the corner. "New marinade. Special recipe." he grunted. "You get this capon, then use this." He shoved two-liter bottles into her hands and grinned vapidly.
"What is it?" she gaped.
"Beet-root! Tell no one!" He turned and pranced back into the kitchen.
"Beet-root," she mused, "exotic and unexpected!" She always had a soft spot for borscht. Maybe Crispy was right about him afterall.
She braced herself and opened the door. Three was fastening supplies onto his ATV. When he saw her, he stepped back to reveal Ole... her ATV's new replacement. It was slick with chili pepper red paint and gleaming chrome. On the side was airbrushed...
"What is that? A squashed gopher? A shadow ferret?"
"It's a mongoose," Three explained, "they kill snakes."
She smiled. "I like that. How about Death Chickens?"
"If they haven't before, they will now."
Perfect.
Monday, February 11, 2008
XI. 2/11/08
"He doubled back," Grimironie said as she jumped to her feet. She grabbed her tools and gave Three the signal. They ran full-throttle. The popcorn ball shed kernals as she slolemed around hay bales. Something metallic glinted ahead. As she closed the distance, she could see it was an RV, fully loaded, with a red python painted across its length. "No, no, no!" she yelled. A stainless steel behemoth of an ATV sped from behind the RV to block her path.
She'd seen his bio in the industry magazines, but never thought he'd surface in her domain. Snake B. Bauer, as slimy and vicious as they came, showed no regret about who he maimed to get his prize. He was a hairy tank of a baster-for-hire, as ruthless as habanero glaze on a chicken empanada and as wealthy as the C.E.O. for Butterball. Snake's Death Chicken leg-skin boots and pants glistened vermillion as his dismounted and swaggered towards her. In a shot she was off Ole Plucky. She looked him in the eye and eye patch.
"Where's your shirt? Did you just escape from New York?" Grimironie hissed.
"Go home, chicky," he sneered,"Take your pretty-boy sidekick and get back to your petting zoo."
"Frank is mine. This is my territory." She said.
Snake B. Bauer laughed, "Why don't you come inside my RV, and I'll give you a job you can handle."
"Who hired you?" Grimironie said without breaking her stare.
"Heh, heh. I'm here for the rooster. I don't need money."
"We're wasting time!" Three boomed. His urgency clipped her fighting wings.
"You're right," she said as she jumped on Ole Plucky and spun her tires.
Fifty yards down the field, a shocking "Crack!" jolted her. Ole Plucky flipped. As his tank exploded, she flew several feet before she hit the ground. Popcorn ball-bits and smoke enveloped her. She crawled towards the flames rising from Ole Plucky, but someone grabbed her and was pulled her backwards. It was Three.
"You gotta get out of here! Snap out of it!" he yelled.
"I can't leave a man behind!" she screamed.
"He's gone! On your feet, soldier!"
Her training took over. She grabbed her baster, and staggered out of the chaos and onto the back of Three's ATV.
She'd never lost a man before. Ole Plucky. The Pluckster. O.P.. Plucky Dawg. Plucky-poo. He was gone. Gone.
* * * *
"... and I don't know how I can go on without him," Grimironie concluded.
"Which one, Crispy or Ole Plucky?" Dr. C. asked.
She paused, taking in the weight of the question. "Either." she said.
"You do realize that Ole Plucky was an all terrain vehicle; he wasn't alive?" he prodded. She buried her head in her hands. Her support systems had failed. Like a poorly stuffed Thanksgiving turkey, her stuffing was falling into her drippings. "You could buy another ATV of the same model,and paint it the same," Dr. C. suggested, "'Ole Plucky Jr.' as an homage." He always made sense. But why? Oh why? It would never be the same. He could sense her inconsolability. He said, quietly, "W.W.O.V.F.D.?" That shook her. What Would Otto Von Farmer Do? What would he do indeed.
"Here's your copay, Dr." Grimironie smirked. "I've got to see a man about a capon."
"That's the spirit!" he smiled. She promised herself to save him one of the best filets from Capon Frank, and throw in some candied yams to boot.
