“Oh my clucking cock,” groaned Broderica, “We’re never going to catch those clucking skyrates thanks to this cock hamned mother clucking chicken.”
The chicken they rode atop had all but came to a hovering halt in the air. Its eyes had become glazed over, giving it all the appearance of a halfwit sardine floating in the pielight air.
“Stop hitting it Broderica,” fussed Krumbumbum, “You’re going to make it cross.”
Biscuit Pisser leaned over either side of the chicken’s head, looking into its eyes. “I think it’s already cross.”
“That’s not what I meant you dumba—you dumb—idiothead.”
“I’m not an idiothead.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m—”
“Will you two shut the cluck up?! I’m trying to figure out why our chicken is stalling and you’re making it really difficult,” Broderica fished around her pockets, eventually finidng a small bottle of vodka that she promptly chugged and then tossed off the chicken. She then started knocking on different sections of the chicken’s skull and pressing an ear to its skin. “Hmmm. Maybe it’s just constipated. Krumbumbum? Do you have any chicken laxative spells?”
“Broderica what in the clucking hen is a chicken laxative spell?”
“I don’t know you’re the clucking wizard you tell me!”
TKSSSSHHH TKSSSSHHHHH
Two strokes of purple ball lightning rumbled through clouds overhead, causing all three women to jump and scream.
“Feathery cluck!” Biscuit Pisser ejaculated as she tumbled off the side of the chicken, clutching quickly onto its feathers and swaying in the wind. “Feathery cluck feathery cluck feathery clucking cluck I’m gonna clucking die I’m gonna clucking die! I’m gonna fall to the ground and splat I’m gonna splat like a watermelon and then I’ll clucking die!”
“Oh come now Biscuit Pisser,” chortled Krumbumbum, “You’ll die of a fart attack and asphyxiation long before you splat like a watermelon you’ll already be a husk by then. So don’t even sweat it.”
“Don’t even sweat it? Don’t even sweat dying? I’ve been locked in a sceptic tank for years you think I’m ready to clucking die? Hen to the no, chuppy! Hen to the no!”
Broderica peered over the side of the chicken to see a skyrate ship underneath them.
“Well feathery cluck. Biscuit Pisser why don’t you look down.”
“Look down? Why the cluck would I look down Shitface do you want me to piss myself or something?!”
Krumbumbum leaned over her side of the chicken and looked down. She immediately turned her head to lock her shocked eyes ith Broderica’s. “No no no. Seriously Biscuit Pisser. You should look down.”
“You two bass turds just want me to clucking fall to my death and doom!”
Broderica snorted. “Biscuit Pisser if either of us truly wanted that we’d just kick you off the chicken.”
“Well then why don’t you stop laughing at me and help me up?”
Broderica and Krumbumbum looked at eachother.
“My boobs are really hurting my back though,” sighed Broderica. “Wouldn’t want to make it worse by trying to pull you up or anything Biscuit Pisser.
“And my top might fall off.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Hah hah hah hah you two are just too funny too clucking funny I say cock hammit too clucking funny!” Caught up in the moment, Biscuit Pisser let go of the chicken’s feathers to put her hands on her hips to mock her companions only to immediately plummet downward. “Oh feathery cluuuuuck!”
“Clucking dumbass,” snorted Broderica.
Biscuit Pisser watched her vision blur into nothing and felt the wind wirr past her ears. It felt as if her fart was clawing up her esophagus. But actually it was just barf, which she spewed all over herself right before—
PPPPPPPPFFFFF
—faceplanting on a rather comfortable mattress? Even soaked in Biscuit Pisser’s own barf, this mattress was certainly heavenly. Or had the barf disappeared? Yes, the mattress had already absorbed all of the barf. It must’ve been an antimemory foam mattress, that most coveted of sleepwear that through the power of magic never held any foreign liquids within, instead absorbing them and purifying the air with the refreshing scent of sandalwood.
Biscuit Pisser was shaken awake by the brash prodding of a long splintery pole.
“‘ey ‘ere! ‘ey ye ‘ere! Wot’s ye doin’ onnuh mattress pail? Ye’re gonna sozzle it all up ye mangey bilge wench!”
She forced her head up to see a disgruntled, skryatey looking figure with a bandana tied up over their bald head.
“Excrete me? What’d you just call me?”
“‘ey ‘ey naow! Dun git ‘ystercal naow ye ol’ pair uh pannyhose! Wot’d ye fink aye wos callin’ ye?”
“That’s not answering the question you clucking moron!” screeched Biscuit Pisser as she grabbed a pillow from the mattress and chucked it at the skyrate, pelting him in the face.
“Aow! Cluck me!” the skyrate nearly fell over, then began clutching his face. “‘ey naow…’ey…ye wodn’t know wot wos thuh threed count awn that there pillow wod ye?”
Biscuit Pisser balked, then picked up another pillow to look at its tag. “Five hundred threads it says.”
“Faive hunned? Faive hunned threeds?! Cluck!” The skyrate blubbered, itching his face as it quickly reddened and broke out in pus filled hives. “Aye can’t use less ’n a thousand threeds! Aye’ve sen’stve skeen!”
