Kotopouli realised she needed to get out of that mess. She stood back up on the saddle and pushed her chicken’s head down. “Come on, come on, stupid chicken. Get what I’m getting at. Go. Just clucking go!”
It took its damn time, but it finally got it.
Cluck!
And it shot off towards the finish line.
Kotopouli was happy for a moment, thinking she had outsmarted everyone.
“Oh, no! The bout is over and now the real race begins!” the announcer said.
Kotopouli’s face went pale. She forced herself to look back as the entire flock of chickens came charging her way.
“Go, go, clucking go!” she yelled at her mount, slapping the side of his head. He ran, oh he tried, but he was a piece of cluck.
The flock came crashing on top of her, and in an instant she was overwhelmed, spinning around, out of control, parts flying off into the air, a piston coming in hot and sizzling on her arm, a screw shooting right into her cheek. “Clucking, ow!” she exclaimed, fighting to stay on the saddle.
It was a free-for-all around her. Everybody, and I mean everybody was at each other’s throats. Chicken legs flew off, torn apart by swords or angry beaks. One jockey in particular had a nasty chicken with spinning saws on its beak that tore through at least three other chickens in the few seconds Kotopouli could spare to watch.
It was madness. It was the chicken race.
Cluck!
“Yes, I know,” she said, trying to comfort her poor mount. “Just try to avoid them all. Just try. And we both might make it to the finish line.”
Who was she kidding? Nobody made it to the finish line, none except the victor. Even then, he or she sometimes didn’t make it in one piece, and that wasn’t an infrequent occurrence.
Every year, each family could sign up a jockey to ride in the chicken races. Every year, the best and the finest, or at least what was left of each family, would ride and get turned into chicken pulp.
Now she realised why her clucking sister kept eating all the time. She couldn’t possibly fit her fat behind in the saddle, let alone have the speed to race.
It seemed, her big sister was the clever one.
A beak came straight at her face and Kotopouli instinctively blocked it with her sword.
It snapped in half, sending shards of metal to slice her arm. She cried out in pain and could see the beak coming in for the kill.
Thankfully, her chicken used the precious seconds she had earned very well. He too dodged and pulled his jockey out of one harm’s way, and straight into a different harm’s way.
An entire chicken jumped up in the air and came slamming down on them. It was big, it was fat, and it was heavy. Kotopouli knew then, she was about to die. Pulped, in the chicken races, a mere five-hundred metres from the finish line.
She closed her eyes, gripped her belt tight, and braced for the inevitable squish.
She felt her multi-tool in her hands. Everything in her body hurt, the chickens weren’t easy to ride even when nobody was trying to kill you, but she realised something. Her grandfather had given this to her for a reason. She gripped it tight and opened her eyes wide, multi-tool in hand.
What do you do with a multi-tool?
“You clucking screw things!” she answered to herself, grinning like a madwoman. The chicken was coming down on both jockeys, fluttering its stupid wings and slightly adjusting its trajectory. Kotopouli fell to the side and in a feat of dexterity, screwed the other chicken’s leg. It froze in place, the chicken turning in circles like, well, a headless chicken. The jockey riding it cursed at her, then got squished.
Cluck!
“Nope, it’s not happening to us,” she assured her chicken, then slapped it to get running.
The squish-happy jockey jumped up in the air again, and Kotopouli repeated the same routine, sabotaging the closest chicken she could find and letting it get squished instead of her.
Cluck. Cluuuck!
“Yes, run, chicken. Run!” she said excited, seeing the opening and going for the finish line.
The heavy chicken realised it too late and began pursuit, but she was light. Lighter than most jockeys actually. She had lost her sword even, and her chicken had shed a few precious pieces of machinery.
“Come oooon! You just have to hold it together for a few more seconds,” she said with gritted teeth, now becoming one with the chicken’s trot. She felt the air hitting her face and her cuts stung, but she didn’t care.
The angry chicken behind her tore through the ground, its feet hitting the earth and digging in holes as it sprinted forward, despite its weight.
Metres away from the finish line, it caught up to her. Or, more precisely, its beak snapped shut on her chicken’s tail, pulling them both to a screeching halt.
“I’m sorry,” she said to her chicken and unbuckled her harness.
Cluck?
Flying through the air, throwing her petite body towards the black-and-white ribbon, she turned back and saw it all in slow motion. She could see her poor chicken’s eyes, realising he’d been left behind, abandoned to the beak of an angry chicken, being crushed slowly and steadily. She had jumped forward with not a care about how she’d land. She just needed to get through the finish line, even it wasn’t in one piece.
For her family.
The End
Sweet, Hot Taffy
"No, don't run away!" Irina pleaded as the man fled.
He shat himself as he ran. Irina stopped on the sidewalk, arm raised in a non-threatening gesture of 'Wait!' She couldn't understand what was really happening. All she wanted was to find the 'Be-Positive.'
That was nice, right?
Of course it was. Nothing that nice-sounding could ever be bad. She held her head, her thoughts were hazy. She couldn't actually remember what the Be-Positive was, but she knew she really wanted to find some, and fast. But she kept asking people for directions and they didn't even give her a chance!
