Monday, 2 July 2007

Chapter 12

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A hardboiled blog novel parody thingie that is a complete and total work of fiction, any real people mentioned here, are mentioned strictly for the purposes of parody, so don't sue.


Where was I?

Oh yeah, a giant rooster had just locked its beak on my throat and was about to take my head off.

Lucky for me, I just happened to have a black belt in Karate.

I took the belt out of my pocket and wrapped it around the monstrous chicken's throat and pulled tight with all my mighty strength. The humongous rooster let go of my neck and started struggling.

"Oh my!" cried out GiGi. "He's choking the chicken!"

"A little help would be nice," I said as the giant rooster thrashed madly.

"We're the damsels in distress," answered Playful1, "and besides, I'm still annoyed that you implied that I'm some sort of crazy cat-lady in the last chapter."

"What about you?" I asked Chompy, but he was busy laying a severed thrashing on Marcel, brothel doorman and giant rooster handler. I wasn't going to call him rat-faced anymore, because he needed a face in order to be rat-faced.

It was then that I realized that I was going to have to defeat this piece of genetically engineered poultry all by myself.

It also happened to be the exact same time that I realised the rooster had leapt out the window and took me with it.

There are some that still speak of that night in Cannes, and of the high pitched and girlish scream that was heard as a window broke, but they're all damn dirty liars.

I let out a manly war cry as the giant rooster and I fell out the shattered window and plunged to what had to be our certain deaths. My mighty fists pounded the huge bird's head while he clawed at me with his wings, pecked at me with his beak, and battered me with his flapping wings.

We were going down, but we were both gonna make sure the other made it to hell first.

Damn, this had to be one long fall to use up all this narration.

Suddenly, the fall, and my narration of it ended with a meaty thud and a splat.

"Sacre merde!" screamed an onlooker, "ze tres grandes poulet and ze devilishly handsome man has crushed ze Americain filmmaker Michael Moore!"

"Get me to New York!" moaned the battered body of Michael Moore, "Cause I'll be damned if I get stuck in a public hospital!"

I rolled off of Michael Moore and sprung sprightly to my feet.

The massive rooster, a little battered also got up, and scratched the cobblestones in defiance.

"Bring it on," I said, "or are you chicken!"

The genetically gigantified rooster let out a sqwawk and charged. I leapt into the air and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to its head. The enormous bird stumbled sideways across the street and ploughed through a gaggle of paparazzi gathered around a red carpet.

I didn't give the feathered bastard a chance to breath. I lunged at the rooster, punching and kicking like a man possessed. The rooster was tougher than I thought because he fought right back, and soon we were a jumble of feathers and fists rolling down the steeply sloping street towards the Mediterranean Ocean.

There was a splash and I suddenly found myself in dark water, wedged between to massive yachts. The only sign of my opponent was a few feathers floating in the water.


Who knew a giant rooster could be such a powerful swimmer.

I certainly didn't, or I wouldn't have let myself get literally punched out of the water by it.

I hit the wharf hard, and saw stars. Specifically the stars of Ocean's 13 all gathered around the dock.

"Yo dude," said Brad Pitt, "what are you doing?"

"Fighting a giant rooster," I answered. "Did anyone see where it went?"

"Is that it?" said George Clooney, pointing to a giant rooster reading a newspaper by a lightpole.

"That's not the one I'm fighting," I said. "Maybe you folks should go someplace safe, considering you Hollywood folks have very few practical skills."

"I know a good card trick," said Clooney, taking out a deck of cards. "Now pick a card... any card..."

Clooney attempted to fan out the cards, but only succeeded in spilling them on the dock.

"Don't worry," said Clooney summoning his butler to pick up the cards, "I'll get it right this time."

His butler arrived, but there was something odd about him. He seemed quite large for a butler, and had feathers.

"Look out!" I cried, but it was too late. The rooster leapt out of his butler's uniform and pecked George Clooney's head clean off.

I can still remember his last words: "Not the face! It's all I got!"

The rest of the cast screamed and ran for the big yacht. I got ready for a battle royale with cheese.

The giant rooster tossed George Clooney's carcass aside and looked at me with it's beady chicken eyes.

I stepped back to the edge of the dock. Behind me, the big yacht's engine roared to life, stirring up the water with its propellers.

I got into my fighting stance. The rooster stepped back.

Then it charged, it's bloodstained beak ready to carve me a new one.

I stepped to the side, spinning into another roundhouse kick, this time to the monstrosity's ample backside.

The giant rooster let out a sqwawk of terror and plunged into the churning waters and the spinning propeller blades. Blood and feathers bubbled to the surface. Not even Colonel Sanders could make anything useful out of that.

I turned from the battlefield, bloodied, battered, but victorious.


I found Chompy, GiGi and Playful1 in the bar of our hotel. Playful1 was on the courtesy phone.

"What do mean animal control took all of my cats?" asked Playful1 to the phone. "But what will I have for catapult practice?"

"You beat that rooster?" asked GiGi as I took a stool next to her.

"Yep. Let me buy the next round," I said, passing a credit card to the bartender. "Martinis for the ladies, a bottle of bourbon for me, and a banana daquiri for the badger."

"Oui oui Monsieur Clooney," said the bartender.

"Why do you have George Clooney's credit card?" asked Playful1, hanging up the phone.

"You have to read the rest of the chapter," I answered, not eager to repeat myself. "So, did you ladies just sit here drinking while I was fighting for my life?"

"Yep," the answered and Chompy nodded.

"Lovely," I said. "What about all we've been through?"

"LaFarge has the translation of the map," said Playful1, "that means he going to find the Budgie."

"What if I told you that the map has two routes to the Albanian Budgie," I said, "and that I told him the long way, while I memorized the shortcut?"

"Really?" asked the girls.

I nodded.

"All we have to do is go to China," I said.

"What about the ninjas?" asked GiGi.

"What ninjas?"

"The ones that just walked into the bar," said Playful1, pointing to an group of ninjas blocking every exit. Their swords were out, and all were staring at us with cold deadly eyes.

Why is everybody trying to kill me?


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