“Parrrgmela?”

“Yes?” Pamela blinked, snapping out of her miasmic trance and stopping her sketches, accidentally scrawling a long line across a particularly luscious tit she had been sketching.

“What are ye doing? Are ye writarrng them a ticket or sometharrng?”

“What? Who?”

“The ship that just craaarrgshed into us, Parrmela.”

“Oh, oh, no. That’s too much papertwerk. I’m just taking notes of the scene. In case anything more comes of this.”

“Anytharrng more? They just crarrgshed into us! Surely skytraffic laws cannot just fly by the wayside…”

“Yea yea yea whatever,” Pamela rolled her eyes and resumed her sketching, thinking to herself: Now then, who’s next?

“H’h’heyuh, u’uwm, P’a’yumlehr?” Frinkles wheezed, wheeling up to her in a full body cast supported by two witches disguised as skyrates, “Wh’ayeh’s th’thayut g’gayul r’run’n t’toawrds u’uys? Sh’shyuh l’oowks l’lahk sh’sheyu’s sh’owt’n ay’t y’oo!”

“I’LL CLUCKING KILL YOU YOU TRAITEROUS LITTLE VITCH! I’LL CLUCKING KILL YOU!”

“Wow,” Pamela chuckled, looking at the chesty figure running towards their hull, “Talk about sky rage.”

“Parrmela, ye don’t seem very concerned.”

“What do I have to be concerned about? How’s she going to get up here?”

“KRUMBUMBUM! KRUMBUMBUM! CAST THE SPELL!” the woman screamed to a spindly, flat chested woman standing beside the other ship’s steering wheel. Pamela found the cadence of her shrill voice oddly familiar, though a quick flip through of her notebook had her coming up blank.

“Ugh. Do I have to, Broderica? My hips hurt.”

“CLUCK YES YOU HAVE TO VITCH!”

The lady sighed and began pelvic thrusting halffartedly. The shouting woman coping this pelvic air thrust, and was quickly humping her self into the air.

“Yaaarg!” Green Garey gasped. “She be clucking her way up heaaarg!”

“Now that is something for the notebook,” gasped Pamela, vigorously scrawling again and again to better impress in the paper the motion of the woman’s hips.

“I’M COMING FOR YOU NOW, VITCH! I’M COMING FOR MY ASS!”

Pamela puzzled over this statement as she observed the woman’s closely approaching nipples. They had obviously gotten quite hard. Even harder now that they were right in front of Pamela’s face.

“Stop staring at my tits, vitch!” the woman howled, shaking them in frustration.

“Well hello there,” Pamela said, blinking in shock as she fought to look the woman in her sweaty face instead of her sweaty chest, all the while hoping her incessant drawing would hold up well from muscle memory alone. She had a familiar reek of liquor that Pamela just couldn’t place. “I am a member of the Royal Gourd, you know.”

“Cock hamnit woman! Don’t say that like you’re coming on to me!”

“I wasn’t?”

“Oh cluck off. Now tell me where’s my clucking ass before I tear your clucking face off!”

Pamela paused, puzzled, and then gingerly placed a palm across the woman’s ass. “Right here, I would hope?”

The woman backhanded her belligerently. “What the cluck is wrong with you?! Cockhamnit I hate being a woman! When I’m a man all you do is try and kill me and now that I’ve got titties the first thing you do is try and have your way with me?!” She burped, violetely spewing crumbs and fizzes of liquor in Pamela’s face. “You clucking disgrosst me!”

Suddenly, something clicked in Pamela’s mind. She flipped through her notebook. No. It couldn’t be. She gasped, backing away from the woman’s vehement rage. This was no mere woman on a skyrate ship. This was the person Pamela had thought perished in the Waywords Woods long ago.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You very clucking well should be! I nearly died! Now show me where my ass is cock hamnit you nasty old skyrate!”

“Dorma, I have no idea where your ass is.”

“Excrete me?”

“I’m really sorry Dorma but honestly you hadn’t ever talked to me about your ass and if it’s not at the top of your legs I’m not really sure where else it could be.”

“Who in the cluck is Dorma?” the woman squawked.

Pamela reeled back. “You’re not Dorma?!”

“I don’t even know who that is!!”

“I-I’m sorry I just…you’re so intense…I just…” Pamela shrugged. She’d never seen Dorma out of uniform and had figured anything was possible.

“Get the cluck out of my way then!” the woman spat, pushing Pamela aside and storming off. “Where’s the clucking captain of this ship?”

“Right here, chuppy!” piped up Danielle Johnson.

“You’re not the clucking captain! Where’s your cigar?”

Danielle Johnson pulled out a large torpedo cigar, lighting it. “Right here. Did you want one?”

“Cluck off!” the woman chided. “This is all a front! You’re no captain!”

“You don’t know that.”

As the woman argued back and forth inconclusively with Danielle Johnson, Green Garey turned to Pamela.

“Ye know, Parrmela, aye think this woman is deflectarng.”

“Deflecting?” Pamela repeated as she sketched the woman’s curvature.

