As the party, that now appeared as if they had all be smeared in the face with horse shit due to aforementioned anti-poor enchantments, walked up to the fancy golden rug that led to the wedding they were greeted by the boulder-chinned rich groom of the hour, flanked by Michael, who was dressed up in a small dog tuxedo, and Angela, who was in a shiny dog dress.

“Whay hellao therae. Sao glaad yoau couald aall makae iat.”

“Why the cluck are you standing out here don’t you have to get married or something?” snorted Sir Broderick.

“Ia’m graeeting aall oaf may gauests. Tais thae poalite thaing tao doa.”

“I think the polite thing to do,” fussed Krumbumbum, “Would be to tell whatever classless warlock did this to our faces to lay off.”

“Oah, Ia assaure yaou, thae warloack whao daid thaat ias faar, faar fraom classleass. Hae’s raight ovaer theare!” the man pointed over to a large bipedal shoehorn with googley eyes wearing a bowtie.

“What a clucking jerk.”

They all stormed forward, ignoring the groom’s handshake, and soon enough were among the garish opulentness that could only come from stuck up rich folks with too much time, too much money and too little taste.

“Excraete mae?” said the food butler to Sir Broderick.

“Oi, you clucking heard me! This food barely tastes like anything! I want something better cockhamnit!”

“Weall Ia nevaer!” huffed the food butler.

Pamela sat at the special poor person table they’d had set up for them in advance, which had a wonky leg, and salivated as she imagined all the eccentricities of rich nudity. It helped that a select few of the rich people were so eccentric that they had actually come to the wedding naked.

“Having fun?” smirked Danielle Johnson form under her cigar smoke.

“Very much so,” Pamela chewed on her pen.

“Want a smoke?” she produced a large torpedo.

“Very much so.”

“Huh! Laook aat thais! Pooar peaople smaoking! Haow absoalutely garaish!” snorted a rich person smoking a cigar as they walked by.

Green Garey sat down and growled, nursing a rum on the rocks. “Aye think they just invited us to this wedding to marrke fun of us.”

“You know what?” Biscuit Pisser, who had been picking at her face, lit up as she saw the shoehorn warlock walking through the crowds. “I’m gonna go give that jerk a piece of my mind. There’s no reason we deserve to look like idiots in front of everyone!”

She stormed off, a piece of magickal toilet paper stuck to her butt. Krumbumbum laughed and sipped her gin.

“Hey! Hey you!” Biscuit Pisser yelled at the shoehorn.

“Eaxcrete mae? Whaat seeams tao bae thae praoblem, maisirrah?”

“Cluck you! That’s right, cluck you, you clucking scoundrel! How dare you clucking do this to us! What is it with you? Overinflated sense of self importance? You’re a clucking shoehorn! You’re not even human anymore you’re a useless husk and they’re just using you as a tool you clucking scoundrel!”

The shoehorn started sobbing softly and walked away without a word.

“Yea that’s right you clucking loser you better walk the cluck away! Heh! Showed them.”

Biscuit Pisser sat back down.

“About clucking time you got here,” Sir Broderick chortled, swilling from a flask, “The ceremony’s about to start.”

“Why are you drinking from a clucking flask?” whined Krumbumbum, “They have free drinks at the bar!”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Oh they water all that shit down Krumbumbum come on now. They put ice in it and shit I mean what kind of a vussy drink is that?”

Green Garey cupped his drink to hide the ice in his cup.

“Also they cut me off five drinks ago.”

DINK DINK DINK

An older, rotund man in exquisite jewelry was clinking a glass.

“Attentaion, eaveryone! Caan Ia havae yoaur attaention, plaease?”

DINK DINK DINK

“Thaank yaou.”

DINK

“Thaank yaou veray mauch.”

Pamela looked for somewhere to ash her cigar, settling on spilling the embers on the ground. A small balled up napkin caught fire as she did this. With a jolt, she kicked it over to the table of the rich person who had laughed at her for smoking and promptly forgot the incident.

“Naow, Ia aam sao thankfaul tao bae heare waith yaou aall taoday. Mae aand Jaart havae baeen ian laove faor aa laong taime, aand wae arae sao glaad wae caan naow sharae thais glaorious moament waith yoau aall.”

“His name is Jart?” smirked Sir Broderick.

“This is the guy he’s marrying? Looks a little old, huh?”

“Saome oaf yaou maay loaok aat mae aand thaink—whaat? Whay ias hae tao bae wead tao oaur baeloved Jaart? Hae ias mauch taoo oald, Ia heaar saome oaf yaou saay, muach taoo oald iandeed iat haas beean saiad thaat Ia aam faor Jaart, Jaart baeing oanly thae sweeat, sweeat agae oaf twaenty aand Ia beaing twaenty yaears aolder thaan thaat. Waell Ia wiall havae yaou aall knaow thaat thaere ias naothing waeird abaout thias aat aall! Iaf yaou waould oanly laook thraough thae classaic artaists oaf oaur taime, thae graeat graeats, yaou waould saee thaat thais ias maore naormal thaan anay oaf yaour ianterpersonal relationshaips! Iat ias sao naormal iat givaes mae aan ulcaer ias haow naormal iat ias!”