She'd seen his bio in the industry magazines, but never thought he'd surface in her domain. Snake B. Bauer, as slimy and vicious as they came, showed no regret about who he maimed to get his prize. He was a hairy tank of a baster-for-hire, as ruthless as habanero glaze on a chicken empanada and as wealthy as the C.E.O. for Butterball. Snake's Death Chicken leg-skin boots and pants glistened vermillion as his dismounted and swaggered towards her. In a shot she was off Ole Plucky. She looked him in the eye and eye patch.
"Where's your shirt? Did you just escape from New York?" Grimironie hissed.
"Go home, chicky," he sneered,"Take your pretty-boy sidekick and get back to your petting zoo."
"Frank is mine. This is my territory." She said.
Snake B. Bauer laughed, "Why don't you come inside my RV, and I'll give you a job you can handle."
"Who hired you?" Grimironie said without breaking her stare.
"Heh, heh. I'm here for the rooster. I don't need money."
"We're wasting time!" Three boomed. His urgency clipped her fighting wings.
"You're right," she said as she jumped on Ole Plucky and spun her tires.
Fifty yards down the field, a shocking "Crack!" jolted her. Ole Plucky flipped. As his tank exploded, she flew several feet before she hit the ground. Popcorn ball-bits and smoke enveloped her. She crawled towards the flames rising from Ole Plucky, but someone grabbed her and was pulled her backwards. It was Three.
"You gotta get out of here! Snap out of it!" he yelled.
"I can't leave a man behind!" she screamed.
"He's gone! On your feet, soldier!"
Her training took over. She grabbed her baster, and staggered out of the chaos and onto the back of Three's ATV.
She'd never lost a man before. Ole Plucky. The Pluckster. O.P.. Plucky Dawg. Plucky-poo. He was gone. Gone.
* * * *
"... and I don't know how I can go on without him," Grimironie concluded.
"Which one, Crispy or Ole Plucky?" Dr. C. asked.
She paused, taking in the weight of the question. "Either." she said.
"You do realize that Ole Plucky was an all terrain vehicle; he wasn't alive?" he prodded. She buried her head in her hands. Her support systems had failed. Like a poorly stuffed Thanksgiving turkey, her stuffing was falling into her drippings. "You could buy another ATV of the same model,and paint it the same," Dr. C. suggested, "'Ole Plucky Jr.' as an homage." He always made sense. But why? Oh why? It would never be the same. He could sense her inconsolability. He said, quietly, "W.W.O.V.F.D.?" That shook her. What Would Otto Von Farmer Do? What would he do indeed.
"Here's your copay, Dr." Grimironie smirked. "I've got to see a man about a capon."
"That's the spirit!" he smiled. She promised herself to save him one of the best filets from Capon Frank, and throw in some candied yams to boot.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
X. 2/7/08
The sun was rising, but there was still no sign on the radar. Rays glistened on the field like the golden crust of a Mrs. Budd's chicken pot pie, and the grasses swayed like Three's silky hair in the morning breeze- stop that! "Focus!" Grimironie thought. This stake-out was wrong from the start. It defied her first cardinal rule: go where the food is.
"Pack up, we're moving," Grimironie said into her walkie-talkie. The crows were descending on her bait already. She folded her camo-cover and locked her munitions onto Ole Plucky. Three appeared from his sniper position and loaded his supplies onto his ATV.
They rode down-wind for miles, scanning the country for likely food supplies. She slowed as she passed ravaged McMansions. Here and there lay pieces of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was enough to make an HGTV host cry. Luckily, she was a seasoned DCDA, and knew how to shake it off.
Her radio had been silent all morning. There had been no new sightings of a rogue capon, but she trudged on. Ole Plucky was getting a workout. They investigated every odd radar blip, and stopped only long enough to admire the world's largest popcorn ball in Sac City, Iowa. "I wonder," thought Grimironie as she admired its sugar-glazed rotundness. With a little wheeling and dealing, and the use of a company expense account, she attached a hitch to Ole Plucky and hauled the ball away on a flatbed trailer. She doubted she'd ever be welcome in Sac City again, but it didn't matter. If all went well, she'dhave enough sponsorship to make a bigger ball.
* * * *
She was doing her best to be nice and pleasant to Three; she still felt guilty about her harsh outbursts. The problem was, nice and pleasant had been skills she'd long abandoned. Perhaps, "Your ATV is very shiny today" was lame, but it was the best she could do. They started setting up camp when a tremor reverberated through the field. They took to their ATVs right away. It was close to sundown, but she'd take Capon Frank after dark without hesitation. Even school children knew that roosters didn't lay eggs.
