Through the crowded streets Sir Broderick the Shitfaced and Biscuit Pisser fled, straining both their necks through the fervor with which they would quickly look behind them to see the tank of a Royal Gourdian still barreling through people as if they were unpacked boxes.

They were approaching the middle-poor to upper-poor divide, which was a semitranslucent force field that once crossed would cover them both in a light layer of mud, helping signify their beneathness to those on the other side. As disfartening as that was to consider, this side of the divide housed a humongous bazaar known as the Impractical Agora that was only kind of an enormous ripoff. It was absolutely teeming with knicks and knacks and slimy merchants and dry merchants and regularly dampened merchants of all shapes and sizes that could easily serve to obscure the two fugitives from the frighteningly long and enviously well-toned arm of the law.

As they scurried through the barrier it felt as if a thin layer of mucus coated cellophane wrapped around their personages, leaving both Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser feeling quite violated and standing in a stupor. After this subsided they noticed about twice as much mud coating their bodies as normal, which was disappointing, but once again they had known what they were getting into crossing that barrier. Fortunately, it looked like some malignant, chain-smoking blob person back on the other side of the divide had accidentally elbowed the Royal Gourd lady in the face and was arguing with her about whether they were being detained or not. Even though the said lady in authority did not seem interested in detaining them, seeming to if anything feel detained herself.

Thrilled, Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser directed smug waves in her direction as the blob person shoved their long, blobby appendages into handcuffs and demaded that they not be arrested and that the Royal Gourd was a scam and a disgrace.

“Why, hood fellows, are you jeering at Dorma the Emasculator in such a way, hmmm?” warbled the kooky voice of someone standing next to them. With a jump, Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser turned around to see a foggy eyed older man dressed incredibly neatly, almost like a cookiecutter businessman.

“D-Dorma the Emasculator?” Sir Broderick coughed up a little bit a liquor as the lady’s full title tumbled from his quivering lips.

“Yes, that’s Dorma the Emasculator back there accosting that poor disgruntled blob person. Why were you egging her on so?”

Biscuit Pisser waved his hands dismissively, “Oh, well, we weren’t really—”

“The last thing I’d think anybody would want is Dorma the Emasculator chasing them. I’d sooner have the great golden goose above angry with me than Dorma the Emasculator, as the golden goose is not only forgiving but forgetful as well, on the account of being a goose. Whereas Dorma the Emasculator never forgets. Or forgives. The great iron elephant of Caldonia, they call her.”

This last bit, while also terrifying, confirmed Sir Broderick and by the look of it Biscuit Pisser’s assumption as well. This fellow was a Quacker, a member of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck, and Goose.

“I think this fellow might be a Quacker, Shitface. You know, a member of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose,” Biscuit Pisser whispered to Sir Broderick.

“What?”

“I said I think this fellow might be a Quacker, Shitface. You know, a member of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose!” Biscuit Pisser whispered again, inching closer to Sir Broderick’s ear.

“Cock hamnit man what are you saying?”

“I said that I said that I think this fellow might be a Quacker, Shitface. You know, a member of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck and Goose!!”

“Well yes, of course he’s a clucking Quacker!!” Sir Broderick did a double take when he saw that the fellow was still standing there and apparently had not blinked, “Not, ehrm, not to mean any offense, of course.”

“Oh, none taken, though I do find myself wondering what all you’ve heard about our ways. A life of debasement and depravity isn’t all it’s quacked up to be, and can often leave one wanting.”

“Debasement and depravity?” mumbled Sir Broderick through a constant stream of flask liquor, tossing it astray after noticing the Quacker glaring at the flask as if it were a puppy’s disembodied head.

“Yes. Or as we Quackers like to call them, the Big Double Ds. Until you get those Big Double Ds of yours under control, my nephew, you will always feel the sting of lack, and possibly pain of the back.”

“I don’t have Big Double Ds!”

“Denial. Seems you’ve got another Big D antagonizing you, my nephew.”

“Stop calling me your nephew!”

“Now, Shitface,” Biscuit Pisser interrupted, “They call everybody their nephew.”

“Why yes indeed, hood sirrah,” the Quacker smiled, “Do you know why?”

“Because you’re assholes?”

Sir Broderick’s right eyelid twitched at the word ‘assholes,’ concern for his donkey flushing through the toilet of his mind.

“No! Because we are your spiritual uncles. Just as the golden goose is my spiritual uncle.”

“Well then,” Sir Broderick had resumed sipping from his flask, “Who’s the golden goose’s uncle? One of those?”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

He pointed up into the air, where a giant chicken was flying through the clouds and breathing spouts of flame at nothing in particular.

“Heretic! How ducking dare you!” shuddered the Quacker.

“I think you mean how clucking dare you.”

“Great goose! Followers of the chickens, you two must be!”

Actually the religion of the chickens was much more popular due to being far older, having an incredibly large number of past atrocities centered around said religion, and the fact that the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck, and Goose had apparated fairly recently after a parallel dimension collided with Caldonia thanks to an egregiously careless wizard. All of these factors made the many chicken-based colloquialisms of Caldonia much more normal than any slang centered around geese and quacking, and that is precisely why Sir Broderick said ‘cluck’ instead of ‘duck.’