The man was growing red in the face. Biscuit Pisser elbowed Krumbumbum to point out that a nearby rich person table had been slowly catching fire.

“Faire! Faire, Ia saay!” one of them screamed.

“Oah yaes yaes faire! Faire indaeed! Yoau arae noat thea fairst whao haas taold mae Ia waill bae gaoing tao haen faor may relationshaip aand yaou waill assauredly noat bae thae laast, vaile scaum!”

“Nao, Ia maean, FAIRE!”

“Daon’t yaou deany mae my love! Nao oane waill daeny thais oaf uas! Yaou aall maake mae saick, saick Ia saay! Aand naow iat ias taime faor yaou tao caome togaether aand enjaoy thae maost astaoundingly paerfect uanion oaf laove thaat indaeed haas evaer existaed! Wiatness oaur loave, cockhamnait! Ia waant yoau tao waitness aall oaf iat, aand whaen Ia saay aall oaf iat Ia caockhamn maean aall oaf iat!”

“Oh my cock it’s like he’s on trial or something,” cackled Sir Broderick.

“What a shitshow,” sighed Krumbumbum.

“Hey,” Biscuit Pisser smiled, “Look, Shitface, there’s no longer shit smeared all over your face. Wonder why that is?”

“Oah may caock!” exclaimed a bereaved rich person. “Thae shaoehorn warlaock haas jaust drownaed haimself ian thae paunch baowl!”

“FAIRE! PLEASAE! SOAMEONE HAELP! FAIRE!!”

The fire had spred to about half of the rich people tables and people were running around in fear now.

“Staop traying tao daistract mae fraom may maoment! Jaart, jaoin mae ovaer haer, may loave, laet uas saign thae marraiage papaers aand havae oaur uanion aat laast!”

“Oakay,” Jart ran over lankily.

“GARAY! HAOW CLUCKAING CAOULD YAOU YAOU BAASS TUARD!”

“Oah maotherclucker,” muttered the old man as a woman ran up to him and poured champagne all over him.

“YAOU CLAUCKING BAASS TAURD! THAINK ABAOUT OAUR YAOUNG CHAILDREN!”

“Uam, yaou havae kaids?” Jart looked at Gary like he was an alien.

“Onlay faour,” Gary admitted sheepishly.

“Yaou asshaole! Yaou saaid Ia waas yaour fairst!” Jart gasped.

“Waell iat’s naot laike Ia waas slaeeping araound liake yaou waere befaore wae gaot toagether, Jaart.”

Sir Broderick stood up. “This is getting weird as hen. I say let’s get the cluck out of here.”

Everyone murmured in awkward agreeance and got up, quietly tiptoeing around the fires of screaming rich people and down the carpet to the exit. It was just as well, because a few moment later the venue was completely engulfed and in the process of melting away to ash, the grooms and the angry wife scurrying off to the side to fight with eachother in the safety of a nearby rich person bar.

Pamela hugged her notebook. “Oh, the witches are just going to love this.”

“Parrmela,” Green Garey sighed, “Aye saw how tharrt fiarrr harrpened.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Green Garey.”

“Parrmela…”

“What?”

“Oh…nevarmind. Aye think aye might quit the Gouaard. Aye’ve alwayes warrnted to be a minarr.”

“A miner? Oh. Well. I’m sure your hook attachments could come in handy for that,” Pamela nodded. “That’s fine with me, Green Garey. I already resigned this morning. I’m an artist first and foremost now. Do you want to know my artist name?

“Narrt realaye.”

“It’s Parrrmela. After your accent!”

“Thanks, aye guess.”

“Now, where were we…” Sir Broderick bit his finger as he looked around the horse ties outside the anti-poor person enchantment.

“What’s the matter, Sir Broderick?” Krumbumbum asked, readjusting her top to partially cover her nipples.

“Well, it’s just, I thought I’d tied my ass up here before we went into the enchantment, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Are you sure he’s just not blending in?”

“Biscuit Pisser there’s a line of horses tied up here he was the only ass how could he blend in?!”

“I don’t know!”

“I can’t clucking believe this shit. I just can’t clucking believe it.”

“Is that your ass, there, Sir Broderick?” Krumbumbum pointed to a disgusting squid person running toward a deep hole in the ground with a donkey tucked under its tentacles.

“Oh my clucking cock! GIVE ME MY CLUCKING ASS BACK!”

Sir Broderick reached down, picked up some horse shit and flung it haphazardly at the squiddish figure as it started to vanish underground. “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

“Sir Broderick, why don’t you try throwing something else?”

His face lit up. Sir Broderick produced a glass flask, emptied it down his gullet, and chucked it at the squid person.

“H’heyuh g’gayeeyus! S’sawureyuh a’ahyee m’misuded th’thuh w’weyudang—” Frinkles’ stupid sentence was cut off as the flask shattered over his face and knocked him out.

Sir Broderick fumed as he noticed the squid person was gone.

“Cock hamnit!”

“Maybe you should just get a horse.”

“How clucking dare you.”