The screams of agony and smell of burning flesh gave way to the tantalizing smell of fried chicken as Broderica, Krumbumbum and Biscuit Pisser drew closer and closer to the tree which had captured their giant chicken, which was surely now breaded and ready to serve. Which though distressing was also a bit of a relief because the eyeball soup the trio had been offered had only served to disturb their stomachs instead of entice them.

Parting a thick hedge of bushes they saw five hooded figures sitting around a fire under the tree from which giant chicken legs dangled in distress. They were holding two bubbling pots over the flame which were producing a pleasing, crackling sizzle.

“Who the cluck are they?” Biscuit Pisser blurted.

“Quiet you!” Krumbumbum fussed. “They’ll hear us!”

“Oh come now Krumbumbum they won’t hear us! I can barely hear us over that chicken frying even from here! Cock, it’s like my stomache opened up and hasn’t been so in years at the smell of that shit!”

“Yes it does smell quite delicious doesn’t it Shitface. I just can’t believe these cluckers had the gall to sneak up and cook our chicken without even offering us any!”

“Well wait a second now wait a second,” Krumbumbum readjusted her thin dress as her hardening nipples became even easier to notice, “how were they to know it was our chicken?”

“Krumbumbum if you saw a giant chicken just dangling from a tree would you just start sawing bits off it to fry up for yourself or would you at least try to find the owners of the chicken?”

“I would do neither of those things. I’d call up the nearest church and get them to designate the tree as a feathery site and collect my finders fee.”

“You disgrosst me.”

Broderica began to push herself through the bushes with some difficulty. Krumbumbum grabbed her thighs and pulled her back.

“Unhand me woman!”

“I’ll do no such thing! Do you not see how this could be dangerous?”

“Dangerous? Who gives an ass’ rat if it’s dangerous! Here Krumbumbum,” Broderica produced a flask from her cleavage, “why don’t you take a swig? Clearly you’re too sober to make rational decisions.”

“You realize that most people don’t use alcohol to help them make rational decisions, don’t you?”

“I’ve always known I was exceptional,” Broderica belched with pride, “but it’s nice to hear you say so.”

“Ugh yuck,” spat Biscuit Pisser, “that smelled like a clucking crypt. When’s the last time you flossed, Shitface?”

“When was the last time I what now?”

“Shut up you two shut the cluck up! Look they’re taking the chicken wings out of the pot! What nice tongs they have! Why those must be gold plated!”

“Who the cluck wants gold plated tongs?”

“You know,” interjected Broderica as she gurgled liquor, “what I find really interesting is that they were able to shrink the chicken’s enormous wings down into bite size! And there are twelve of them! How’d they made twelve wings out of two? They must be magic.”

“Unless,” Biscuit Pisser wiggled her eyebrow, “unless it’s not our chicken they’re cooking!”

“Excrete me?” Krumbumbum nearly flashed them in shock. “Did you just suggest these ominous hooded figures are sitting at a campfire under a tree with a giant chicken caught in it and are just absent mindedly frying up pigmy chickens, paying absolutely no mind to the humongous chicken legs dangling about thirty feet overhead?”

“I don’t know I don’t know I mean stranger things have happened!”

“Name one thing, Biscuit Pisser! Name one!”

“I can name,” Broderica burped, “I can name one thing.” She cast a knowing look over to Biscuit Pisser.

Krumbumbum lit up. “Oh! That’s right isn’t it. Back in the fantasy locker room before you had your nickname when you put it in—”

“SHUT THE CLUCK UP SHUT THE CLUCK UP I KNOW WHAT IT IS YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY IT OUT LOUD COCK HAMMIT CLUCK BOTH OF YOU!”

Biscuit Pisser’s screams drew the attention of the hooded figures. They halted munching on their undoubtedly delicious fried chicken and began to walk up to the bushes.

“Oh you’ve done it now!” growled Krumbumbum. “So much for caution! You’ve thrown it to the wind!”

“Oh come now Krumbumbum,” tutted Broderica, “She couldn’t have done that if she tried. Clearly you forget we’re in the Windless Forest.”

“They ought to rename it to the smoky forest what with all the fire and all.”

Broderica shook her head. “That joke was flatter than Krumbumbum’s chest.”

“You two are just awful!” balked Krumbumbum. Then, she stiffened up. “Cluck. They’re right next to us!”

“Who’re right next to us? Your nonexistent tits?”

