It was low noon by the time Sir Broderick the Shitfaced and the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus sauntered out of the Wayword Woods and into the Ainthadnothin’toeat district of BigHead, which was comprised mainly of slums, broken glass, feces and shame, as opposed to the slums, broken glass, feces and pride of the rest of the city.

Sir Broderick was hankering heavily for an alcoholic beverage, and Dr. Krumbunculus’ alcohol spell had taken such a toll on his digits that he found himself needing a non-magic based refreshment of his own. They were in search of a tavern with which they could spend their pocket change. They were also covered in near microscopic texicachican biting bugs, tiny red devils that swarmed like locusts over human flesh and would while sucking your blood shout insulting profanities with their secondary mouths, the only plague of the Wayword Woods that even a wizard could not evade.

Luckily for the two of them, their haggard appearances made them actually look quite frightening to the denziens of the Ainthadnothin’toeat district. It was so much so that folks that would often (assuming you looked weak or scared enough, or if they simply didn’t like you) pretend to have a firearm in their pocket til you handed everything over to them or give you a back massage and then attempted to shame you into tipping them or walk up to you and paid you a complement with the expected intention of you then paying them money for said complement instead averted their eyes or hummed to themselves.

This was partially because Dr. Krumbunculus and Sir Broderick were violently arguing about which one of them would pay for drinks. They each had half a chickensfeed between them, and knew that any tavern in BigHead, even in the Ainthadnothin’toeat district, would scarcely accept less than at least a whole chickensfeed for a drink order.

It was of Dr. Krumbunculus’ opinion that Sir Broderick owed him, big time, even though he’d caught food for him and untangled him, because Sir Broderick had also unwittingly burned his home and all of his books of magic to ashes. Also, without Dr. Krumbunculus and his magic Sir Broderick would never have made it out of the Wayword Woods alive, so as far as he was concerned it wasn’t even an argument.

Sir Broderick saw it a little differently. Dr. Krumbunculus would’ve wasted away into a little wizard pretezel if he hadn’t rescued him. The house burning down was hardly his fault, it was all the skyrate’s fault for stealing his ass, and if Dr. Krumbunculus had a splint of sense about him he’d be after the skyrates himself. Surely the skyrates would have enough money to replenish his stupid book collection. The texicachican biting bugs’ incessant insults exacerbated the issue greatly.

“It wasn’t not a stupid book collection you dreary doorhandle it was a compendium of knowledge I’d twerked my whole life to—”

“Life smife you clucking elderberry! Show me something you twerked your whole hamned death on and I’ll be clucking impressed! Why don’t you magic me up another drink by shoving a knuckle up your bunghole or whatever the hen you do!”

“I’m tired!”

“Cock! Listen to you! You’re the most clucking pitiful husk of a soul I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting and I’m honestly shocked you haven’t dropped dead yet! Why you should be stilting around free while my poor ass is imprisoned has me questioning the existence of the chickens at each moment!”

“Shut the cluck up shut up shut your cock hamn mouth about your ass you clucking imbecile! You’re the most disgrossting shameful excuse for a human being I’ve ever met! Have you ever not reeked of alcohol? Do you even care about the dried shit on your face? Do you even care about anything other than your stupid clucking ass?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my ass that way! What did he ever do to you, you hamned crustacean? Why that ass is twice, hen, thrice the man you’ll ever be you wrinkly orange peel!”

“You better get over that thing quick, chuppy, because if you think those skyrates are keeping your lame donkey hanging around for anything other than a gamey dinner then you’re three fruits short of a cake! What you ought to be doing is saving that half a chickensfeed of yours to put forward for a new one!”

“Did you just clucking tell me to buy a new ass? Did you just say to me, Sir Broderick the motherclucking Shitfaced, to save my drinking money so I can buy a replacement ass? Are you clucked in the head?!”

“No, but you might be!”

“Cluck you!”

“No cluck you!”

They were standing within an inchworm of eachother, glaring, breathing their rancid breaths heavily in one another’s face. They could hear crude insults from eachother’s texicachican biting bugs. Sir Broderick clecnhed his fist.

“You say one more word about my cock hamn ass and I’ll flay you like the salamander you are!”

Dr. Krumbunculus chuckled.

“One more word about your cock hamn ass.”

Sir Broderick felt blood pounding through his veins like mercury in a thermometer as less and less alcohol filtered through his nervous system. He grabbed Dr. Krumbunculus by the neck and thrust a fist within half an inchworm of his face, then snorted.

“What a feline you are.”

Sir Broderick tore through Dr. Krumbunculus’ pockets, finding his half chickensfeed.

“I’ll be taking this, kind sirrah.” Sir Broderick pushed Dr. Krumbunculus into the muck covered ground. “Toodley-woodley now!”

Dr. Krumbunculus heaved. Mustering a tiny bit of magic, he tugged on his right ear lobe and blinked his left eye quickly.

CKKKKKTTTT

“Aaaagh!” screamed Sir Broderick as his left foot snapped askew, sending him tumbling on his face, ankle twisted and bruised. “You bass turd!”

“Don’t cross a wizard, son.”

“Do I need to dot you instead or something? You’re not my father!”

“That was weak.”

“You’re weak.”

“So are you.”

“Not as weak as you.”

“You’re weaker in the mind.”

“Kiss my behind!”

“Go suck on some rinds.”

“I think you bruised my spine.”

“No, I think you’re fine.”

“What, are you hitting on me or something?”

“Violence is vulgar.”

“You’re shaped like a vulture.”

“You’re giving me a ulcer.”

Sir Broderick bristled, unsure of how to follow up.

“Don’t you have a spell for that?”

“I did, before you burned it up.”

“Cluck you.”

“Cluck you more.”

Sir Broderick and Dr. Krumbunculus blinked at eachother with the sort of malice that could at this point only mean one thing after hurling so many insults, many of which rhymed. It was not early onset indigestion. Somehow they had managed to become friends.

They both clambered up, Sir Broderick with a leg as stiff as driftwood and Dr. Krumbunculus’ knees cracking like rotten eggs, and walked down the street.

About five minutes passed before they came across a common street swindler sagaciously shuffling shells.

Sir Broderick whispered to Dr. Krumbunculus, “Wanna cluck with him?”

Dr. Krumbunculus nodded. “I think there’s a spell I can remember.”

They whispered among eachother, giddy like full-bladdered schoolchildren.

Sir Broderick sauntered over to the shell shuffler attempted to tip his saucepan, forgetting it was tied around his neck. As a result he instead accidentally hacked a bit of spit on the street hustler’s forehead.

“Hood day to you, sirrah. Might I play you in a game of whatever the hen it is you’re doing? My, ehrm, my uncle over there,” Broderick gestured to Krumbunculus, “is taking me for a bit of a stroll through the township with our huge bags of chickensfeed and suggested I wouldn’t be able to win against you, you being a honed professional and me a slobbering old glass of bourbon.”