“You didn’t miss, you asshole!” screamed Ronaldo, clutching his left temple as blood spewed all over his hand. “You clucking cut off my ear!”
“Hood!”
Werthers looked down, seeing a small quivering ear laying in a pool of blood.
“Hamn, yew tew awtuh piyuk uhp thayt eyuh kwik owuh thayt awstrich gawna gawble it awl up!”
“I’m not going to gobble it up!” Werthers ejaculated, surprised at his own boldness.
“Thaht awstrich k’n speayuk!”
“Wormy…?” Ronaldo’s eyes bulged like he was being tightly squeezed by a large robotic claw.
“Werthenheldenshacklenfacklesbergenshtiener…?” asked ‘Herbert,’ looking genuinely confused.
“You know what this means,” growled Ronaldo, looking to the jockey while nodding at ‘Herbert.’ “He’s got to die.”
“Cluck this shit!” screamed the jockey, running through the stables, pushing over other jockeys and interruptiung a couple of makeout sessions and a couple of illict drug use sessions, dashing through a small door that apparated out of nowhere.
Ronaldo dashed after the jockey, and ‘Herbert’ followed. Werthers stood there, awkward and sweaty in his ostrich suit.
“Werthenwiller, what are you doing? Come on!” demanded ‘Herbert.’
Werthers huffed and sauntered after ‘Herbert,’ barely passing through the doorway as it slowly shrunk into nothingness.
Werthers blinked through his ill-fitted eyeholes, focusing hard to see through the darkness. They were in a candelit hallway. The jocket was almost at the end, near a door. Ronaldo was gaining on him. ‘Herbert,’ who had started out running faster than Ronaldo, was now almost crumpled on the ground.
“Ohhh my cock,” moaned ‘Herbert,’ falling on his knees, “It hurts! Oh cock it hurts! Oh cock, please! Cock, please help me!”
Ronaldo froze for a moment to gaze at the spectacle, then shook himself as he heard the jockey fiddling with a doorknob.
Suddenly, ‘Herbert’’s mouth opened wide as a manhole and a geyser of purple frosting rocketed out of it, coating every inch of the hallway in glazed hoodness, along with everyone inside.
“Ah shit haw am ah suhpoosed tuh openuh this thang with all yew doofisuses makin’ such a mess uh mah hallway?” cried the jockey, forcing his arms through the sheet of frosting.
“Brilliant twerk Wormy. I knew we could count on you!” applauded Ronaldo as he attempted to dig himself out of the icing, doing about as well as a child would on a greased seesaw.
“Wait a second!” ‘Herbert’ ejaculated. “Werthenwormenwerths, am I understanding this situation correctly? Are you with him or are you with me?”
Werthers froze, not even attempting to pry himself from the sweet smelling grasp of the thick purple icing. Then, he decided on his answer.
“Yes.”
“Oh thank hoodness Werthenstrummer thank hoodness. Now, ehrm—” ‘Herbert’ could only speak for fleeting moments as he had begun to stuff his face with the purple icing, “—eh, hood luck then—” chomp chomp “—my hood—” chomp “—piece of chupperware.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Werthers wasn’t sure what ‘Herbert’’s well wishes referred to, but he was happy for them as Ronaldo yanked him out of the icing and to attention with his leash and brashly lashed his ass.
“Tut tut!” Ronaldo brandished what was clearly his favorite weapon, the magic machete, and shot a couple miniature machetes that stuck in icing by ‘Hearld’’s sticky knees. “And don’t you think of following us, you miserable old louse,” he chuckled, lifting the smoking machete to his lips and blowing on it lightly. “Now then. Tut tut!”
“Weyah’s thuh awstrich?” demanded a flustered jockey in a bright pink blanket of an outfit as they leaned through the doorway.
Ronaldo leapt to stiff attention like a grasshopper. “That One is right here, hood sirrah!”
“Weyll bring it in heyuh, ‘sbout tahm faw duh race!”
Ronaldo leaned over to Werthers’ false neck and whispered something near unintelligible, as he miscalculated the location of Werthers’ ears by a hood half foot. All he could make out was ‘remember to be sure to,’ but what preceded or followed was lost forever.
Ronaldo led Werthers back to the stables and then passed his leash off to the pink jockey, who took him into a small pen that smelled like ostrich shit.
“Nawuh listen heyuah, That One. Yew ain’t thuh prett’yest of thuh awstriches, yuh ain’t thaw smahtust of thuh awstriches, and yoof ain’t daw beyst smellun of thawuh awstriches. Luckilah fah mah, ah’m naht yahwr jawkeh. Mah awstrich is thawh prett’yest an’ thow smowtust and thawuh beyust smellun awstrich ah’ve evah hayud grayce mah nahstrahls, and ah’ve smeylled ah lahwt ‘f ‘em awstriches.
“See mah awstrich ’s cahwld Seyahd Briscaht. ’s gahnah be thah biyg winnah. Peyuhpul gawnah mahkit biyug awf Seyahd Bricaht. Ain’t ahnehwuhn gahnah mahkit biyug awffu yuoh. Mahks meyuh glahud ah’m naht the poowuh suhckah stuck rahdin’ yuh.”
