The suns hung in the sky, heating the air of the Ainthadnothin’toeat district into a tepid soup. Two imposing figures wrapped head to toe in cloaks that could by no means be comfortable considering the weather slowly trudged up to the doors of the Country Crawdad Crossbar. A large magically animatronic crawdad beside the door to the crossbar jiggled to life and waggled its eyebrows.

“Hay y’all! Pleayuhsure tah hauhve yah heyur ayt thuh Country Crawuhdayd Crossbah! Ah’m Cahrl the Crahwdayud, ayund ah am juwst so peacheh keen tuh hayuve yuh heyur todahy, that—”

A large human eating eight legged bear wolf claw shot out from the bigger figure’s cloak and squeezed Carl the Crawdad like he was a large grape.

“Hey nahwuh, thayt reallay hurts, thayut’s nowt how yew shewd treyut a fwiend, pulease stawp, pulease, oh cawk pulease stawp I don’t wawna dahy! Pulease, puleeeeease, PULEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!” the light drained from Carl the Crawdad’s mechanical eyes as gears and springs shout out of his rust encased body.

The claw released the crumpled crawdad. The figures nodded to eachother and walked towards the door. They heard a brash oinking coming from inside as they lifted their legs in unison and kicked it open.

“Well hello, offic—wait a second!” the barkeep paused. “Why was Oinkers oinking at you two? You’re not dressed like Gourd members.”

“I used to be one,” growled the brutish vocal chords of Dorma. “But I was…decomissioned.”

“Okay. Can I let everyone else back into the bar then? We kind of have a policy in place for Gourd visits. Surely you understand.”

“It would be better to keep this between the three of us,” added the unsure yet excited voice of Thurmsabold.

“Shut the cluck up you! I’m the one in charge here!” spat Dorma, smacking Thurmsabold on the back of his hooded head.

“Ouchies!” he sobbed.

“But yes,” Dorma confirmed, “It would be best to keep this between the three of us. Have you perchance been visited by a member of the Royal Guard that seems…not quite entirely aware of anything? Almost…queer? But not in the sexual way, not that there’s anything wrong with that, especially considering my own sexual preferences, which are none of your business?” Dorma paused, reconsidering. “Though..she does also draws everyone she meets naked in her notebook. So, maybe she is queer in the sexual way. I’m not really sure and honestly it’s probably not relevant but I got stuck on it and here we are.”

“Yes…I think I know who you’re talking about.”

“We’re looking for her. Official—er, sorry, force of habit—unofficially. She’s suspected of being…eh…um…”

“A skyrate, that’s what we agreed on,” offered Thurmsabold.

“Don’t talk over me you crumpet!” Dorma smacked him again in the back of the head. “But, yes, she’s suspected of being a skyrate.”

“Oh really now? She and that fellow she was with, her partner I think, said they were looking for skyrates. And witches.”

“That fellow? Her partner?” Dorma balked, then looked away and muttered to herself. “Clucking Pamela. Tries to kill me then replace me all in a day.” Dorma cleared her throat and turned to the barkeep. “Tell me about this partner of hers.”

“Well, he looked…I don’t know…salty? Had an eye patch.”

Dorma twitched, remembering her own lost eye.

“And a peg leg.”

Dorma twitched again, remembering her own lost legs.

“And he had a pet parrot dragon.”

Dorma twitched a third time, remembering the parrot dragon she had had for a couple of months as a young girl before it succumed to parrot dragon sickness, which was really just a code phrase for her parents broke its neck because it annoyed them.

Dorma grasped the barkeep’s shirt with a claw and pulled him in close enough to see her terrifying face. “Tell me his name.”

The barkeep’s eyes grew wide a pale. “I-I-I d-don’t know! I think it was something like Purple George!”

“Purple George,” Dorma pushed the barkeep away, sending him sailing into the bar, toppling over a few glasses. “Purple George. Purple. George. Now then, what kind of a person has a color in their name?”

The barkeep and Thurmsabold stayed silent, scaredly assuming it was a hypothetical question.

“Well? Seriously, people, I have no idea. I mean come on who does that!”

“May I suggest,” offered Thurmsabold, “that it could’ve been a skyrate?”

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“A skyrate!” she exclaimed, cackling. “Of course!”

“Now, wait a second. He didn’t really look anything like a skyrate,” interjected the barkeep.

Dorma held up a furry finger to the barkeep’s lips. “That’s enough. I didn’t ask for your hamned opinion.”

“Well, to be fair, Dorma, you kind of of did..” murmured Thurmsabold, shuddering as he realized he’d said it out loud.

“What cluck did you just clucking say?” Dorma smacked Thurmsabold again, this time in the chest, crumpling him to the floor with a whine. “Now he knows my name! I’ll either have to kill him or make him join us!”

“Pl-please don’t kill me!” wimpered the barkeep.

“Hmm,” Dorma paced around the bar, thinking to herself. “Tell me, barkeep, do you have any…grudges?”

“Not really. I consider myself a very mentally healthy person.”

“Let me ask that again,” Dorma grumbled, flashing her claws out for dramatic effect within an inch of the barkeep’s nose. “Do you have any grudges?”

“Well…there were these two folks who came in here. Funny characters with a big sack of money. They came in as men, but left as women. And not but an hour after they left, all the money they’d paid me had turned into mud. Filthy magic users. I’m pretty sour on them, and if I saw them again I’d quite like to slap them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like some sort of a folk story or something” Dorma turned to Thurmsabold. “What do you think? Have you ever heard of a folk story that sounded like that?”