As they neared a copse of trees, another tremor shook them. Once she cleared the copse, she saw the damage: a farmhouse lay in a heap of rubble; its infrastructure was still collapsing. A tell-tale sign ran behind it: flattened rows of corn made a path toward the sunset, exactly like a crop circle, except it wasn't a circle, it was straight. And is wasn't made by aliens. It wouldn't make a cool picture in an arial view either. Nope.
She sped down the non-circle crop circle path with Three following closely. As the corn gave way to grassy plain, the trail disappeared. "Could it be?" she wondered, "Could Capon Frank have learned stealth tactics?" She'd never seen a big bird disappear like that, a snufflufagus maybe, but not a big bird.
Three was poised in a curious stance, sniffing the air. The wind had changed, and he shook his head in frustration. "It's a rooster all right," he whispered. "Sometimes he wears L'Air du Temps, but not today. I, for one, can not smell his pellets."
"Very impressive," said Grimironie, letting on that she was impressed. Three shook his head knowingly.
"It's a talent I have," he smiled, "I just need a few fava beans to clear my palate."
"Nice."
The sun set. They returned to camp and plotted their course for the morning.
* * * *
The Death Chicken Watch team landed before they could make any ground toward Capon Frank. They followed them like a pack of fleas, but less itchy.
"Have you and Billy-Ray, ahem, made amends?" Maryn Stew grilled. "Is there a new love interest in the works?"
Grimironie did her best to ignore them. Three, to her delight, made an excellent statement, "Look out! Knoll!" The Death Chicken Watch crew promptly collided with the hill. She and Three lost them.
The last fields they had driven through were acres of plowed, hard dirt. Ole Plucky's shocks had taken a beating, and her posterior absorbed a good bit of damage. She turned off the engine after they found a long-awaited patch of grass; they could be miles off Capon Frank's trail. It would be better to regroup in the morning. The temperature had dropped to 45 degrees farenheit, and a damp wind blew. She hurried to set up her tent.
"You wouldn't mind sharing that tonight?" Three asked. "I have no body hair to keep me warm. I had croup when I was a baby. Don't remember it, but I hear it was awful. I'd hate to catch it again."
Grimironie couldn't begrudge him shelter. "Mmm," she grunted, "but no monkey business." She didn't reveal that she really liked monkeys: spider monkeys, rhesus monkeys and chimpanzees. They were all good, except for baboons. She didn't regret her decision; Three was so full of hot air that his snores warmed the tent nicely.
She woke at five AM, but left Three, who was spooning his baster, to sleep in. She set up her radar, GPS and seismograph. She had two choices: work hard or work smart.
"Pack up, we're moving," Grimironie said into her walkie-talkie. The crows were descending on her bait already. She folded her camo-cover and locked her munitions onto Ole Plucky. Three appeared from his sniper position and loaded his supplies onto his ATV.
They rode down-wind for miles, scanning the country for likely food supplies. She slowed as she passed ravaged McMansions. Here and there lay pieces of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was enough to make an HGTV host cry. Luckily, she was a seasoned DCDA, and knew how to shake it off.
Her radio had been silent all morning. There had been no new sightings of a rogue capon, but she trudged on. Ole Plucky was getting a workout. They investigated every odd radar blip, and stopped only long enough to admire the world's largest popcorn ball in Sac City, Iowa. "I wonder," thought Grimironie as she admired its sugar-glazed rotundness. With a little wheeling and dealing, and the use of a company expense account, she attached a hitch to Ole Plucky and hauled the ball away on a flatbed trailer. She doubted she'd ever be welcome in Sac City again, but it didn't matter. If all went well, she'dhave enough sponsorship to make a bigger ball.
* * * *
She was doing her best to be nice and pleasant to Three; she still felt guilty about her harsh outbursts. The problem was, nice and pleasant had been skills she'd long abandoned. Perhaps, "Your ATV is very shiny today" was lame, but it was the best she could do. They started setting up camp when a tremor reverberated through the field. They took to their ATVs right away. It was close to sundown, but she'd take Capon Frank after dark without hesitation. Even school children knew that roosters didn't lay eggs.
