“Did you see that clucking bulldog down there, Krumbumbum?”

“What?”

“I said did you see that CLUCKING BULLDOG, Krumbumbum?!”

“Excrete me?”

“I said—”

“Shitface you’re gonna have to speak up, I can’t hear anything you’re saying!”

The chicken they rode atop was making everyone’s ears pop to an extreme degree as it beat its wings forcefully through the pielight clouds and whipped them into creamy chunks.

“Biscuit Pisser I wasn’t even talking to you I was talking to Krumbumbum!”

“Come again?”

“Broderica why were you looking at me if you were trying to talk to Biscuit Pisser the whole time?!”

“I wasn’t!! Cluck this shit I need a drink,” Broderica whipped out a glass flask, emptied it down her gullet and chucked it away.

“Broderica, did you see that clucking donkey down there?”

“What?”

“I said did you see that CLUCKING DONKEY, Broderica?”

“I didn’t see a donkey down there I was too busy looking at the CLUCKING BULLDOG!”

“So what I’m getting from this is that there was some sort of bizarre mutant bulldonkey down there on the top of the skyacht.”

“Shut the cluck up Biscuit Pisser you’re just confusing everything!” Krumbumbum and Broderica yelled in unison.

“This is ridiculous,” Biscuit Pisser grasped a section of the chicken’s comb and pushed it forward while stamping her right foot on a bulge on the back of its head. It halted its pursuit and hovered in place. “Alright. Now that we’re parked, what in the cluck is everyone yelling about?”

“Well I keep trying to tell Krumbumbum about the clucking bulldog that I saw down there because guess the cluck what?”

Nobody guessed.

“It was clucking alive is what!!”

“Is…is that not what you expected?” Krumbumbum covered the shapes her abrasively hard nipples by crossing her arms.

“No! I was not expected that at all! I was expecting it to be dead!!”

“I don’t know how I feel about this conversation, Broderica.”

Broderica huffed. “That’s the dog I sat on back before the skyrates ass-napped my noble steed. They told me I killed it! And it was sitting there panting!”

“Maybe it was a different dog.”

“And maybe you have boobs, Krumbumbum.”

“Body shaming aside, steamroller chest, I’d of thought you’d notice the donkey that was sitting right next to the bulldog down there.”

“Donkey?! Why would I—” Broderica hacked and her face reddened as she choked on her own shocked spit.

“Broderica? Broderica, are you okay?”

On she hacked.

“I’ll save you Shitface!”

Biscuit Pisser started emphatically backhanding Broderica.

PFF PFF PFF PFF

“Come on come on snap out of it vitch!”

PFF PFF PFF PFF

The hacking got worse, sounding almost turkeyesque.

“Biscuit Pisser you idiot that’s not how you stop someone from choking! This is how you stop someone from choking!” Krumbumbum grabbed Broderica, swiveled her around, and punched her in the back so forcefully that she tumbled off the chicken, plummeting to cock knew where.

“Wow Krumbumbum. I didn’t realize the only way to stop someone from choking was to murder them. Thanks for that.”

***

There was at the time a magical concept in Caldonia known as ‘Wanton Funneling.’ It was actually first discovered when a certain doctorate-toting esteemed wizard who will remain nameless woke up missing one of his top right molars and later found pieces of it wedged between the tall mahogany doors of his university.

It was unknown exactly what caused something to ‘Wanton Funnel,’ though according to the same certain esteemed wizard’s thesis whatever the something was it had to with absolute certainty have already existed in the universe before wanton funneling could occur. This accounted for the fact that nothing that didn’t exist ever simply wanton funneled into existence, that is unless someone had just cast a spell to cause those things to exist, which of course makes it not wanton funneling at all as wanton funneling is something that can only occur without any agency whatsoever as defined in said thesis.

The most remarkable case of wanton funneling known to Gurth was recorded at an observatory in the outskirts of Caldonia, where they were studying birds of paradise and birds of eternal misery and how their mating strategies compared. Before the funneling, none of them so much as wanting to coo at another bird. Instead, they would sit and overpreen themselves, barely moving other than to find new spots to shit all over.

Everything changed when the fire department was given a magickaphone ring after the birds started copulating so forcefully that one actually caught on fire. This was of course spurred on by the sudden appearance of a gilded red velevet chez loung that had shockingly apparated in the middle of the habitat. It was this event that cemented the concept of wanton funneling as a valid magickific theory. As will all valid things, there were a couple of esoteric weirdos who expanded on the newly accepted theory of wanton funneling by positing that it was far more likely to occur when there was a multitude of Plott Holes swimming about in a given universe. This was quickly dismissed as ridiculous, of course.

***

Gilbert and Jarvish, still floating along in their dinghy, had not in fact wanton funneled. But they might as well have. Despite originally being far below the wreck of the two skyships and even further below the skyacht, they had unknowingly been caught by the crest of the flatulent remains of the merchantilewinds, which carried them up above all of these skyfaring ships and disgrossting displays of skywealth. Their dinghy was deposited about halfway between the chicken’s current altitude and the top of the skyacht. What was really remarkable was that, had anyone asked Gilbert and Jarvish, they would’ve hardly thought their location had changed at all. Almost like they’d wanton funneled or something.

“Uncle Gilbert,” Jarvish sighed in exasperation, “I really wish you’d reconsider what you’re doing. We’re almost past the point of no return. If you don’t stop now I don’t see us staying asky much longer. Don’t duck us over.”