Such mean people.
Where was this rude town anyway? She had no idea. She could understand the signs on the streets, so at least she wasn't that far away. But something felt off. It was quiet, if you discounted the loud cheers of joy she heard from an alley just a while ago.
Irina walked down the street. Cars were left in the middle of the road, no wonder nobody could go to work or anything! Why were people always so inconsiderate to others? She hated that.
Anyway, no bad thoughts, Irina. Be-Positive! Yay!
She walked through the abandoned cars. Some were messy, too. There was a nice smell coming from them, like hot taffy. She sniffed the air. It was unusual, had she hit her head or something? Could she be one of those people wandering off after a car-crash, concussed and confused?
Maybe.
She leaned in and checked her reflection in a rear-view mirror. Eh, she could barely see herself, and she twisted her body around, trying to get a good angle on everything. She didn’t look hurt, it was just her normal, curvy self, wearing a red dress. She couldn’t remember ever buying that dress, but it fit her nicely. As she turned herself over, she realised she needed to find a bigger mirror.
She walked to a shop window, it was reflective enough and the interior was dark enough to make a mirror. That too was weird, it seemed like it was the middle of the day, yet the shop was closed. Anyway, enough with that. She checked herself out, raising her leg on the ledge, then the other. She didn’t seem to find any cuts or bruises.
There was a weird crick in her neck, and she stretched herself to rub it better. She also felt weird on her back, on the shoulder blade. Maybe she had been in an accident after all, but with no visible bruises?
Ah! Could she have internal injuries?
She didn’t feel like it, just a bit sore. And she also had these long fingernails, they were perfectly done by a manicurist, long and red. She never had her nails long like that, it always bugged her when it came to manipulating stuff. So that was weird. Was she getting dressed for some sort of event
? A wedding, perhaps? And what about the nails? Somebody had to have convinced her to get them, they were so out of her usual style.
Oh well, must have been a special offer or something, she definitely was a sucker for such things!
Irina kept on walking the empty streets for a while. Now, this was getting ridiculous. Where was everybody? These bloody towns. What was it, a festival or something?
Was that what Be-Positive was? Perhaps she was going there, and then she forgot why. Perhaps someone was waiting for her.
A date!
That’s why she was so dolled up, that must be what it was!
Silly Irina.
She tilted her head and concentrated on a noise somewhere. As she did that, drool fell down the side of her mouth. Oh, come on now, be ladylike, dammit! This is no way to act in public. She wiped her drool and kept on listening.
She scanned the area. A store front, another one, a pizza place… A dumpster. Yup, there was definitely someone behind that dumpster.
She walked up to it, and could see that the man was somehow stuck behind it. He made some weird sound from his throat. He was definitely crying for help.
“Relax, silly! I’ll help you out,” Irina told him and got ready to get her hands dirty. She grabbed the dumpster, this was why she didn’t like long nails, and she pushed it aside.
It slid to the side.
Huh. It must have been empty.
Oh well…
“Hello, mate! No need to shout. Hey, could you tell me where Be-Positive is?”
The man lunged at her. Irina dodged him with a swift shuffle of her legs. The man kept on running down the road.
“Hey, wait! That is bloody rude, mate!”
She reached out and grabbed his leg, making him trip. “Okay, sorry, mate, but you shoved me first, and I was trying to help you! I mean, really, what is it with that rude behaviour around here?”
Some drool fell from her mouth again right on top of his shirt. She gently held him down with one hand as he thrashed and kicked her. “Oh, so sorry about that! So, so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me, can’t seem to keep my bloody drool inside my mouth! How silly is that?” she chuckled, but the man didn’t seem to find it funny.
Instead, he punched her.
“Ow, you bloody bastard!” she snapped back, and gently punched him in the stomach.
For some reason, that nice smell wafted from his person again. That hot taffy smell, so sweet and delicious. There it was, her entire hand inside his belly, and as she pulled it out the soft taffy was all over her fingers. She licked it, and it tasted heavenly.
“How rude of me,” she chuckled, unable to control herself, still licking her fingers. “This is a weird way to meet your acquaintance…”
The man gurgled taffy from his mouth.
“Now that’s an understatement,” Irina agreed.
She licked her fingers, she was so bloody hungry all of a sudden. The man had stopped thrashing, at least that was a good thing. Perhaps he was calm enough now to answer her question?
“Hey, mate, I just wanna know, where is Be-Positive?” She flashed her biggest smile at him.
Nothing.
What the hell, had he fallen asleep?
Irina stood up. Still that crick in her shoulder. She felt a lot better now after that sweet taffy, but her thoughts were still muddled. She turned her head and stared at herself in the store-front’s reflection.
Same thing, her, dressed in red, drooling again (dammit!) standing over a man with warm taffy coming out of his belly and mouth. Okay, that last one sounded weird, she had to admit that.
A flicker.
