“Um, excrete me?” fussed Krumbumbum, “What about us now?”

Herraldingus snorted. “HhhI would be more thhan hhappy to shhhare some withhh yhhhou!”

“Yeah, Krumbumbum,” chuckled Broderica, “Share some chicken with Dingus.”

“Herraldingus!” whined Herraldingus.

They sat awkwardly chomping on chicken in silence, staring at the bonfire as to avoid any eye contact. It crackled and sizzled and popped and fizzled while they munched and crunched and slurped and burped. Then, the giant chicken legs dangling overhead twitched.

BUH BUKAAAAAAWWW

The legs straightened out and jiggled and a large torrent of stinky white liquid sludge spewed all over the bonfire, its overspray covering everyone’s faces and pygmy chicken wings.

PSHHHHHHHH

Smoke billowed into the air as peope began simultaneously dry heaving.

“Whhhat was thahht?” asked Herbertingus, comparatively unphazed by the chicken shit all over his face.

“Oh don’t you play coy with us! We all know you all know what and why and how that just happened!” Biscuit Pisser blathered, spitting bits of fried chicken all over everyone.

“EhhhAAck—eherm, ehaaaAAck—Eh, excrete—ehAAA—me. We honestly have—ehhaaacck ehaaa—no idea what you’re talking about.”

Broderica bristled, boiling the chicken shit off her face and cleavage into a pale cloud of stink. “No idea what we’re talking about? Why who do you clucking scandifferous lobster swaddlers take us for?! We weren’t born today!”

“Everyone can tell you weren’t born today, Broderica,” wnorted Krumbumbum, “I mean just look at your complexion. Those are some angry pores.”

“You better magically zip your mouth before I sew it shut for you!”

“There’s no way you can sew, Shitface.”

“What the cluck is that supposed to mean? I have tits now don’t I? Why wouldn’t I be able to sew?”

“Exc—ehaAAAAhhaaaAAAaack—excrete me but I—ehhaaahh—can’t right tell if you’re serious or not.”

Broderica, Krumbumbum and Biscuit Pisser glowered at Turdmonger, huffing and eye twitching in sync.

“Ehaaccck! What what’d I do wrong? I’m—eehaaAAack—sorry I used all of your dresses to wipe boogers and snot off my hands okay I’m sorry I lost my kerchief I’ll do—eehhhAAACK—better next time. I’m such a dumbass.”

Broderica’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, her tits doing to same in relation to her robes.“DumbASS! ASS?! What cluck is wrong with you you madwom—madma—crazy pers—clucking lunatic! Get your disgrossting sinuses in check and don’t butt in to things you don’t understand just to tell the people who do understand that you don’t understand! We don’t give a cluck if you don’t understand! In fact if anything we’re glad you don’t understand! We don’t want you to understand! Cluck you!”

Turdmonger crumpled and sulked, whimpering with light hacks here and there, begrudgingly wiping mucus on their own robe sleeves.

“Okay okay alright now lemme get something straight, because I’m getting an inkling of a hunch and I want to know if my hunch has a back,” Biscuit Pisser commanded, waving her arms around as if to pinch the nipples of everyone listening at once, “You cloaked cluckers just so happened to have your dinner, which just so happened to be pygmy chicken wings, right under the tree our humongous chicken is caught in?”

“Thahht’s what it ihhs?” Herbertingus pungently wondered.

“No it was actually a rather medium sized toad that shat all over the bonfire,” Krumbumbum smirked, “We rode along its warty back as it hopped along Caldonia until it got stuck in that tree. And here we are.”

Broderica, Krumbumbum and Biscuit Pisser learned that Turdmonger, Javelda, Vinvinvan, Frivelvert, and Herraldingus were actually witches. The witches learned that while Biscuit Pisser, Broderica and Krumbumbum were not actually women, they were actually vitches.

“Speaking of which—” Krumbumbum paused with a cheesy smirk. No one laughed. “Eherm. Speaking of which, would any of you happen to be able to, heh, swap us back? I’m getting a little tired of having boobs.”

“You don’t have any clucking boobs woman!” squacked Broderica, swinging her enourmous bossoms like pendulums.

“EhhhaaaAAAAcckk—look, we witches, you ought to know we don’t normally mess with—ehaaaacccck—magical body modification. It’s not necessarily our focus, if you will.”

Krumbumbum rolled her eyes at Turdmonger’s wimpy reasoning. Whether witches liked using magic to modify their bodies or not, she remembered her days at magic school. In a flash moans of pleasure clouded her mind as she remembered how readily her own magic was put to hood use against witches…so many witches…maybe even an extraordinarily lucky warlock or two…

“We take a more holistic approach to—ehaaack—magic. Hen, if we were to try and switch you back you might end up like me!”