The bushes rustled as a cloaked figure parted them like a sharp, brushy pair of combs.

“Eeheeheehee! No, us!” cackled a wrinkly old voice.

Biscuit Pisser shivered like a hooked flounder as she beheld a beautiful, youthful face covered in glitter and accents of thick purple makeup framed inside the hood of the cloak. It was unclear whether this person was male or female or xemale or grimmale or indeed if they were even necessarily a person at all.

“Ehrm! Eh-eherm!” the face cleared their voice a couple times, then began to hack violently.

Biscuit Pisser caught her breath as the hacking grew louder and louder.

HHHAAAAAAPPPPPPPSSSTT

The cloaked figure spat mucus all over the floor, a line of drool sticking to their cleft chin despite virulent shaking.

“Sorry about that,” said a voice that was both deep and high pitched, “My sinuses have really been acting up lately. Must be something in the wind.”

“There’s no wind for anything to be in you imbecile!” honked Broderica, her breasts jiggling like filled soup bowls. “Something in the wind. More like something in the powder you’ve been snorting. Come on girls let’s ditch this clucking turdmonger,” Broderica gasped, having realized she just refered to the two women she was flanked by as ‘girls’.

“Actually, it’s Turdmonger the IV—eh-eherm-ehermack!” the androgenous magical possible person spat more mucus out then rasped heavily. “Ehackeh—oh—Please do excrete me. Turdmonger the IV, Esquire.”

The women waited for Turdmonger the IV, Esquire to begin the motions necessary to begin a four way introduction, a normally a twenty to thirty five minute affair which required alternating introductions to alternating members of the foursome with brief intermissions of Caldonian jig. However, rudely, it never began.

Krumbumbum readjusted her top. “So what does Esquire mean again, Turdmonger?”

Turdmonger spat more mouth boogers at a tree. “I honestly have no idea. Now come on, don’t skedoodle. Let me introduce you to everybody. Have some fried chicken with us,” Turdmonger turned to look at Biscuit Pisser, “It’s the least I can do for blowing my nose all over your long dress when you weren’t looking a few seconds ago.”

Biscuit Pisser felt up the bottom of her skirt, suddenly finidng her left hand sticking to green goo. “Eeeew! You disgrossting bass turd! I would clucking hope you’d offer us some chicken seeing as it’s our chicken you’re eating!”

“EHHHaaack! I’m not sure about—heeehhhcckk—about that but I am sure that you can have some. Here—eehhhaaahhh—follow me.”

The ladies followed Turdmonger about five steps over to the other cloaked figures, magicing oddly patronized for being asked to follow someone when it was only for literally five steps.

“This—eehhhAAAccckHHHaaahhehhh—is Javelda,” Turdmonger gestured to a crumple figure that, lifting up her cloak, was revealed to actually be an old, witchy lady with a dainty old lady voice.

“EhhhAAAA—this—ehhack—is Frivelvert,” Turdmonger waved at a lanky man with pointy teeth and kind, stupid eyes.

“This is—eeeeeeeHAAAAck—Vinvinvan,” Turdmonger pointed to a chesty woman with glimmering eyes that immediately and gleefully locked with Biscuit Pissers’ mustache.

“And this—ehh—this is—ehaaaAAAaaa—is—AHHHHAACCK—this is Her—hhheehhhahhh—He—aaahhhh—Herr—aaaahhhAAAaack—Herraldingus,” Turdmonger patted the shoulder of a stumpy man who looked all too interested in all three women. They did not return his glances, instead magicing uneasy at his countenance and queasy at his odor.

After a windless, mucus hacking moment passed it was more than apparent that they were not going to spend the customary eighty minutes to introduce three people to five people or perform any of the conga lines necessary to consummate it.

“So,” Biscuit Pisser started, trying not to look too much at Vinvinvan, “So, do all of you have the thing with the hacking or is it like is it a Turdmonger thing or something or what like is it a disease is it contagious or something—”

“Oh No no no,” giggled Vinvinvan, jiggling like pudding as she swished over and squeezed Biscuit Pisser’s limp wrist tightly like a vice. “It’s no no nothing to wo wo worry about. No no nothing at all. Now ge ge get some chicken in you, wh wh why you’re wasting away!” She poked Biscuit Pisser’s belly.

Biscuit Pisser gladly feasted on the pygmy chicken wings, inhaling them like a struggling asthmatic.