Everything was the same, but the sweet taffy in her mouth felt more metallic. Vampirina’s long nails were even weirder, like metal fingers. Her teeth were stained with red lipstick, and they felt larger somehow in her mouth. And that crick on her shoulder? Well, it seemed like a bloodhunter symbiote.
Wait, what?
She shook her head. Everything came back to normal.
There it was, all better.
Now, if only someone could tell her where that bloody Be-Positive was, everything would be alright.
The End
Have You Tried Turning Her Off and On Again?
“Have you tried turning her off and on again?” the tech support lady drolled on the holocall.
“Yes!” Jack said, exasperated. “That’s what you tell me to do every single time. I have. She’s smoking from her back, it’s not a software issue. Or, at least it’s not just that anymore.”
“Okay sir, we’re sending a technician over to service your sexdoll. Thank you for calling 6T9, we’re here for you to plug any hole.”
Then she hung up.
Jack waited anxiously, tapping his foot. He could see his doll through the door, slumped forward, smell of smoke in a hazy room. He felt bad about that, so he went in and opened a window to air it out.
It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang.
“Hello, this is your technician Wendy from 6T9, here to service your sexdoll. If you please point me to the room where she’s installed,” said the bored technician, carrying her toolkit.
“Right this way,” Jack said, inviting her in. “Here she is. I’ve followed everything support told me to do on the phone, nothing worked.”
“Hmm, I see,” Wendy said, inspecting the sexdoll. She put on plastic disposable gloves and turned her over, then plugged some device into a hidden slot in her back.
Jack was nervous, pacing up and down. He wanted to intrude, but decided that it would help speed things along if he just stayed out of the technician’s way.
Wendy checked the readings. “I see that you’ve had a similar malfunction three times already, but you opted-out of our offer to replace the sexdoll.”
“Well, yeah. I wanted this one. A replacement wouldn’t be her,” Jack said, apologetically.
Wendy raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, they are identical, sir. And in case you’ve paid for any mods, which I can see you haven’t, they too would have been replicated.”
“Yes, but I want this one. Can’t you fix her?” Jack said, pleading with his hands.
“We certainly can!” Wendy perked up and went back to checking the readings. “Same malfunction, every time. Sir, I need to ask you about how you use our product. Please be assured that I’m bound by my contract to not disclose any information to anyone, ever. Think of it like talking to your therapist.”
“Okay…” he said, hesitating. “Ask away.”
“What is the exact nature of your sessions with her?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you use our product? Doggy-style? Reverse cowgirl? What?” she asked, spitting the terms in a deadpan, even bored tone of voice.
“Uh, sometimes, yes,” Jack said, his face turning red.
“I can actually see the logs, sir. You’ve done none of that. Listen, part of troubleshooting is sometimes figuring out what weird shit the client does to the doll. Now, trust me, I’ve seen it all. And I do mean, all. Nothing you say will shock me. Just lay it out for me, what’s your kink?” She batted her eyelashes and waited, tablet at the ready to jot his reply down.
“Uh… I don’t think I have any.”
Wendy snorted. “Right. You have a sexdoll that costs half an apartment’s worth and you don’t have any sexual kinks. Sir, all of our clients are weirdos, nothing to be ashamed of. Well, at least not when your money keeps going into our bank account.”
Jack was getting angry now. “I’m telling you, I don’t have any kinks.”
Wendy sighed and put the tablet away. She licked her lips, shut the back panel on the sexdoll and turned to him once more. “Sir, I have all gyroscopic and inertial data here. The sexdoll records your sessions so she can become better at pleasing you. Honestly, man, this was a high-priority call and I’m late on a dinner with my wife. I’d much rather be figuring this out early and being home with her than standing in your sticky sex room and begg
ing you to tell me what you’re doing to your sexdoll to mess her up.”
Jack said nothing.
“I know you’re tinkering with the product, but none of the other technicians could figure it out. That’s why they sent me. You might have noticed my lack of decorum here, we’re basically teetering on the edge of a lawsuit. They don’t usually send me out on calls, for a good reason. But I’m the best, and I can’t figure out how you’re fucking the damn doll to mess her up like that.”
“I don’t fuck her,” Jack said softly.
Wendy cupped her ear with her hand. “Excuse me, what was that?”
“I don’t fuck her,” he repeated.
“You don’t fuck your sexdoll,” Wendy mocked him back, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Suuure…”
“We have sex… It’s just not, like that,” Jack said, waving his arm in her direction. “Like what you described.”
“Come on, dude, I’m trying to fix your fuck-toy so you can get back to pounding it! Tell me what it is you’re doing to her. What is it? Hot wax in her pussy? Almond milk in her ear? Drilling a Lumbar Puncture in her lower spine and then fucking it? I’m telling you, I’ve seen it all. Just tell me what it is.”
“I make love to her,” Jack said, softly.
Wendy’s eyes went wide. “WHAT?” she exclaimed, stepping back. She looked as if he had just admitted he liked killing puppies.
“I just make love to her,” Jack repeated with a shrug.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to treat her! Where’s the abuse? The punching? The humiliation?”
MOAB � Mother Of All Boxsets Page 98