“Uncle Jarvish, you listen to me and you listen to me quacking hood,” Gilbert growled, his arms cracking in agony as he pushed the saw, which was about a quarter of a foot deep in the side of the dinghy, “I have made up my ducking mind again and again. I know what I am doing and I know the golden goose sees that I’m quacking up the right tree. I wish only that we could be separated at once instead of depending on this measly hand tool!”

Suddenly, a red faced, chesty woman fell from the sky, hacking rhythmically.

BRRKKKKSSHTT

Her hard head collided with the dinghy, immediately smashing it in half as she continued to soar downwards.

“Hah!” Gilbert cackled, setting down the saw and cracking his knuckles so hard some of them almost split. “I ducking told you, ye of little faith!”

“I’m just glad we’re not plummeting down with her.”

Gilbert took a deep breath, sighed, and leaned back in his half of the dinghy.

QUAA AAA AAACK

The deep quacking echoed through the air, shaking the halves of the dinghy brilliantly.

“What the duck was that?” Gilbert leaned forward at attention. And then he looked up. And his eyes went wide.

“Uncle Gilbert, what’s wrong?”

“N-nothing’s wrong, my nephew—erm, my uncle. It’s just…I mean…For the love of quack, just look up!”

And so Jarvish looked. And indeed, he gasped, too.

“Golden Goose above, do my eyes deceive me, Uncle Gilbert?!” Jarvish ejaculated with fervour.

“No, Uncle Jarvish, for I see it too!”

They beheld the enormous breast of an enormous, pale-white duck floating through the clouds.

They both did triple takes. And then, they shouted in unison:

“MOBY DUCK!!!”

***

Broderica continued her descent, now spinning like a pinwheel. She had almost lost consciousness when—

BLPLLPLDFFFF

She landed on something warm and soft. The force of this landing sent her spit boiling out of her throat, freeing her from her choking spasm with two raspy hacks.

“Clucking hen. That was clucking insane,” Broderica huffed. Then she noticed Pamela (whose mouth was a vartiable fountain of ink), Green Garey, and some other hook handed skyrate all staring at her like she was a six headed egret. Then she noticed what warm, soft thing she had landed on.

“Oh holy clucking shit. This is just ridiculous,” she groaned, standing up to see the Caldonian Bulldog laying in a heap underneath her posterior, “Look, everyone, I’m sure it’s fine. Let me just uh, let’s see here,” he lifted up one of the dog’s paws, which immediately slumped back down in a ragdoll fashion, “Clearly it’s just taking a nap. I’m sure it’ll wake up any second now.”

“MIIIICHAEL!!” garbled a skyrate from somewhere that Broderica could not see.

“Don’t worry I’m absolutely positive that,” Broderica opened Michael’s mouth and flopped his tongue around as if it were panting, “I’m absolutely positive he’s okay I mean look he’s panting see? He’s happy!”

A looming shadow emerged from the rubble of the huge chicken-shaped hole in the wooden dome. It was Blitswald, and he has clutching none other than—

“My ASS!” Broderica screamed, immediately growing so angry that she suddenly became a man again, his goatee sprouting before his eyes. “Get my ass out of your hands you clucking scoundrel!!”

“Oh no no no. Ye harrve killed me dog for the last time, scallopwagon. Ye’ll never caress the soft skin of yer ass arrgain. Aye’m sending ye to Danny Dervishes Timeshare! Get ready to walk the skank!”

Green Garey gasped. Pamela was sketching the scene eagerly with one of the only pens she hadn’t completely devoured. Purple Perry looked peckish. Frinkles was unconscious. Michael was either unconscious or dead. Dorma was definitively dead. The Quackers were still bickering up above everyone in their two halves of their dinghy. The clouds were still there, just kind of existing. The air was in its rightful place. The planet was slowly spinning at an incredible rate. The suns were revolving around each other. The fabric of reality had a couple wrinkles and could probably hav eused an ironing but overall didn’t look too faded or anything.

“Don’t you dare call me a skank! I’m not even a woman anymore and I’m still offended as cluck!”

“That’s not what aye was saying but ye were definitely a skank.”

“I’m gonna clucking murder you.”

“Don’t saye it then do it you clucking vussy.”

There was an audible ‘Oooo’ from the growingly captivated audience.

Sir Broderick, sick of looking at Blitswald’s excessively vulgar visage, looked down at Michael. He noticed that what was there was a stuffed animal and not at all an actual dog.

“Oi oi okay what in the cluck is this shit? It felt like an actual dog a second ago! I opened its mouth and flopped its tongue around and everything!!”

It turns out that, to the surprise of everyone except Assafrass who had been mentally communicating with him the entire time, Michael had wanton funneled away to a rare lady-dog-only-planet right before Sir Broderick had fallen on him. Then, he had wanton funnelled back, passed out from sheer exhilaration at garnering the attention of so many vitches. Then, he had wanton funnelled over to Blitswald’s side, jolted awake by the experience, as soon as Sir Broderick looked down at where he had been.

As for the stuffed Michael imitation, it had simply wanton funneled—

“What in the cluck is going on in my mind right now?!” Sir Broderick jabbered, aghast at all these bizarre explanations of absurdly implausible wanton funneling. “What in the clucking hen is wanton funneling?!”