The chef set down his cleaver and picked up the long dirk he used for sticking pigs. Let him see how much he likes this. Pig sticker in hand, the chefopened the cage door. However, in the instant between the cage door opening and the chef lowering his free hand to seize his target, the duck transformed from a placid, docile creature into one of flapping, hissing, buzzing, kicking, biting, incredible fury as it flew out of the cage and assaulted the chef’s face with such fury that he lost his balance and fell backward onto his arse.
“Gar du vitt du borrse!”
As the back of his head struck the wood floor, stars blurred the chef’s vision. Blinking once hard, his sight returned just in time for him to spot the pig sticker flipping end over end as it descended straight toward his eyeball. With a jerk, he turned his head to the side just in time to avoid the dirk as it buried itself in the wood and then sat quivering beside his head.
Her cursed himself for a fool and then cautiously, he sat up. As he carefully plucked the dirk out of the floor, he looked left and right for the duck. Where did the silly beast go? His eyes narrowed as he searched the shelves and walls. Then, a furious flapping passed over his head as a pair of webbed feet snatched his hat straight off his head.
“Quaaaaaackquackquackquackquack!”
He lurched after his feathered assailant, but was too slow. The duck, hat in tow, flew across the room and landed on a barrel in the corner. The chef glared just as the duck did the same.
The chef cried, “Du ar inne pa det nu din javel!” as he grabbed the cleaver off the table and hurled it at his foe. But the duck was too quick. Releasing the hat, the waterfowl launched from the barrel a half second before the blade hit. The cleaver struck the barrel and with a mighty crack, the casing broke and pig innards spilled onto the kitchen floor.
“Du kommer at betala for det,” the chef growled as he dropped the dirk and grabbed his tenderizing mallet.
It was a melee then. The chef’s first swing went high as the duck dove off a shelf and landed on the floor and ran between his feet. Spinning, the chef brought a mighty blow down at the duck’s neck but the bird was too quick again as it took off, flew around the mallet, and landed a pecking blow at his head. With a jump, the chef tried to strike the bird out of the air, but this time the duck flew through a set of pans hanging from the ceiling and they fell, clattering on the chef’s head.
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“Vatt du beet da stooten gah been da hagh!”
The duck was now roosted along the fruit shelves, right between the apples and the pears. The chef glowered at his foe. He needed those for breakfast. The duck, sensing his frustration, waddled across a bag of oranges as it warbled an insult.
“Lich de himmdeschasuer,” the chef growled. “Batt ish dunn de metter.”
He retrieved the dirk from the table and cautiously approached. The duck waddled across the shelf to peck at the grapes.
“Shiesse schweinehunde.”
He approached briskly, stepping up to the shelf as he stabbed at the duck with the dirk, but again the bird was too quick, jumping over the grapes and into the air, the duck flew over the chef’s head and pecked again at his hair, this time taking a tuft of red in his beak.
Injured and furious, the chef whirled and swung wildly as the duck circled his head, pecking at his hair. Feathers, mallet, dirk, and hair flew everywhere as the two combatants engaged in desperate combat. Then, somewhere in the melee, bleeding from his scalp and dizzy from fighting, the chef lost track of where he was. With a clang, his mallet struck a pot of grease off of the table and sent it flying into the fire where it ignited with a whoosh.
Flames spilled out from the fireplace as the duck flew a circle around the chef. Enraged, the chef again flailed the mallet at his feathered foe. Soon, jars were knocked off the wall, a window was cracked, and the pantry had been knocked on its side. Then, amazingly, the chef saw his chance as the duck collided with a pan hanging from the ceiling and had to land on a rafter. Leaping, the chef swung with all of his might.
This, it turned out, was the chance the duck had been waiting for.
Just as the mallet was about to take the duck’s head straight off, the bird ducked and rolled off the rafter and instead the chef struck the cord holding spare anvil he kept hanging from the ceiling and it fell on his head. Stars and lights decorated his vision as he fell to the ground.
“Gitt ver bishnash,” the chef moaned.
As the chef slowly regained consciousness, he looked up to see the duck standing on his belly. The white bird tilted its head and with a quack and a warble took off again for the rafters.
With a groan, the chef picked himself back up onto his feet. It was then he noticed that somehow the back door had been knocked ajar. Stumbling, the chef hurried to the doorway and placed himself directly between the duck and his escape. However, just as the duck took off for the door, a sack of flower fell from the rafters and hit the chef square in the face. Coughing, cursing, the chef staggered out into the early morning air. Behind him, he could hear the duck’s wings flapping. Wiping the flour from his eyes, he readied his mallet. He had it this time. The duck was dead to rights. However, a second before the duck was in range of his mallet, the chef was struck unconscious by an unwitting and awkward wizard who had just fallen off the castle wall.