A woman’s brash voice cut through the jockey’s soothing drawl. “Attention, Jockey Number 69. Number 69?”
“Uh oh,” mumbled the jockey to Werthers, “Thahyts meyuh.”
A short, tightly uniformed woman blurted into the pen. “Number 69?” she posited, looking at the large black ’69’ on the back of Jockey Number 69’s billowing shirt.
“’s meyuh, miyuhssiruhrawuh.”
“Thank you for your forthrightness. Number 69, it has come to my attention that Number 420 has disappeared. As you know, the races are starting soon.”
“Yeyus ah’ve huhd. Ah just wan’ tuh s’ muh awstrich ahwlreday.”
“Well Number 69 that’s the other thing I needed to talk to you about. As you do not know, Seared Briscuit has reportedly died by way of piano.”
“Nawuh! Sayuh iyuht ain’t sowuh!”
“It is so, sirrah.”
Jockey Number 69 burst into voracious sobbing, squeezing Werther’s false rubber neck tightly and pelting his suit with tears and mucus.
Number 69 looked up from his sobbing. “Hamn, yowuh gawht ah flimsay neyuhk, awstrich.”
“Now, it’s not all bad news. Seeing as Number 420 has gone missing and the race is drawing quite near, we have decided that we can move forward with you as That One’s jockey.”
“Muthuhcluckahn hen! Nahw thyuhs is sahm shit! Ah tell yewuh!” Number 69 sat in the shitty mush and slapped his forehead. “Thius is ahll cluhckuhd uhp!”
Werthers found himself quite peeved by all the direct and indirect ridicule being passed around as if he weren’t right there listening. Even if he was a man in an ostrich suit, he didn’t enjoy being regarded as the worst ostrich.
The small woman scuttled out of the pen. Number 69 turned to look at Werthers.
“Weyuhll,” sighed Number 69, resting his hands in some piles of shit and then jerking away in disgrosst, “Ah wahs exahgerahtin realluyh, y’ ain’ thuh wuhst awstrich ah’ve evah seeyun ah anythahn. Jus’ a liyuhl wonkuh ’s awuhll. Jus’ a liyuhl wonkuhyuh, buht ah’m thuh best jawkeh thyus sahd of Cahldonyah. Ahnd thuh othuh sahd of Cahldonyah too, ah don’t cayuh waht anybodah says. We’re gawnuh wiyun, jus yuh seeyuh.”
“LOOKS LIKE ALL JOCKEYS TO THE RACE TRACK, I REPEAT IT LOOKS LIKE ALL JOCKEYS TO THE RACE TRACK,” bellowed the grating voice of an obnoxious mouth warlock that had at some point recently wormed its way into the stable. “LOOKS LIKE I HAVE BEEN REQUESTED TO REPEAT MY PREVIOUS MESSAGE, WHICH WAS, LOOKS LIKE ALL JOCKEYS TO THE RACE TRACK. CHOP CHOP NOW, CHUPPIES.”
Number 69 took Werthers out to the race track, talking trash all the while about all the other jockeys, essentially giving Werthers a long verbal list of who did what drugs and where they got them from, who was clucking who, who wanted to cluck who, who didn’t want to cluck who, who wanted to cluck who while doing drugs, who wanted to cluck who without doing drugs, who wanted to cluck who to get access to drugs, and who wanted to cluck who to then blackmail them for their supposed use, non-use, lack of access or wealth of access to drugs.
Having successfully become a spiritual member of the jockey social social order, Werthers stood, bow legged, looking at the race track. It was a rich brick red and ran in a large circle across the entire giant field, where audience members sat in bleachers to observe at all angles. Of course they would not run the entire track, it was mainly there for show. There was about a strip the length of thirty sausage links marked at each end by thick white paint (which he now stood in front of) that would serve as the race track.
The other ostriches looked far ostrichier than Werthers. Theire feathers were not falling out. They were taller, svelter, and their legs were thinner. Werthers felt the ostriches were looking upon him as inferior, the white goat of the flock. Shame clenched him tightly. Oh, it wasn ’t shame, it was actually the saddle that Number 69 was tightening on his back that was clenching him tight. And then the wait of Number 69 clenching him tight, and then Number 69’s legs clenching him tight. Shame never had a chance.
“LOOKS LIKE THE RACE IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!” ejaculated the mouth warlock. “LOOKS LIKE NOT EVERYBODY IN THE AUDIENCE IS PAYING ATTENTION. GET A CLUE, DOOFI!”
Werthers wondered if the plural of ‘doofus’ was ‘doofuses’ or ‘doofi’ as the audience resettled their focus on the track.
“LOOKS LIKE IT’S IN THREE. LOOKS LIKE IT’S IN TWO. LOOKS LIKE IT’S IN ONE.”
The short woman raised a miniature magic machete in the air and fired it.
FFFFFTTTTSH
The ostriches ran forward.
“LOOKS LIKE THEY’RE OFF!”