As they neared a copse of trees, another tremor shook them. Once she cleared the copse, she saw the damage: a farmhouse lay in a heap of rubble; its infrastructure was still collapsing. A tell-tale sign ran behind it: flattened rows of corn made a path toward the sunset, exactly like a crop circle, except it wasn't a circle, it was straight. And is wasn't made by aliens. It wouldn't make a cool picture in an arial view either. Nope.
She sped down the non-circle crop circle path with Three following closely. As the corn gave way to grassy plain, the trail disappeared. "Could it be?" she wondered, "Could Capon Frank have learned stealth tactics?" She'd never seen a big bird disappear like that, a snufflufagus maybe, but not a big bird.
Three was poised in a curious stance, sniffing the air. The wind had changed, and he shook his head in frustration. "It's a rooster all right," he whispered. "Sometimes he wears L'Air du Temps, but not today. I, for one, can not smell his pellets."
"Very impressive," said Grimironie, letting on that she was impressed. Three shook his head knowingly.
"It's a talent I have," he smiled, "I just need a few fava beans to clear my palate."
"Nice."
The sun set. They returned to camp and plotted their course for the morning.
* * * *
The Death Chicken Watch team landed before they could make any ground toward Capon Frank. They followed them like a pack of fleas, but less itchy.
"Have you and Billy-Ray, ahem, made amends?" Maryn Stew grilled. "Is there a new love interest in the works?"
Grimironie did her best to ignore them. Three, to her delight, made an excellent statement, "Look out! Knoll!" The Death Chicken Watch crew promptly collided with the hill. She and Three lost them.
The last fields they had driven through were acres of plowed, hard dirt. Ole Plucky's shocks had taken a beating, and her posterior absorbed a good bit of damage. She turned off the engine after they found a long-awaited patch of grass; they could be miles off Capon Frank's trail. It would be better to regroup in the morning. The temperature had dropped to 45 degrees farenheit, and a damp wind blew. She hurried to set up her tent.
"You wouldn't mind sharing that tonight?" Three asked. "I have no body hair to keep me warm. I had croup when I was a baby. Don't remember it, but I hear it was awful. I'd hate to catch it again."
Grimironie couldn't begrudge him shelter. "Mmm," she grunted, "but no monkey business." She didn't reveal that she really liked monkeys: spider monkeys, rhesus monkeys and chimpanzees. They were all good, except for baboons. She didn't regret her decision; Three was so full of hot air that his snores warmed the tent nicely.
She woke at five AM, but left Three, who was spooning his baster, to sleep in. She set up her radar, GPS and seismograph. She had two choices: work hard or work smart.
Friday, February 1, 2008
IX. 2/1/08
An old friend once told her that if she had no expectations, she'd be happy. She tried to get her mind around that one while she packed for the mission. It was hard. She never questioned her drive to conquer Capon Frank, and she saw poultry in motion every night in her dreams, falling, with a choice of two sides. She saw the glory, with cole slaw, mashed potatos and classic biscuits surrounding the roasted capon. The resultant celebration pecked at her; she never thought past what would come next.
Her new partner loomed like stuffing in her chest. Ole Plucky had been waxed, "Much like Three's pectorals," she thought, and winced afterwards. Would her quick wit and biscuit supply keep him at bay? She zipped up the pop-tent and secured the ultra-harpoon.
* * * *
Grimironie's best guess was to camp on the west side of a large gully. They'd have the advantage at sunrise. Her thermal scope indicated that there were no mammals over five feet tall for miles, but she knew the motivation and speed of a hungry chicken; it didn't mean much. She baited the area down-wind and returned to camp. Three (spelled I I I) had set up her tent and made a campfire.
"Where's your tent?" she asked.
"Oh, don't have one. I'm on a rookie salary."
"This is no shake and bake," Grimironie steamed, "This could be history in the making! This ain't no party! This ain't no disco! This ain't no foolin' around!"
"Easy," Three insisted, "we're on the same side, and I'm no bantam."
"That's hard to believe. You're still moulting." Grimironie hadn't wanted to be condescending, but it had slipped out.
Three turned back to the kettle and dropped in a handful of tea bags. "No need to go General Tso's on me," he said, "I know you're anxious."