“What in the cluck are you even talking about?” Biscuit Pisser puzzled with a yawn. She leaned over the the side of the mattress to look at the goon, only to see a bubbling mess of fizz like that of a giant salted snail and an empty skyrate outfit laying on the deck.
Biscuit Pisser chuckled, muttered something unintelligible to herself, and slumped back down on the mattress, drifting off into peaceful slumber.
Soon enough she was dreaming. She was a he again, a he with an even better goatee than he had now as a she. It was a long while ago, back when he had three motels. Biscuit Pisser stared at the motels, their flashing neon signs in the shapes of half-naked ladies gyrating over eachother, their late night openings, all of the cash laying everywhere covered in strange liquids, all of the gorey magic machete fights outsid back and the occasional spatters of blood…Biscuit Pisser was realizing they may have not been motels after all.
“Wake up, vitch!” screamed the harsh, flat-chested voice of Krumbumbum, who now stood in front of Biscuit Pisser and cackled as all of the ‘motels’ turned to liquid before his eyes, he once again became a she, and a twenty foot long timeshare bill wrapped around her neck like a constrictor.
“Wh-what?!” Biscuit Pisser grumbled, once again awakening, this time in a hot sweat that was immediately soaking into the mattress and off her skin. The calming scent of sandalwood eased her heightened nerves.
“I said wake up, vitch!” Krumbumbum screeched like a castrated god.
Biscuit Pisser looked up to see Krumbumbum and Broderica magically air humping themselves down from the chicken’s head. The chicken had apparently landed itself right beside the stack of mattresses Biscuit Pisser was splayed upon.
“You two digrosst me,” spat Biscuit Pisser as she vehemetly picked her nose.
“Avast ye!” bellowed a skyratey voice. “Avast ye marauders! Step away from yer feathery bird and preparrrghe to walk the skank!”
A chorus of unseen skyrates applauded, jeered and cheered, repeating ‘walk the skank’ over and over again enthusiastically.
The leading voice clump clump clumped forward. It was an old, potbellied mad. He had a long grey beard and long grey eyebrows, both of which could be seen because he wore his dual wielded eyepatches very low on the eye. Both of his legs were pegs. And both of his hands were three pronged hooks. He had a shimmering gold lip ring. He smelled very, very bad. Like moldy old socks.
“Wait a clucking second,” rasped Broderica, swigging from a flask she’d hidden in her cleavage. She let loose a reverbrous belch, then tossed the flask aside, hitting a skyrate behind her in the back of the head and sending them tumbling to the floor, seemingly concussed. “Who in the cluck are you?”
The old, grey, stinky skyrate man balked at her questioning. “Who in the cluck am aye? Who in the cluck are ye to be arrskin’ me who in the cluck am aye?!”
“I am a woman!” she demanded, boobs jiggling.
“No shit, Spurlock. But aye fail to see what that harrrgs to do with it.”
“I was once a man! All three of us were once men!” Broderica sizzled with fury and body odor.
“Evaaar hearrrd of too marrrgch infarrgmation?”
“A man with a thicc black mustache! A saucepan on my head! And a glorious ass!”
“Aye am starrrrting to magic uncomfarrgtable with this convarrrgsation.”
“Well you should be! You people should all be very uncomfortable talking about my ass, seeing as you stole it from me!”
“Aye, matey? Ye people? Misirrarrgh, aye must arrdmit, ye’re showing signs of prarrrjudarrrce by implying that we skyrates as a people—”
“You’re all a bunch of filthy, stinking, ass nappers!”
“Misrrarrrrgh!”
“You heard me! You napped my ass and I want my ass back cockhammit!”
“Avast! As the cap’n o’ this ‘ere ship, aye say avast, cock hamn ye! Aye will not have ye bellow another wretched batch of figotry—”
“You’re not the clucking cap’n!” Broderica cackled. “I’ve seen your nasty captain amoking the stupidest looking cigar I’ve ever seen in my life! He was wrinkly and crinkly and disgrossting, but not in your way. He was not some sorry, peg legged, senile blob of putresence that you present before me, sirrah!”
The cap’n shivered and quaked. Then, with a deep breath, he attempted to make eye contact through his thick eye patches.
“Come with me. All three of ye woman-men…man-women…women men women-women…men…women…whatevarrgh the hen ye are anywhathowwhenwheresit…”
The three women sat in the cap’n’s office, their asses sweaty and their tits still as the Windless Forest before it burnt down. The cap’n opened up a creaky cabinet and rolled out a large metal air canister. He pulled out a mask and placed it atop his nose, then cranked the dial on the canister counterclockwise.
“Arr harr harrgh. Do ye partake?” he giggled.
Broderica, Krumbumbum and Biscuit Pisser muttered about it not really being their thing or having business to attend to later in that day (not that the drug lasted that long (but it was the best excuse they could think of)).
“Suit yerselves. Now, let me tell ye sometharrng aye haven’t told a soul in many a yearrrr,” the cap’n set his mask down with a chuckle, “Aye’m not really a skyrate. Aye’m in what they call,” the cap’n took a deep dramatic breath from the mask, then, exhaling with a solemn chuckle, “deep doodoo.”