Angela floated towards the soft, gaping plot hole as smoke billowed calmly forth from it.
This is freaking me the cluck out. It is, honestly, disgrossting, she mind-spat to the Janelle.
Don’t you shit talk the Plott hole! the Janelle replied with vitrol.
Um, why not? It’s clucking gross! Angela mind-whined.
Woman, if you want that Plott hole filled up you’ve got to do it yourself! proclaimed the Janelle as if it were an old proverb.
I don’t really care! I just want to go home. I regret every decision of mine that has led to this point.
Oh, stop your vitching you, you literal vitch, you.
That was a low blow, Janelle. Very below the belt.
You're a dog, fool, you don't wear a belt!
Angela stopped her vitching as the smoke engulfed her and she felt a sparkling mass of spacetime trickle over her like warm milk.
“Xavier, why are your nipples so clucking puffy?”
“They are not that puffy..”
“Oh they are too,” chuckled a boy with a jolt as he sipped from his magically translucent water bottle that was actually teeming with vodka.
“No they aren’t!”
Angela surveyed the scene. She was hovering near the black moldly ceilings of a magically floursecently lit boy’s locker room after seemingly soaring out of a damp, musky locker. Everything in the room was made out of wood, naturally.
There were lots of eighteen, nineteen, and twenty year old boys in there. In Caldonia, all eighteen, nineteen and twenty year old boys were made to go into locker rooms and change and shower together in order to complete their standard education. Some of them were feeling and comparing eachother’s muscles and groin bulges in a heterosexual fashion. They were all wearing underwear of numerous degrees of embarassingness, except for one, who was commando. He was tall, bulbous, and oily, an overinflated raft of a boy with pubelike scraggles all over his chin. For all of his lack of underwear his hanging paunch served as a fairly effective loincloth.
“Woahhh!” chuckled the cellulose covered barge, setting a crusty hand on the vodka slurping boy, “What are you sucking on here, eh, Shitfacerson? Do you like it? Does it taste hood?”
“That’s—burp—that’s a ridiculous question Thurmsabold it’s—urp—vodka of cour—urp—of course it tastes terrible.”
“I don’t know you look like you like sucking on that thing.”
“Would please get the cluck out of here with your apalling euphamisms?”
“No. Queer.”
“Well then,” The boy shuddered under the sweating palm, “Would you look at Xavier’s clucking nipples? They might as well be two slices of salami!”
The balloon animal raised an eyebrow in interest, peering to Xavier as he applied chaffing ointment to his elbows, “Well hownowbrowncowsabout that. Nice titties, Xavier.”
“Cluck off, Thurmal Paste. I’ll never have titties. And if I ever do have titties they’ll be a hen of a lot more impressive than this shit.”
“I doubt that, mister plate areolas.”
Another boy stopped groping a friend for a mintue on hearing this and turtned around to look at Xavier. “Mister dinner plate areolas? Holy shit, no kidding!”
Soon enough everyone had stopped fondling eachother long enough to look at Xavier’s nipples enough to laugh at them until their diaphragms had been stressed enough. The locker room echoed with jeering cries of ‘mister dinner plate areolas.’
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Stop it! Stop it! I’m not mister dinner plate areolas! Stop calling me mister dinner plate areolas! They’re not that big! And mister dinner plate areolas is such a mouthful!” Everyone laughed each time he said ‘mister dinner plate areolas.’
“I bet mister dinner plate areolas could use a mouthful!” guffawed a boy as he tickled his friend’s perennium for laughs.
“You know what?!” screamed Xavier, “Cluck you and cluck you and cluck you and cluck you and cluck you and cluck you and cluck you and you and you and you and all you cluck the clucking hen off!”
Everyone burst into a cackling, joyous uproar.
“This is your fault, Shitfacerson! Cluck you!” Xavier warbled, reaching into Shitfacerson’s locker and pulling out a small pink sack.
“Hey now!” choaked Shitfacerson, spitting out dribbles of vodka, “You leave that bulging sack alone my mother made that for me!”
“Cluck you and cluck your sack obsessed mother!” Mister dinner plate areolas spat, rifling through the sack and producing a large, squishy biscuit. “Oooh! Look at what Shitfacerson brought todayy! A biscuit from his mommy!”
