Grimironie's low-carb, zero trans-fat beer was nice and cold. What normally would have been a high-fivin' and reckless celebration of terminated Death Chickens was considerably diminished, and she knew that she supplied the bitters in the Old Fashioned.
Ah yes! She had once been the obnoxious, hot, new rookie, but like Jeff Gordon, she mellowed into a humble and indisputably talented mid-career giant. Sigh! She shouldn't be so angry at Billy-Ray MacHaggis III, but she couldn't shake the twitch in her left eye. She didn't realize that she shouted "Poopy head!" until Ole' Pappy, her favorite barkeep, passed a laxative suppository to her with her next shot of Chai.
"A tea drinker. That's so suave," whispered an irksome voice in her ear. It was none other than the object of her greatest annoyance, Billy-Ray MacHaggis III.
"One relish comment, and I'll baste you where you stand," Grim muttered through clenched teeth.
"No offense meant," he said, "I'll catch you on the flip ... side."
Dang! He was smooth for an irritating, marinade seeking, green and waxed freshman. He skulked into the corner, and into the comfort of nubile fans.
Grimironie glanced at Pappy's calendar; it was December 18th, the anniversary of The Great Roast. That's what started it all, long before she was born.
flashback, most likely narrated by James Earl Jones
2017: The Great Roast. The Society of Genetic Food Engineers had long battled the political criticism of PETA. Years of petty arguments over milk made the geneticists complacent. They had no suspicions of PETA's new agenda: to free all genetically engineered poultry from laboratories worldwide. "Free Range Chickens - Yeah!" That was their cry of triumph after they infiltrated and sabotaged all of the facilities run by chicken geneticists. The rest is history. The engineered chickens took to the fields, and their evolution accelerated at an unprecedented rate to produce The Death Chickens, a species more deadly and tasty than had ever walked the Earth before. They were 30 foot monsters who roamed the world, ready to peck unsuspecting townsfolk. They also supplied low-fat and nutritious protein to all. They were a both a curse and a blessing, and Grimironie owed her livlihood to them.
She could have followed her father's footsteps and become a widget engineer, which would be a cozy and safe career. Something tugged at her to follow Grandfather Otto's lead, and she couldn't face the possibility of settling down and creating new and innovative widgets despite the great good it would do for small business owners. She felt that she failed her father, but she needed the adrenaline rush from full-frontal basting. Again: sigh.
"No more orange pekoe for you, young lady. I'm calling you a cab." That Ole' Pappy, he always cut her off too soon.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Birth of a Serial: Capon Frank
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.
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.
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