Rambi gazed in horror as the largest, most handsome mutant chicken specimen she'd ever seen was brought to the entrance of the pit. It made the one she had so recently disassembled with the chainsaw look like a Cornish hen. As Juan stood and welcomed the crowd to Casa Yadayada, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gleaming blade of the chainsaw and was horrified at the state of her make-up. My god, this was her big scene approaching. She grabbed the barbeque fork and attempted to comb her hair.
For the occasion Juan had retired the hibiscus silk shirt and donned full Flamenco costume; he was adjusting the vest and jiggling his spurs with great pleasure as he announced the Paratour national anthem. Mercifully, someone hit the mute button as the crowd rose and began to sing, which gave Rambi time to wash her hands and reapply her lipgloss before striding boldly into the arena, her glorious golden mane flowing behind her, her eyes intent on the steroidal chicken. She had a daring plan, perhaps a bit gory, but if it worked, the rabid rooster should suffer a debilitating impediment. She smiled grimly at her pun.
The chicken was pawing the ground in a decidedly taurine manner while Juan clapped his hands together in delight. He had apparently trained the chicken and was taking parental pleasure in its performance. As she approached, Rambi lifted the chainsaw and reached for the cord.
Her plan was to rush under the chicken and slice him off at the ankles, disabling him completely, or at least slowing him down enough to throw DryGulch over her shoulder, draw her Uzi and beat a hasty retreat into the jungle.
The chicken, growing bored with watching DryGulch wave a red cloth around, turned toward her. Its beady little eyes lit up as it recognized the tender white meat offering before him as being far more appetizing than the dusty grizzled old man, whose odor offended even a chicken's olfactory sense.
For a moment chicken and woman looked into each other's eyes. Then Rambi, with a cold smile, pulled the cord on the chainsaw.
Nothing happened.
She pulled it again.
It was out of gas.
The chicken cackled.
THe crowd roared in anticipation. A twofer!
Backing slowly away toward the center of the arena, Rambi's mind worked frantically for a solution to the predicament. Where was DryGulch? Was he safe? Had he had time to flee to safety? She risked a glance to the side and saw him taking a cerveza from one of the border guards. "Ah don't reckon you got a chaw o' tobacky on you, young fella?" she heard him ask. "Coulda swore ah put it in mah pocket, but that little greasy lizard fella took mah good clothes and made me put on this here girlyshirt."
Thank god. He was all right and safe, even enjoying himself, making friends. What a sweet guy! She turned back to the chicken.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the flagpole and began to edge toward it. A plan began to emerge in her mind as the chicken, its black button eyes eagerly sizing her up, flexed its deadly talons and the crowd roared, sensing the apex of the afternoon approaching.
Memories of her days with Watumba, the Masai warrior, on safari in Kenya rushed into her mind. THe day they had been charged by a massive male lion, how he had taken the long pole, climbed up it and bent it toward the oncoming killer. She grabbed the flagpole, it was flexible, yes, she shimmied up it until it began to slowly tilt toward the enraged psychotic chicken, who, confused at the sight of his intended victim slithering upward, had stopped advancing and watched curiously. Finally deciding that she had just stupidly placed herself at beak level, he crowed and charged. Rambi slid slowly down the pole until the tip was aimed directly at the heart of the monster and waved at him. "Hey, chickie, chickie!" She called.
Suffering a severe psychotic split induced by steroid overdose, the chicken came as fast as his massive scaley legs could carry him, his beak open and ready. As he readied himself for this luscious morsel of womanhood, he felt something enter his chest, parting the stiff white feathers, piercing the tough exoderm and finally striking his vulnerable little hennyheart. At the squishy sound of cardiac destruction, Rambi slid with catlike grace from the pole, causing it to be released and in a deathly silence, they all listened to the sounds of a very large chicken dying from violent impalement on a flagpole. Boing, boing, boing. |