“No need to be such a godhead, mister dinner plate areolas.
“Yea mister dinner plate areolas that’s not cool I love my mom almost as much as I love these guuuuuns motherclucker I mean look at how ripped I am clucking squeeze that shit I mean it is so clucking firm!”
“Damn dude that shit is so firm if I was a woman cluck I’d be all over that clucking shit I mean damn they’re so veiny dude cluck yeah look at those veins.”
“Yea dude I know it just like I would so suck on my own pecs like look at the fibers and muscles there I mean shit your might as well call them titties I mean they’re not clucking mister dinner plate areola’s lame ass shit they’re like clucking huge perky tits I would love to just slobber all over ‘em if ya know what I mean.”
“Hell yea bro I would slobber all over that shit in a second.”
Angela burped uncomfortably. Then she farted. The swaying motion of her floating was quite relaxing, like treading water near a salty sand bar. She was become the buoy. The saltwater burned her feeble throat. She tried to pee but could not. Even the force of the weak waves held it in tightly. Seagulls shat over the water peacefully.
“Give me my biscuit back, mister dinner plate areolas.”
“Cluck you, Shitfacerson! What kind of a friend are you?!” Xavier warbled through pained sobs. “I’ll clucking show you you clucking jerk!” He took the biscuit and wedged it in the tight crotch of his fitted seashell underwear.
Angela floated forward, magicing gastroinstestinal distress snaking through her colon. She chewed on her feet as she soared butt-first closer and closer to Xavier’s face. With a sudden judder her tail shot up and she let loose an uncockly bought of flatulence that nearly singed off the feeble beginnings of a mustache that had formed on Xavier’s upper lip.
Xavier screamed and flailed like an eletrocuted frog, gasping for air and falling over on his back on the slimy locker room floor.
“Oh cock…cock hamn…what…what was that…wh…what have I…wh…what have I done?!” Xavier sighed, looking down at his underwear.
“Holy shit bro mister dinner plate areolas pissed himself.”
“Cock hamn. He pissed all over the biscuit! Like some kind of a biscuit pisser!”
“Yea! He’s a biscuit pisser!”
Soon the room was aglow with jeering shouts of ‘Biscuit Pisser,’ and as laughter and merriment reached a trembling crescendo a door slammed open and a gruff voice bellowed:
“WHAT THE CLUCK ARE YOU KIDS CHEERING ABOUT?! YOU BETTER NOT BE CLUCKING FIGHTING AGAIN OR I’LL KNOCK YOU THE CLUCKING HEN OUT!”
“Coach come in here come in here look at this,” the fleshy barge of Thurmsabold gestured as the gritty coach sauntered in.
“What the cluck am I looking at?”
“There’s a Biscuit Pisser laying on the floor.”
The coach looked at Xavier, who was trembling.
“Cock hamn, kid. What’s going on?”
Xavier pulled Shitfacerson’s biscuit out of his underwear. “I am a Biscuit Pisser, coach,” he choaked down a sob, “I am a Biscuit Pisser.”
“Clucking hen, son. You’re a Biscuit Pisser, alright,” the coach shook his head and walked towards the doorway, double taking upon noticing Thurmsabold’s lack of underwear, “For chicken’s sake, Thurmy, put some cockhamned clothes on before I go pour bleach in my eyes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The coach left with a slam. Thurmsabold chuckled and turned back to Shitfacerson.
“Why’ve you got that smirk on your face, Shitfacerson?”
“Huh? Wha?” he stopped slurping his nearly empty bottle, “Oh, uh, because he’s a Biscuit Pisser of course!”
“Hmmm. That he is. But what are you, Shitface?”
“Not drunk enough for this shit?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Thurmsabold grabbed him by the hair and lifted Shitfacerson into the air. “Anybody need to take a shit?”
“I could totally go for a shit right now bro.”
“Alright, Shitfacerson. Time to make your last name suit you.”
With that, a powerful vaccuumlike suction pulled Angela back into the open locker, into fog and back out into the swampy ether of the Plott Hole.
Holy cluck, Angela wondered, floating around upside down and wimpering. That was a clucking trip.
Alright y’all we’re almost done, the Janelle looked to Assafrass. You ready to have some fun, donkey?
Not at all, he snorted an anxious hee-haw.
Too bad, she smirked.