"Sorry," she grumbled and sat down in her nylon port-a-chair. "So, what's your story?"
Billy-Ray MacHaggis III settled into his chair and passed her a cup of black currant tea. "It all started when I was twelve," he said. "I was at the salon getting my hair styled when the report came in on the radio: Death Chickens had taken over my neighborhood. I ran home to find my parents huddled behind a vat of hollandaise -they were in the egg industry- and our entire house was flattened. The neighbors didn't get away that easy. That was when I knew what I had to do..."
"Where was that?"
"Marsala County." he said. She was shocked. She had heard of that massacre. "I can still hear the drum sticks' rhythm as the local police tried to stop them. It was horrible. I guess that's why I went wild on Marsala the next few years. My parents finally sent me to a juvie camp, Soccer Mom's Black Angus Ranch in Texas. That was bad news. The place was surrounded by hell-hounds. I found Jaycinth then, devious seductress like a blackened grill. She showed me how to tie a roaster, and how to tie a lot of other things. What a riding crop can do! I tell you. She went through me like a chicken tender, and broke my heart. Sometimes, at night,I can still hear the crack of a whip and see the red eyes of a mutant chihuahua piercing through me."
Grimironie had heard stories about that place, and none were pretty. She looked at Three a bit differently. "I had no idea..." she started.
"That's okay," he said, "I'd rather not talk about it anymore."
She sipped her tea. "Early morning. Up before sunrise," she murmured, and slipped into her tent. When she woke before sunrise, Three was still in his chair and the fire was still burning.
Her new partner loomed like stuffing in her chest. Ole Plucky had been waxed, "Much like Three's pectorals," she thought, and winced afterwards. Would her quick wit and biscuit supply keep him at bay? She zipped up the pop-tent and secured the ultra-harpoon.
* * * *
Grimironie's best guess was to camp on the west side of a large gully. They'd have the advantage at sunrise. Her thermal scope indicated that there were no mammals over five feet tall for miles, but she knew the motivation and speed of a hungry chicken; it didn't mean much. She baited the area down-wind and returned to camp. Three (spelled I I I) had set up her tent and made a campfire.
"Where's your tent?" she asked.
"Oh, don't have one. I'm on a rookie salary."
"This is no shake and bake," Grimironie steamed, "This could be history in the making! This ain't no party! This ain't no disco! This ain't no foolin' around!"
"Easy," Three insisted, "we're on the same side, and I'm no bantam."
"That's hard to believe. You're still moulting." Grimironie hadn't wanted to be condescending, but it had slipped out.
Three turned back to the kettle and dropped in a handful of tea bags. "No need to go General Tso's on me," he said, "I know you're anxious."
"Sorry," she grumbled and sat down in her nylon port-a-chair. "So, what's your story?"
Billy-Ray MacHaggis III settled into his chair and passed her a cup of black currant tea. "It all started when I was twelve," he said. "I was at the salon getting my hair styled when the report came in on the radio: Death Chickens had taken over my neighborhood. I ran home to find my parents huddled behind a vat of hollandaise -they were in the egg industry- and our entire house was flattened. The neighbors didn't get away that easy. That was when I knew what I had to do..."
"Where was that?"
"Marsala County." he said. She was shocked. She had heard of that massacre. "I can still hear the drum sticks' rhythm as the local police tried to stop them. It was horrible. I guess that's why I went wild on Marsala the next few years. My parents finally sent me to a juvie camp, Soccer Mom's Black Angus Ranch in Texas. That was bad news. The place was surrounded by hell-hounds. I found Jaycinth then, devious seductress like a blackened grill. She showed me how to tie a roaster, and how to tie a lot of other things. What a riding crop can do! I tell you. She went through me like a chicken tender, and broke my heart. Sometimes, at night,I can still hear the crack of a whip and see the red eyes of a mutant chihuahua piercing through me."
Grimironie had heard stories about that place, and none were pretty. She looked at Three a bit differently. "I had no idea..." she started.
"That's okay," he said, "I'd rather not talk about it anymore."
She sipped her tea. "Early morning. Up before sunrise," she murmured, and slipped into her tent. When she woke before sunrise, Three was still in his chair and the fire was still burning.
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