The Chickens have Landed - Part Two

Atyllah the Hen...

The Chickens Have Landed - Part One


“So,” says Atyllah the Hen slurping through a straw at her mopani worm juice, “do you want to tell us about it?”
“What’s the point,” I mutter, “You already know. I can feel your mind creeping about my thoughts like a ravenous, oversized mealworm.”
“I’ll ignore that reference,” says Atyllah.
“Ooh, mealworms, did you say mealworms?!” cries Granny Were excitedly. “Oh I don’t suppose you have any?”
“Out in the garage,” I say, “In the aquarium. Left over from Ms Bo’s days.”
“Hmm,” mutters Atyllah, her tone as dark as a storm cloud whose thunder’s been stolen. “I heard about that. I always said no good would come of your playing at Mother Fowl. Or is that foul?” she murmurs sotto voce.
“Listen here,” I protest.
“Ptchah!” snorts Atyllah and little flecks of mopani worm juice create an unattractive speckling on the fabric of the sofa. “So, this trouble you’ve been having… You do know,” she says giving me the kind of thoughtful look that would make lesser beings crumble to dust, “don’t you, that your infuriation has been radiating across the multiverse like a star going supernova on a clear night. I’m surprised the Alpha Vampirieans haven’t been here yet to leech all that juicy red hot energy from you.”
“The Alpha Vampirieans? Who the hell are they?”
“Ah, yes, hell indeed, but perhaps the less said the better. I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares, think how my own beauty sleep might be disrupted. Let’s just say they materialized 240 degrees off the west front of the Gamma Quadrant, and have been making um… food along the way.”
I consider her words for a moment and feel beads of icy sweat prickle on the back of my neck. Alpha Vampirieans…
“Yes, that’s right,” says Atyllah, “The general idea forming in that pea brain of yours is about right.”
I do so resent the liberties the Chicken takes in infiltrating my thoughts – and categorizing my brain.
She smiles. “Don’t you just wish you were telepathic? Now, now, don’t lie…”
From the back yard I hear a contented belch. Clearly Granny has not only found the mealworms but has eaten the lot. Sigh.
“Now, about this trouble of yours, tell me all about it.”
“What’s the point, you know anyway or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, but you know that a problem shared is a problem halved.”
Oh the rhetoric!
“Sarcasm, my dear Vanilla, as you have so often told me, is not an enviable form of wit. But no matter, given your reluctance, shall I just list the annoyances of the last few weeks and we can form a plan of action from there.”
“Action? Did someone finally say action?” Granny flings herself upon the sofa and lets rip a fart of spectacular proportions. “Sorry,” she says fanning the fumes away, “it was the beans I found in your vegetable patch. They don’t seem to quite agree with me.”
FRRRRT!
“Perhaps we should sit outside,” I suggest as a noxious vapour threatens to overpower me.
We migrate to the patio and watch the space pod as it bobs, glinting like a pearlescent oyster, around the pool.
“Now, as I see it,” says Atyllah, “first there was that so-called friend of yours who decided she was swanning off to a spa for a month.”
“I don’t see any problem there,” said Granny frowning. “What’s wrong with going to a spa. Ooh, do you think she’d mind if I joined her.”
“Oh yes, please do,” I encourage. “I wouldn’t have minded at all,” I say turning to Atyllah, “were it not for the fact that we were going halfway across the world to visit and stay with her. I mean, it is a bit rude, don’t you think, having made all the arrangements, booked the flights, checked and double checked that our visit would not inconvenience her, for her to suddenly turn round and say, ‘oh, I probably won’t be here when you get here’. I mean, you know, WTF?”
“Yes, I see your point,” says Atyllah, preening an errant wing feather. “Not very nice.”
“No manners that,” snaps Granny, “No etiquette. Most inconsiderate.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.
“Yes, I think perhaps I may well pay her a visit in that spa,” murmurs Granny, her eyes glinting in a way that has been known to make warrior Draconians tremble in their iron studded boots.

Granny Were...

TO BE CONTINUED…If the world survives.