Thunderfunk the Superchicken - Pt 3

3. The Magic Word

Slowly, the Harrier descended, its jets kicking up dirt and debris as it started to settle onto its landing gear. Without warning, the jet pitched forward as part of the landing pad swung away. The remaining half followed immediately, and the jet started to fall into the glowing lava pit that was hidden beneath. Not even fazed, Straw Daq immediately fired the engines to full blast and lifted the jet back up into the sky.
Thunderfunk looked down and whistled softly. “Nice save Straw.” The jet moved over and settled on a nice firm piece of lawn. They hopped out of the jet and walked to the edge of the pit. “It’s a good thing you reacted as quick as you did. If we had splashed down there, the lava alligators surely would have ripped us to shreds.”
An odd expression crossed the young pilot’s face. He glanced sharply at the chicken, and then peered down at the lava pit. Bubbles of hot magma burst at the surface as the lava rolled over itself, almost like a living thing. Indeed there seemed to be some log like objects floating around the surface. “Those aren’t lava alligators,” he began, only to be cut off by his companion.
“You’re right of course.” The chicken looked down the pit more intensely. “Those are lava crocodiles. Entirely different.” He turned on his heel and started walking towards the house.
After a moment of stunned silence, Straw hurried to catch up. “That’s not what I mean,” he said breathlessly. “I mean that lava alligators and lava crocodiles do not exist.”
“And yet,” countered the Superchicken, “there they are in all of their glory.”
Straw stopped in his tracks and just stared at the chicken’s back. There was so much about the world that just did not make sense to him. It was times like this that he wished he was still doing barrel rolls at county fairs. At least gravity still made sense. He ran once again to catch up. He had a feeling that he should be present when these two rivals had a face to face.
As they walked, they looked over the grounds around them. The estate was possibly larger than Thunder’s, though it was not quite as picturesque. A grove of trees was to the side of the house, surrounding a picnic area. The rest of the grounds was just manicured lawn. The fake landing pad was about 200 yards behind the house, just to the left, while the real landing pad was about fifty yards from the house, just to the right. On the real landing pad was a Westland WAH-64 helicopter, a Gazelle helicopter, and a Lynx AH9 anti-tank helicopter, which was out of service at the moment because the wheels were all smashed up, as though its last landing had been particularly hard.
The house itself was rather impressive. Three stories high, it was a mansion by any definition of the word. Built in the early nineteenth century, it seemed to have been built with style in mind, rather than comfort. The walls were stone and the roof was clay mission tiles in a faded red colour. A balcony ran along most of the entire second floor, and isolated rooms on the third floor as well. The windows were high and rectangular, looking very foreboding. Thunder walked up the path that cut through the garden in the back and rang the doorbell.
It was but a moment before the door opened to reveal a man in a butler’s uniform standing stiffly before them. Thunder was sure that this was the butler, and he was proved right when the man spoke. “Good evening gentlemen. I am The Butler, the butler. May I take your coat?”
Since neither Thunderfunk or Straw had a coat, they declined the offer and were subsequently ushered down a short hallway to a waiting room where The Butler left them. They waited for about fifteen minutes, chatting about sports (‘I think curling IS a sport, Straw’, ‘Well, you also think lava crocodiles are real’) and knitting (‘Is it purl one, knit two, or the other way around?’, ‘I’m not sure, I crochet myself’) until The Butler came back. “Mr. Breadbuuter will see you now,” he intoned.
They followed the butler to the drawing room where Cornelius J. Breadbuuter sat in a comfortable easy chair. He was a tall, willowy man with a pale complexion offset by a shock of red hair that seemed to be perched precariously on the top of his head. His clothes were immaculate, and he sat smoking an ornately carved pipe. A snifter of brandy sat at his elbow. He waved his two guests in before bounding enthusiastically to his feet. “Can I get you anything to drink,” he offered, hurrying over to the bar in the corner and grabbing a couple glasses. “I have the most exquisite scotch that you simply must try.”
Straw demurred politely, saying that he had to fly and couldn’t drink, but Thunder accepted gratefully. A sip was all he needed to see that his host was correct in claiming this to be a fine vintage of scotch. “Thank you sir,” he said before settling himself down in a chair that was facing the chair into which Cornelius settled himself. Thunderfunk leaned forward. “I simply love what you have done with this place,” he said enthusiastically. A sweep of his wing encompassed the entire room. One wall was devoted to different books, from advanced texts on the latest in quantum physics to J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Paintings adorned the remaining walls, including an original van Gogh. “This room was being renovated the last time I was here.”
Cornelius nodded sagely. “Yes, and what an awful experience that was. The contractor gave me an estimate, and then was way over budget. And he took way more time to do the job than he had promised.” He sighed heavily. “So I had no choice but to kill him.”
This interested Thunderfunk greatly, and he listened as Cornelius described the torture of the tradesman before finally throwing him to the lava crocodiles. When the story had finished, Thunder sat back in his chair. “Amazing,” he breathed. “The feather actually worked out that well for you? I always have trouble with that.” He looked over at Straw Daq, who was sitting on a couch behind them. “Lava crocodiles.” The young man merely rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“And you,” said Cornelius. “How have things been going in your neck of the woods. That coat must be new. Where on earth did you find something so practical, yet so elegant.”
Beaming, Thunderfunk was only too happy to tell. “I picked it up at a fantastic bargain in the local haberdashery. The salesman there was bending over backwards to try and make the sale. He was extremely friendly - almost too friendly, leaving me with little choice.”
“You mean…?”
“Indeed. I had him killed and his shop burned to the ground.”
“Had him killed?”
A sigh. “Yes, well I was pressed for time. And not all of us are blessed with lava crocodiles. Where do you find such magnificent creatures?”
Cornelius smiled. “They were on special in the Evil Digest catalogue.”
Straw broke in here. “There’s an Evil Digest catalogue. For real.” He sounded very incredulous.
Thunderfunk fixed him with a steely glare. “If you cared to pay attention, you would know these things already.” Turning back to his host, he rolled his eyes. “I let my subscription lapse recently. I really should correct that unfortunate situation.”
A moment of silence passed as each man was lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly Thunder broke the silence. “By the way, old chap, would it be possible for you to stop your plans for global domination.”
Even though the question seemed random, Cornelius did not even bat an eye. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” Cooly, he gazed at his foe, almost daring a challenge.
With a shrug, Thunderfunk rose to his feet. Beckoning Straw, he turned to go. As he reached the entranceway, he turned back and stood for a moment. “Please?”
Cornelius merely shook his head. The matter was closed.
A few minutes later, Thunderfunk and Straw Daq sat in the Harrier jet, warming up the engines for take off. They had been escorted out of the house by The Butler and had walked to the jet in silence. Finally, Straw could take it no more. “What in the name of Peter was that? You just asked him, and that was it? How is that supposed to do anything?”
“Calm yourself,” replied the giant chicken. “I did say please. It was all that could be done. Now we must go to the governments and armies and halt this ourselves. The old fashioned way.”
Perking up, Straw ventured hopefully: “Through bargaining and diplomacy?” only to have his hopes dashed with Thunderfunk’s reply. “No, through explosives.” Straw could almost feel the evil glint in his partner’s eye. “Through maffive explofmmff…” He put a few more cookies in his mouth, enjoying them immensely. The woman may be annoying, but she sure could make cookies.