“Motherducker!” spat Gilbert, turning to see a shadow cloaked figure hovering on a rent-a-broom. “An actual heathen, Uncle Jarvish.”

“Thank the golden goose. Nothing like an enemy to rally against, is there, my old chup.”

“Yes, Uncle Jarvish. Though I fear I could not pick you out in a lineup.”

“Nevermind it Uncle Gilbert.”

“Shut the cluck up!” growled the hooden villain, a glowing red eye catching a glint of light from under their hood. They raised a furry brown arm and pointed a hooked claw at the Quackers. “Your incessant jabbering irritates me. Minions!”

The stabbing pain of the figures voice cracking as she yelled the word ‘Minions!’ through the air. The air was otherwise silent, that is until Jarvish farted and tried to pass it off on Gilbert through body language.

“Eherm,” the cloaked figure shook her head and facepalmed. “Minions!”

Echoey silence.

“Oh for cock’s sake!” sighed the figure. “Come on out everybody.”

From pink clouds above descended a horde of cloaked figures. However, their cloaks were covered in yellow towels and squeezed into undersized blue overalls.

“And lose the outfits. You were right Blob. It doesn’t twerk.”

Murmurs of ‘thank cock’ and other happy expletives sounded as the henchmen shed their costumes, now instead cloaked in the black hooded robes similar in style and fabric composition to this mysterious leader.

“Well,” Jarvish sighed, wiping sweat off his brow, “this looks quacking foreboding.”

The leader cackled with a wheeze. “I’m glad you see we mean business.”

“I daresay,” Gilbert warbled, “You lot seem mighty wicked. Ehrem, in a hood way, of course.”

The cloaked leader shrugged, flattered.

“We are but kindly soujourning Quackers on our way to spread the Gourd’s word to the Windless Forest. We mean you no ill will, or well will, or weally any will at all.”

One of the henchpersons chuckled. “He said weally.”

“Please, I beseech you oh behooded beclawed bered eyeballed one—let us waddle in peace.”

“Ehh ehhehhhehheheehhehhhh…” cackled a vomit inducing voice from behind. Gilbert and Jarvish swiveled to see some sort of blobular form hovering on a rent-a-broom behind them, with shimmering gold chainmail covering what must’ve been its head. “Ehehh…ehno ehharm…ehhow ehpoetic…ehwhat ehan ehabsolute ehgas…ehhh, ehdo ehyou ehreally ehthink ehthe ehWindless ehForest ehis ehhood ehplace ehto ehgo…hehh hehh…ehyou ehare ehin ehfor ehsome ehbad ehnewss…ehh ehhehhh…”

“Does this feel weirdly sexual to you, Uncle Gilbert?”

“I daresay it does indeed, Uncel Jarvish. I feel…quite violated by this throbbing mass of flesh.”

“Hey now Uncle Gilbert, we don’t know if it’s flesh under there or not.”

“Are you insinuating my skills of observation would do me wrong in my time of need? I am most quackularly assured that its body is indeed that of flesh! Firstly you attack my honesty, what with saying I said words that must not be said and that I have not said, secondly you yourself have said those words that must not be said and that I have not said, and thirdly you insinuate that I would not be able to tell a throbbing blob of flesh from a common garden gnome! I must say Uncle Jarvish, this does not bode well for our entirely platonic partnership.”

“You’ve got to be ducking kidding me!” sighed an exhasperated Jarvish, “Still with the words! You just can’t quacking let anything go, can you, Uncle Gilbert? I mean cluck—er, duck!”

“There you go again saying the words. Do ye think the golden goose is but made of copper, Uncle?”

“Don’t you quote scripture at me!” Jarvish said, not realizing the immediate irony as ‘Don’t you quote scripture at me’ was actually by far the most popular quote ever plucked from the Insignificant Book.

Gilbert retorted with a completely original and off the cuff remark, “Quack unto thy neighbors as if they themselves were quacking at thineself!”

“That doesn’t make any ducking sense! Why don’t you go imprint yourself on a sacrificial virgin and follow them into a volcano!” Another well know verse.

Gilbert shook his scraggly head in frustration, producing a glass decantur full of wine. “Here, Uncle Jarvish. Drink. Drink of this as if it were mine own blood, poured out to you in sacrifice, so that you may forgive yourself your own duckups.” Once again, this was completely original.

“Drink your own blood?” sputtered Jarvish, shook out of his scriptural rhythmn. “Why in the duck would I want to drink your quacking blood?”

“Did ye not hear what I just said about—”

“Stop saying ye to me!”

“Look, Uncle Jarvish, I was only trying to offer you some solace. Getting quackfaced often helps me when I’m ducking up to a crisis of faith.”

“I don’t feel like getting quackfaced right now, Uncle Gilbert. I just don’t. Especially not with the image of you letting your blood out into my mouth. Talk about fartburn.”

“It was figurative.”

“How in the duck is that supposed to figure into anything?”

“I don’t know! Also why am I the one explaining myself you told me to hop into a volcano!”

“As well you should.”

“You did not just quacking say that to me Uncle Jarvish.”

“Oh yes I quacking did Uncle Gilbert.”

“That’s it. I’m ditching you. You’re a right mess. Far as I can see you’ve waddled too far from the golden goose. Let’s split up.”

“Split up? How are we supposed to split up? Where is there for either of us to go?”

“Simple. One of us just jumps out the dinghy into the deep, not so oxygen rich expanse of the sky.”

“No thank you, Uncle Gilbert.”

“Fine. Where’s my trusty handsaw?”

“Over here,” Jarvish handed Gilbert the handsaw.

Gilbert snatched it and began sawing at the side of the boat.

“What the duck are you doing?!” Jarvish blustered. “You’ll spring a leak! Sky is going to seep in!”

“I don’t give a duck! I’m cutting this the quack in half!” Gilbert wheezed as his weak arms could barely move the saw enough to make more than a smidge sized dent in the wood.

“Don’t do that Uncle Gilbert! It’s madness! Madness I say!”

“Don’t you quack like that at me!”

The light sounds of Gilbert’s weak sawing echoed as Jarvish sat in shocked silence.

“Say, Uncle Gilbert, I’ve got a question while you’re sawing that in half.”

“Shoot.”

“Where’d all the bad guys go?”

They both looked around. The cloaked fiends had left long ago due to impatience and boredom.

“Hey! What the duck!” cried Gilbert, kicking Jarvish away as he tried to snatch away the saw.

“It was worth a try.”

“Your arms are like lubricated pillows to me, Uncle Jarvish. I’ve got the golden goose on my side, boy, and don’t you forget it.”

They sat there as Gilbert continued sawing into the side of the dinghy. He had almost made it an inch into the wood.

“Madness I say,” muttered Jarvish weakly.