While ducks might be blissful creatures capable of making both young and old smile just by existing, they are extremely susceptible to fire. Especially the fire of a burning man trying to give an innocent duck a hug.

   Wrapped in the embrace of a man enflamed, the first duck Burney touched erupted in fire and screamed in ducky agony. Flapping hard enough to break free of Burney’s fiery grasp, the duck waddled across the carpet toward the hotel guests, who were sipping cocktails at low tables. Burning feathers flew in all directions, and in one instance both the burning duck, and a woman who looked down to see it, screamed in the exact same avian-like tone of panic.

   The duck, however, was in far worse shape.

   As tourists gasped to make way for the flailing duck, Burney made a grab for one of the other five still in the fountain. After all, he just wanted to pet them. This next duck, however, leapt out of Burney’s hands the moment he touched it, and flew squealing into the air, raining burning feathers as it sought to outrun its own highly combustible body.

   “Burney, what are you doing — stop!” Steve said as he rushed into the lobby.

   Burney screamed at Steve. In desperation and despair, Burney grabbed as many ducks as he could in the now-boiling fountain. He only wanted a little comfort from holding a duck, but even when he’d taken all remaining four in his arms, they offered no solace. In fact, the screeching panic of ducks trying to leap away from him added to Burney’s unfortunate condition.

   “Burney put them down!” Steve insisted.

   Burney, arms full of flaming waterfowl, screamed in sadness at Steve.

   “Put them down!” Steve repeated.

   Burney let his arms fall. One duck managed to land in the water. Unfortunately, the water was also boiling, due to the burning man standing in it, so instead of burning to death the duck earned the distinction among its peers of being turned into duck soup. The remaining three took to singed wing or enflamed flopping about the carpet.

   With five burning ducks flying and running around the lobby, even the most inebriated hotel guest became frightened and at least a little sad for the sorry creatures. Even more sorry were those who’d been underneath the birds when their burning feathers rained down. Delicate ladies’ hats, pantyhose, and one exorbitantly expensive fur coat all caught fire from the ducks’ unfortunate flight paths. This, along with the walnut wood bar, and a significant portion of the carpet, combined to make the guests flee for the exit.

   One duck decided to perch in the intricately carved woodwork of the ceiling. It finally expired, its feathers gone, stuck against the wood and acting as a pilot light to catch the ceiling on fire.

   “Burney. What have I told you about birds?” Steve asked.

   Burney, still steaming in the fountain, hung his head and screamed.

   “That’s right. Only if you’re going to throw them at Gore,” Steve said.

   “Hahahha!” a punctuated voice laughed as its source approached Steve and Burney.

   Steve turned, and saw Jack the angel approach from the now burning walnut bar. The angle chuckled, and wore an enormous grin across his face. He strode through the quickly evacuating crowd of people and stuck his leg out to trip an old man running for the door.

   The old man went down, grimacing in pain for the hard impact. He’d likely broken an ankle in the fall, and laid on the ground screaming in panic as Jack laughingly stepped over him.

   Steve saw this, much to his confusion, but what Steve did not know was that the young man who bent to help the old man was actually the old man’s long-lost son. The boy had run away in high school and been given up for dead, and would only discover his wealthy and exceptionally relieved father after taking the old man to the safety of the approaching ambulances. It was all very sweet and fortunate, and Jack did his best to pretend it didn’t detract from the joy of kicking the old man’s legs out from under him.

   “Hey Steve,” Jack said. “Like what your friend’s doing with the place.”

   “Hello Jack,” Steve replied. “Burney, get out of the fountain. You’re turning the hotel into a steam house.”

   Burney screamed in reply.

   “Smokehouse, steam house, whatever. Just get out of the fountain,” Steve said.

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   “Any luck with the pulled pork? I hear you guys really know how to party on Beale Street,” Jack said as a chunk of the wooden ceiling fell beside him.

   “We do our best. What do you want?”

   “Just checkin’ in. Heard from your boss yet?”

   “I do my best to ignore any direct contact.”

   “Wise choice.”

   “And I think we’re not going to find a good pulled pork sandwich, at least not one that’s going to be useful.”

   “Why does it gotta be a sandwich anyways?” Jack asked, pulling out a cigarette. He leaned down to the smoldering chunk of ceiling at his feet and lit the cigarette with a smile. “Why not a nice bratwurst or somethin’?”

   “Why bratwurst?”

   “I’m in a smoked meats mood.”

   The fire burst around the bar as extremely expensive whiskeys boiled over and sprayed onto the flames.

   “Sandwich is as good as any,” Steve said with a shrug.

   “What I mean is…” Jack paused as he took a drag. “Why a sandwich? Throw somethin’ at the kid. Hey, I’ll help you blow up the video game company headquarters if you’d like — I’d love to see a million bratty guys go ballistic over some lost data or what not.”

