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.