“Can’t say I have,” Thurmsabold whimpered, flinching instinctively as Dorma raised a fist.

“Fine then. I guess these…gender bending magicians will be on our hit list, as it were. Oh Thurmsabold, that reminds me. Who were you looking for again?”

“They call him Sir Broderick the Shitfaced. He’s always drunk but that’s, heh, unrelated to the nickname. He’s got a thicc black goatee and wears the sorriest set of ‘armor’ I’ve ever seen. A saucepan on his head.”

“Saucepan on his head you say?” the barkeep lit up. “That’s one of the guys that swindled me! Before he turned into a woman he had a goatee and a saucepan on his head!”

“The muddy bass turd,” spat Thurmsabold.

“But the hood news is,” added the barkeep, “I’m pretty sure I know where to find them.”

“Excellent,” chuckled Dorma, “Excellent. Don’t either of you worry. We’ll make sure these scoundrels get what’s coming to them.”

Thurmsabold turned to the barkeep. “Eh, speaking of getting things that are coming…you, eh…you aren’t lonely, are you? I mean…if you wanted to visit an outhouse or something…I kind of have a thing for bar—”

“Keep it in your pants you clucking ferret!” Dorma whacked Thurmsabold in the back of the head.

***

“Green Garey, let up a little on your side! You’re twisting that bit of the comb like it’s a giant wooden wheel!” cried Pamela as their god was nearly pecked in the neck by its younger opponent.

“Yaarg! MAYE arrpologies, Parrmela. Can’t think what got into me,” Green Garey’s eye grew wide as the enemy god pecked its gargantuan beak up near him, seemingly aimed at his pet parrot dragon of all things. He grabbed the tiny bird as it cried out for a cracker and flattened himself like a soggy waffle. “Hit the deck!”

The young god’s thrash forward opened it up to the older god’s prepared talons, which raked down its chest and pushed it back, nearly knocking it prone as its wings flapped with violent frustration.

“Hamn it!” Pamela swore, surprising even herself. “Sorry Green Garey, my armor is chaffing like nobody’s business right now.”

From the corner of the arena wall right behind the wobbling young god, something gurgled.

FSSSSHHHHH

Surfing a spray of shit were none other than Biscuit Pisser, Broderica, and Lady Krumbumbum. Biscuit Pisser bounced atop the god’s comb, then fell face first atop its beak, sliding down it and dangling like a hairy booger. Lady Krumbumbum landed in an opportune spot right behind the crown but promptly lost her balance and tumbled down its back, grasping at the end of its saddle while twirling around like a windmill. Broderica’s top heaviness was far from a detriment in this case as her boobs acted almost as airbags, allowing her to land behind the comb where Krumbumbum had initially, except this time she stayed put.

“Those women look familiar,” muttered Pamela as she watched the three swear at eachother as the weakened god swung around like an oak tree in a hurricane. She held on to the god’s comb with one hand and flipped through her expertly balanced notebook with her other, finally finding multiple detailed nudes of both Broderica and Lady Krumbumbum.

For a moment, Pamela wondered if she’d gotten their nipples right. It was always difficult for her to ascertain valid nipple shapeage. Then, her insecurities washed away as her memories of their meeting washed over her brain like a warm glass of milk being poured over her head.

“I wonder if they’ve seen any skyrates,” pondered Pamela.

“Or witches,” added Green Garey.

“Skyrate!” cried Biscuit Pisser, hoisting himself upon the tip of the young god’s beak. “A clucking skyrate!”

“Skyrate? Where?! I’ll clucking kill them!” Broderica shrieked.

“Someone please help me,” sobbed Krumbumbum, weakly flailing and failing to gain any footing.

“Where’s the clucking skyrate Biscuit Pisser where is it?”

“Look look look with your eyes you fat tittied dummy!” Biscuit Pisser spat, nearly stumbling off the slick beak of the god to his doom. Backing up against the god’s nostril, and almost getting inhaled, he pointed a shaky finger at Green Garey. “Right there! That’s the most skyratiest looking clucker I’ve ever seen!”

“What? Seriously, Biscuit Pisser? Him?! He’s not a skyrate! He’s with the Royal Gourd! He’s a pig!” Broderica shouted incredulously.

“Oh cluck off Shitface he is too a skyrate he is too! Look at him he’s got a peg leg and an eye patch and a tricorner hat and a clucking parrot dragon do you see that shit Shitface he’s got a clucking parrot friend and you tell me he’s not a clucking skyrate I mean hamn woman are you blind?”

Broderica squinted harshly at Green Garey. “I really don’t see what you’re talking about, Biscuit Pisser. Have you ever seen a skyrate before?”

“Yes clucking of course I have I used to sell them bootlegs of godfights here all the clucking time! Why do you think they threw me in the pit?”

“Maybe because you’re annoying!” screamed Lady Krumbumbum as she accidentally flashed them trying to regain her grip on the tailfeathers.

Biscuit Pisser wiped sweat from his brow as he nearly dodged a choice inhale from the god’s humongous nostril. “Oh my cock I wish I had some bleach to pour in my eyes right now because that whew that was a clucking sight right there that right there was a clucking sight.”

Their argument was stifled as the young god reared its head back and screeched.

GOD-A-DOODLE-DOO

“Cluck my ears!”

It charged at the older god, and before long the two were thrashing at eachother like feathery serpents with a bad case of roid rage.