Nobody laughed.

“Ha—ehAAAhhh—hamnit. Thought that was a hood one. Self awareness and all.”

Speaking of awareness, when everyone did their best to avoid Turdmonger’s embarassed eye contact, they realized that the wildfire Broderica had started earlier had spread across all the surrounding trees, encircling them.

“Feathery shit!” Krumbumbum shrieked, her top flapping like a wind sock. “Quick! We’ve got to get out of here! Do you witches have any brooms with you?”

The five witches turned to eachother with sheepish glances.

“Uhumm…we had some uh some rent-a-brooms…but uhhh…” Frivelvert murmured, speaking for the first time, “…they, uhm, they all ran uh ran out of uhm juice.”

“Ran out of juice? Aren’t you magic can’t you just fill them up with whatever juices they need?”

“hhYou cahhn’t juhhst put ahhny jhhuices in there!” rasped Herbertingus disgrosstingly.

“EeehhaaAAhh—he’s ehhaaack—he’s right. The rent-a—ahhAAAaack—a-brooms only accept proprietaery juices. And ours ran all out. That’s—ehaaaaAAAcck—what we used for our bonfire.”

“Are you saying,” Broderica snorted, “that you used the brooms all up so then you burned them?”

“EhhAAAA—yes. A lot of witches do it. They can’t—eehhaacck—track you down to pay for the juices if you burn them.”

“You people disgrosst me.”

At once they all wordlessly decided to scamper up the thick tree trunk as best the could in hopes of mounting the chicken. Of course since they all tried at once it quickly devolved into pushing others off the tree, pulling at dresses and cloaks, spitting and scratching, yelling first, or not I’m first, or cluck you I’m second and there’s nothing you can do about it, or any sort of vulgar insults. Eventually, bruised and bloodied and with muscles apulled all eight of them had clambered atop the comb of the chicken which was itself halfway asleep.

Gasping for breath, they all looked at eachother, not sure what exactly to do, where to go, what to think, and who to scold. Finally, Biscuit Pisser opened her mouth to give her two cents.

BLLALAAAAAARRRGGGLLLAALAAGGGBBBFFFFF

Broderica spouted a geyser of vomit all over the beak of the chicken, nearly pushing herself off the comb only to be caught in Krumbumbum’s spindly arms.

“Oh cluck! Sorry about that everyone. Think I got a spell of vertigo there. Should be better now.”

Biscuit Pisser bristled a little, frustrated at the loss of her moment. Then, she once again inhaled and prepared to give them all her briefing.

BBLAAAAAAABBBBAALLLAAAABBAAAGGFFFFFFFFF

Another fountain of puke pushed Broderica back, this time propelling her and Krumbumbum into the side of Herbertingus and knocking him clean off the chicken to the fiery depths below.

“EhhaaAAAaack! Ehhaaa—Hera—ehhaaa—Heral—eeehhhAAAAAAAAAAAaaaack—Herbertingus! Ehhacc—Noooo!” Turdmonger spat their mucus all over Herbertingus.

“AAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaaaa…” Herbertingus screamed fartily as he tumbled in what appeared to be slow motion.

“Slow motion falling to death spell?” Krumbumbum tsked. “Everyone knows casting spells for dramatic deaths only ensures it’ll happen. I mean, martyrdom fetish much? Ick. No thanks!”

“Uhm, so, uh, how uh how do we uh how do we get this thing to take off?”

Broderica growled like a boobcat. “I don’t know but stop staring at my titties.”

Suddenly the chicken juddered like it was floating in a bathtub that had had a magical toaster tossed into it. Its feathers ruffled and with an extreme bout of flatulence it burst from the thick branches of the tree and soared into the smoky air, buffeting the tongues of the flames below them. The chicken then twirled and did two barrel rolls.

“Uhhm, um, AAAaaaaaah!” screamed Frivelvert apprehensively as he too fell off the chicken and into the flames.

Turdmonger began to hack and hack in an attempt to cry out for his lost comrade. Biscuit Pisser looked around briefly and then elbowed Turdmonger in the kidney, sending him too careening off the chicken to his fiery doom.

“Eehhaaaa—AAAAAaaaaaah! Ehack!”

“Eeeheehee. It seems you and I are the only witches let, dearie Vinvinvan,” mumbled Jivelda, scratching the wrinkles of her chin.

“Ye yes it do does.”

“Don’t worry don’t worry it’s easy to hold on to this chicken they were just chumps.”