Sir Broderick was ready to explain all of this in great detail but was cut short by a sudden and extreme burning sensation emanating from his loins. Indeed, it was as if someone had stuffed the chainmail covering his crotch with knives covered in hot sauce, and Sir Broderick did not hold back in expressing that outwardly, letting back such a brash string of profanity that—

“HOLY CLUCKING COCK I MEAN CLUCK WHAT IN THE HEN IS THIS SHIT OH MY COCK MY COCK OH MY COCK MY GOD HURTS SO MUCH OH COCK WHY WHYYY CLUCKING SHIT MOTHERCLUCKING SHIT CLUCKING HEN OH CLUCK PLEASE COCK NO MY GOD HURTS SO CLUCKING MUCH!”

His hands shaking Sir Broderick pulled at his discount chainmail, fighting to squeeze out of it to no avail but finding some sort of terrifying lump as it crept up his back and now over his chest and suddenly something dark, stinky and furry had slid out of his chainmail’s face hole and leapt at the Quacker’s face.

“Holy shit!” Biscuit Pisser smiled, “It’s Trash Heap!”

“Begone demon, foul spirit or apparition!” warbled the Quacker as Trash Heap clawed into his face.

“I’m so glad I didn’t burn Trash Heap down in that house fire,” sighed Sir Broderick with relief, “I was actually feeling quite guilty about that.”

“Aaaarrgh!” with a fartpounding scream the Quacker fell backward, lying in the slightly more upper class mud, mumbling about demons and ducks while paralyzed in shock. Trash Heap pounced off his face and plopped into Sir Broderick’s saucepan headdress.

“Um, Shitface, did you just say you’re so glad you didn’t burn Trash Heap?”

“Yes?”

“See, well, that implies that, had Trash Heap died in that house fire, I mean, that implies that you would’ve been to blame.”

“And??”

“Shitface, did you burn down the housing development?”

Sir Broderick stopped sipping his current flask and strapped it back to the inside of his right thigh, “I mean. I’m not sure. If I did it wasn’t intentional.”

“If you did?”

“Well there’s no way for me to know for sure if it was me that burnt it down or not Biscuit Pisser now is there? I mean it’s all already burnt down isn’t it?”

“Shitface if you don’t tell me right now then I’m going to clucking leave.”

Sir Broderick stood there, saying nothing.

“Shitface I’m serious. If you don’t tell me then you can go take Trash Heap to the Caldonian Kennel Club Exclusive Wine and Dining Hall by yourself.”

Sir Broderick did not respond.

“Fine, I see how it is. You know, not saying anything just makes it more obvious that you did it, Shitface.”

Sir Broderick’s left eyelid twitched a little.

“Alright I’m going…you, you big dumb…stupid…idiot!” Biscuit Pisser turned around and stormed off towards the force field, stopping right before it to turn back and whine at Sir Broderick some more. “You know, Shitface, I don’t really care if you did it. I just want you to admit it. Admit you burned the apartments down.”

Sir Broderick almost said something, so he started drinking.

“Okay then. You chose this, Shitface. Remember that. You chose to abandon your friend.”

“Pfft. Friend,” snorted Sir Broderick. Unfortunately or not this slight utterance brought Biscuit Pisser back to his side as if he were magnetized.

“So you did do it?”

“Ugh. Biscuit Pisser, I can’t really say. Do I think I might have left a cookie wrapper on the stove and I might have bumped into one of the magickal burner buttons and maybe it was already smoking a little when we left the apartment? Who can say.”

“I clucking knew it.”

Sir Broderick started walking with Biscuit Pisser up to some of the tents of the Impractical Agora only for his friend to stop and look back at the force field.

“Say, Shitface, when I was over there I looked for that Dorma lady. She’s gone. We could probably go on home. You know, where we belong.”

“Biscuit Pisser, I am clucking disgusted,” Sir Broderick spat liquor into the air for effect, “I mean, I am absolutely revolted by the idea that you would consider us going back there when the CKCEWDH lies waiting for us. There is only one way for us, my hood chup, and that way is forward!”

“But it’s dangerous and I’m not sure Trash Heap is enough. Don’t you just want to relax and—”

“There are so many things I want, Biscuit Pisser. So many, many things. So many things that were I to focus on any of them I might as well chop all my limbs off and feed them to a sloth.”

“A sloth, Shitface?”

“I can hardly believe you’d ever consider giving up now when we’re closer than we’ve ever been to success. Why we’ve only got to get Trash Heap a leash, and what’s more, I know a guy here in upper-poor Caldonia who’s an excellent forger.”

“Why does it matter that you know a forger?”

Sir Broderick cackled madly, almost knocking Trash Heap off his head in the process, “Oh, sweet, simple Biscuit Pisser. Why do we need a forger? Hah! Here, have a drink. You’ll need it.”

Biscuit Pisser took a farty swig from Sir Broderick’s flask and they walked through the tall, wide, thicc, gurthy curtain of beads that marked the dim, incense reeking aura of the Impractical Agora.