Tuesday, August 09, 2016

Death Chicken

So, I'm working on a series of Four Horsemen books ("working on" = 3 outlined, one in progress, all on hold pending completion of the first draft of a Prometheus book that I've decided will be done by Halloween).

Anyway, my mind does weird shit. Really weird shit. I have NO IDEA where some of this stuff comes from. This morning while the dogs still snored and the pre-dawn was just starting to invade the room, I hovered in that half-awake/half-dreaming stage right before getting up. This scene played out in my head. It's not enough to be a short story: it'd be a fun cartoon if I could draw worth a damn, but since I cannot I'll post it here and keep a copy for Death's book when I get to him.

I'm sure he'll be thrilled.


Someone had turned the TV on in the kitchen. Death shook his head and popped another Dorito in his mouth. Even here, at their parents' estate in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, the news could be found via satellite. Mom's tuneless humming, the 6pm BBC News anchor's droning announcements, the girls' laughing in the pool, burgers on the grill: what a perfect day off. Death dozed comfortably and let himself relax.

"And announced today, Archaeologists have discovered a previously unknown civilization buried in the jungle. Three of the seven tombs found so far have been opened, and artifacts including pottery shards and jewelry have been dated to six thousand years ago."

"Seriously?" Death grumbled with his eyes still closed. He heard War's low snicker.

"Scientists aren't sure yet what the meaning is of the six foot tall gold chicken, particularly as it appears to have been carved wearing a cloak and an extremely malevolent expression, but it is believed to have great ritual significance." 

War's snickers erupted into fully belly-laughs. "GREAT RITUAL SIGNIFICANCE," he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.

Death rolled his eyes wished yet again for just a smidge of his mother's talent for staring people to stone. He wrangled his way out of the anti-gravity pool chair, carefully put his plate on the tile floor, and stood over his brother.

"You. Suck." He pushed War into the pool.

"It's NOT my fault! You took the bet, dumbass. It was only a month. Fair's fair," War sputtered. "How the hell was I supposed to know they'd worship you in that form just because they were on Plague's to-do list and you had to visit every day that month?"

"Asshat." Death slipped his Hawaiian shirt on with as much dignity as he could muster and walked in the kitchen for more alcohol.

Family gatherings. Sigh.

War hooted from the pool: "DEATH CHICKEN!"

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