“Aye. Aye think she’s deflectarrrrrging, what with calling ye a skyrate and all.”

“Oh, you caught that, did you, Green Garey?” Pamela peered again at the arguing women, rehashing the scene as if were were happening in the nude across another notebook page.

“Aye, aye did, aye did. Who else would arrgcuse someone obviously not a skyrate as beaarging a skyrate except a skyrate themself?”

“I see no holes in that logic, Green Garey.”

“Well then aren’t ye conceraargned? She’s essentially boarded our vessel and is talking to arrg cap’n! She could slice off Danielle Johnson’s head with a hidden cutlass at any moment fer all we know!”

“I agree that is concerning, however I’m much preoccupied…you must understand it is important to have very thorough notes in place in case this situation evolves to the point of involving the Royal Gourd Court—”

“Parrmela aye can’t imaaarrgine the Royal Gouaargd Court aargccepting any of yer—cough—notes.”

“Well your lack of imagination is your own problem, not mine, Green Garey. I’ll tell you just what I told that old saucepan wearing halfwit skyrate in disguise before he wandered into the Wayword Woods to his death. I’ve already had them cleared by the knight academy. Your opinion is moot.”

Green Garey grumbled grouchily as Pamela stood there, drawing and stewing. Who could this flabbergasting brute of a woman be?

“Green Garey, do you still have my crossbow? I want to give it a hood polishing. Haven’t polished it in a while.”

“Okaay…” Green Garey, startled by the nonsequitor nature of Pamela’s thoughts, unhooked the crossbow from his utility sheath with his hook hand and hook handed it over to Pamela. “Whatevarrg flies yer skyship.”

Pamela clasped the crossbow awkwardly from Green Garey’s hook, accidentally engaging the trigger and—

WWWHHT

—shooting an arrow right into the left side of the woman’s—

“MY ASS! MY CLUCKING ASS! I CAN’T CLUCKING BELIEVE YOU WOMAN I MEAN I REALLY CAN’T CLUCKING BELIEVE YOU!”

Suddenly, as Pamela watched the arrow jiggle as it stuck out of the woman’s ass cheek like a pincushion, she had an epiphany.

“Carl? Is that you?”

“CARL?! WHO IN THE CLUCKING HEN IS CARL?! STOP CALLING ME THE NAMES OF PEOPLE I’VE NEVER HEARD OF YOU STUPID CLUCKING VITCH!”

Pamela had thought it wasn’t too much of a stretch if Carl had lost some weight. And started carrying potpourri around with himself. Even then, she had been wrong. On she stared at her own notes, admiring all her imagined nakedness with pride. Then, it hit her. In the bakc of the head. It being half of the arrow she’d shot into the woman’s ass.

“Hey! That hurt!” sighed Pamela, who had now moved on to sketching out the sight of the woman attempting to remove the arrow from her own ass and then another sketch of her lobbing half of it towards her. All in the nude of course.

“Hood! I’m clucking glad it hurt! Think of all the clucking pain you’ve caused me! Ass-napping my ass! Calling me a skyrate when you yourself are clearly sailing on a skyrate ship! Shooting arrows at me all the time! Drawing me naked with way too much body hair even now that I’m a woman! It’s just clucking insulting!!”

“Wait a second!” Pamela dropped her notebook and ran over to the woman.

“What in the cluck are you—?!”

Pamela squeezed the woman’s heaving titties with all her might, fondling and tussling and pulling them forcefully.

“Ow ow OWWWW what in the cluck are you doing stop it STOP IT THAT CLUCKING HURTS YOU COCKHAMNED VITCH STOP IT!” the woman screeched and clawed, but Pamela was unrelenting.

“This is crazy! They feel so real!”

“They ARE real you cockhamned vitch now leave them the CLUCK ALONE and stop ASSAULTING ME!!”

“There’s no way these are real!” Pamela continued inspecting, surprised at the natural imperfections of each tit’s nipple.

“YES THEY ARE!!!” howled the woman. With a particularly spirited tit jiggle five glass flasks tumbled from hidden pockets in her cleavage and shattered across the deck of the ship. “Now look what you’ve gone and done! That was fine liquor you’ve ruined!”

“It smells kind of cheap to me,” Pamela continued to flop the woman’s boobs around inquisitively.

The woman pushed Pamela back and resettled her titties. “Cheap and fine are not mutually exclusive!”

“Maybe not to skyrates.”

“I’m not a clucking skyrate vitch you’re a clucking skyrate!”

“I’m not a skyrate.”

“Oh yea? Just like there’s nothing sexual about all of your naked sketches?!”

“Leave my notebook out of this, you skytrain pilfering skyrate.”

“Hard to do that when you keep looking down to draw me naked in it.”

“Hard to remember what all happens in case the court gets involved otherwise. It’s just my due dilligence as a member of the Royal Gourd.”

“Ah yes, the Royal Gourd. They must be so pleased to be bankrolling your crude drawings of nipples and anuses.”

“I would assume so, seeing as I got my department grant money for it.”