   “Nah. Damien installed a backup server in Fiji without the company’s knowledge. The game will automatically divert to that system if there’s ever a major failure.”

   “That a fact? Kid takes his game seriously.”

   “That’s why it has to be a really good sandwich.”

   As Steve said this, stepping aside to let the last remaining duck still flying finally crash at his feet with a crisply burnt squawk, Gore and Dawn came from the tables. There, meals and drinks alike had been abandoned and Gore had helped himself to a discarded ham and mozzarella sandwich. It had olives on it as well, and some nice spinach that Gore had removed.

   “That the one?” Jack asked, pointing at Gore’s sandwich.

   “Slave to the light,” Gore said with his mouth full, “is this of your doing? I like it!”

   “Burney set the building on fire, Gore, not Jack,” Dawn said.

   “Too bad.”

   “Of course, that does mean we can stay at one of the rooms now that the fire department is evacuating people. We don’t have much time before they hose down this place, though, so we should claim a room quickly.”

   Burney screamed a question.

   “No, Burney, that wasn’t Jack’s intention for you to set the building on fire so we could get a free hotel room. You’re just very irresponsible,” Steve said.

   Burney hung his head in disappointment, and screamed in further disappointment as he fished the boiled duck from the fountain.

  “Good plan though,” Gore said, using his sandwich to point at Steve.

   “How’s the sandwich?” Jack asked.

   “It suffices for my needs. The only pulled pork sandwich of decency was the one we had to fight to achieve. Much like this, food gained through violence is all the more satisfying.”

   “You scavenged it off someone’s plate while the building was on fire,” Dawn pointed out.

   “Violence comes in many forms.”

   “You know, that’s a good point,” Steve said.

   “It is?” Dawn asked.

   “The best sandwich we ate was the one Gore threw out the door. It was a decent sandwich, good but not great. But imagine how worse it would have been if we’d just bought one without having to partially steal their grill?”

   “I agree!” Gore said, putting his sandwich on a nearby table so he could unsheathe his sword. “Let us pillage and plunder our way to sandwiches the likes of which shall never be known by mortal and—”

   “No-no, not that way,” Steve said, and grabbed Gore’s sandwich.

   “Hey!”

   “I’m thinking we need to think about this more cleverly.” Steve took a bite of Gore’s ham and mozzarella sandwich, grimacing at the taste. “See, this could be a great sandwich. You fought for it and earned it. So it has to taste better.”

   “I shall fight you for it. Will that make it taste better?”

   “No, because I’ll drop it in the fountain and it’d be all soggy. Plus I’m already doing this.”

   “Hey!” Gore nearly lashed out with his sword as Steve separated the two pieces of bread and dropped its contents on the singed carpet, right next to where a blackened duck lay smoldering.

   “You also need fresh ingredients,” Steve said and bent down to examine the charcoal-colored duck. He poked at it, grimaced at the heat, and with quick motions plucked the duck off the ground and placed it between his two slices of bread.

   “Are you going to eat that?” Dawn asked.

   Burney screamed with anger.

   “Shut up, Burney, he’s already dead,” Steve said and examined his freshly created, freshly burnt duck sandwich, picking away bits of fiber and the ashy remains of feathers from what looked to be a surprisingly thoroughly cooked filet.

   “She,” Steve corrected after further examination of the dead bird. Then, with one final sniff, Steve took a bite.

   “Well?” Jack asked as Steve chewed.

   “It’s a little crunchy.”

   Just then, the doors to the hotel burst opened and in ran a team of Memphis firefighters bearing a long water hose. Six men held the hose, the lead man with a plastic mask pulled down that muffled his voice when he shouted, “Don’t panic! We’re here to help!”

   Burney had half a moment to scream in confusion before the firefighters pulled the lever on the hose and unleashed a torrent of water square into his chest. The force of the water jetted Burney screaming across the room and into the far wall, where he continued to scream as the steaming water pinned him against what had once been a very picturesque oil painting of some hunting dogs.

   Steve and the others glanced at the stream of water holding their friend against the wall, then to the firefighters trying desperately to comprehend why the man they were spraying with several hundred gallons of water insisted on remaining on fire. Jack, however, was noticeably missing from the commotion.

   “This sandwich isn’t good enough,” Steve said, and tossed it to Gore. “Let’s get some sleep. We’re going hunting tomorrow.”

   Gore ate the crispy duck sandwich as he and Dawn ducked underneath the stream of water and joined Steve at the hotel’s immaculate staircase.

   “Night Burney. We’ll pick you up on our way out,” Steve called from the staircase.

   Burney screamed in water-logged acknowledgement from his steaming imprint against the wall.

   “What did you mean, hunting?” Dawn asked.