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scubatankfilledwithfarts Geese fight like they fuck, probably. If you've watched Animal Planet, which you shouldn't. It's ugly and vicious; all teeth you never knew existed bitten chunks out of you you didn't know you'd miss, feathers in your mouth and afterwards you just lay there wondering what the fuck happened to your life to turn out this way.
[Don't look up geese dicks no matter how tempted you are]
Geese can't fight. They're known for attacks like blitz bombs of feathers [too soon??], lightning quick jabs that render flesh, deep gouges you'll never admit a bird did. Because geese can't really fight, you see? They aren't soldiers. They're birds for pretty coin and good drink, prettier girls in rosetinted light and Frankensteins when daylight streaks across the pillow. They'll sink their teeth and blades and grenades and lead into other men just to breathe deep the smoke of the battlefield, to feel another man's blood in their mouths.
They'll fight for themselves, right? None of this saving the world and Queen and Country from Nazi Fucking Vampires. It's been that way in his Father's father's fathers father's day, and before that. Toppling regimes just for the hell of it, a man's life is worth petty coins and the next crunch of dirt beneath your boots.
So why the fuck do they sit in the drawing room of a mansion that tangles with monsters? Doesn't just tangle with them, but burns them to ash and spits out that ash when it streaks their teeth. A crusade. London bridge is burnt to the core, not a stone left, and instead of booking it, they're here.
"Ah-- shit! Don't we got someone to do this for us? Like the butler?" Someone complains from the back, no doubt with more holes in their thumbs from a sewing needle than holes in their body, period.
"Yeah, you try asking him real nice...maybe if you tell him you'll polish his wires he'll only cut off your foreskin."
"Nah man-- I'm circumcised. He'll haveta get you for his collection."
"When'd you last see my dick, anyhow? I haven't had any work done..."
Pip chuckles to himself, shakes his head when Leonard gives him a side glance over his own patch worn jacket to match the patches of his pants.
[not as patchy as any of their hearts, of course, and since they're poor ol' birds with no finery to cover their wounds with--]
They're in the middle of an honest to fuck Crusade and the lot of them are sprawled across chairs and carpet that costs more than their entire outfits put together and they're stitching their vow over their shoulders. All the crosses were out for this crusade, having been loaned out to the Catholics for their big day [they needed something blue and something old], all that's left is black and red.
Fitting, what they'll be left in this time. Without their boots. Maybe it'll blend in.
"Who the fuck showed you how to sew?! Your crackhead uncle? And did he show you with a pipe? Grown men and you can't even sew a button or a damn patch on your jackets...you're useless, you know that right?" Comes the screeching litany of exasperation and acceptance, speaking of blending in. Their little baby chick never manages.
Somehow he manages a big gaggle of useless old grown men, who sheepishly side eye him as he effortlessly stitches fabric like he stitches flesh, clinical and practiced. Others who noogie him and trip him up as he frog-marches past, who get scraped elbows and scuffed shoes to the shins or faces. How does this moment in time blend in with the horrors that go on outside? It's like looking in on a timestamped picture from way before they were born, yet here they are, having a domestic moment of bonding in blundering...man shit. Pip just doesn't get it.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" Their crimson menace finally addresses him, eyebrow cocked. Badou is as unimpressed as ever. It's a teenage thing but also a Thing when faced with the geese. Until the battlefield.
Pip's mouth tips wide, the moment everyone braces themselves because his mouth usually does that when he's about to say something disarmingly stupid. A few knowing sniggers sound in the background.
"I was just thinkin'...I'm gonna be so sad when I give you away."
[Later, later, later when brick and mortar comes down around him and the air is thick with blood, he'll think about this line, the way Badou's face crumbled--]
The teen surges up, mercury on his tongue and fire in his eye, but Pip finishes:
"Your dowary's gotta be impressive to give away such a good little housewife. I'll be sad to see my sweet little daughter go."
Pip is thereby strangled by his own braid to the musical accompaniment of his men laughing until they pee and his teenaged ward screaming bloody murder, but it's better to think about than the journey they've just pledged themselves to. He tries not to think in numbers. You can't bounce back if you do.
Just think about their turned backs when they march off, guns over shoulderblades and disarming smiles that cut as deep as muscle. Think about obnoxious laughter and Eskimo pussy songs and even that one time Marcus put a marshmallow on his-- no, not that last one.
[don't think about her tears, her screams as you fade away]
[whatever you do don't think about his face when he wakes up in the middle of the countryside with nothing but a letter that says fuck you and thanks for all the memories]
He'll think about the grumbling in his ear instead about holes in underwear, pull a pale little ear till he screeches and bites. That's right. That'll do.
[Don't look up geese dicks no matter how tempted you are]
Geese can't fight. They're known for attacks like blitz bombs of feathers [too soon??], lightning quick jabs that render flesh, deep gouges you'll never admit a bird did. Because geese can't really fight, you see? They aren't soldiers. They're birds for pretty coin and good drink, prettier girls in rosetinted light and Frankensteins when daylight streaks across the pillow. They'll sink their teeth and blades and grenades and lead into other men just to breathe deep the smoke of the battlefield, to feel another man's blood in their mouths.
They'll fight for themselves, right? None of this saving the world and Queen and Country from Nazi Fucking Vampires. It's been that way in his Father's father's fathers father's day, and before that. Toppling regimes just for the hell of it, a man's life is worth petty coins and the next crunch of dirt beneath your boots.
So why the fuck do they sit in the drawing room of a mansion that tangles with monsters? Doesn't just tangle with them, but burns them to ash and spits out that ash when it streaks their teeth. A crusade. London bridge is burnt to the core, not a stone left, and instead of booking it, they're here.
"Ah-- shit! Don't we got someone to do this for us? Like the butler?" Someone complains from the back, no doubt with more holes in their thumbs from a sewing needle than holes in their body, period.
"Yeah, you try asking him real nice...maybe if you tell him you'll polish his wires he'll only cut off your foreskin."
"Nah man-- I'm circumcised. He'll haveta get you for his collection."
"When'd you last see my dick, anyhow? I haven't had any work done..."
Pip chuckles to himself, shakes his head when Leonard gives him a side glance over his own patch worn jacket to match the patches of his pants.
[not as patchy as any of their hearts, of course, and since they're poor ol' birds with no finery to cover their wounds with--]
They're in the middle of an honest to fuck Crusade and the lot of them are sprawled across chairs and carpet that costs more than their entire outfits put together and they're stitching their vow over their shoulders. All the crosses were out for this crusade, having been loaned out to the Catholics for their big day [they needed something blue and something old], all that's left is black and red.
Fitting, what they'll be left in this time. Without their boots. Maybe it'll blend in.
"Who the fuck showed you how to sew?! Your crackhead uncle? And did he show you with a pipe? Grown men and you can't even sew a button or a damn patch on your jackets...you're useless, you know that right?" Comes the screeching litany of exasperation and acceptance, speaking of blending in. Their little baby chick never manages.
Somehow he manages a big gaggle of useless old grown men, who sheepishly side eye him as he effortlessly stitches fabric like he stitches flesh, clinical and practiced. Others who noogie him and trip him up as he frog-marches past, who get scraped elbows and scuffed shoes to the shins or faces. How does this moment in time blend in with the horrors that go on outside? It's like looking in on a timestamped picture from way before they were born, yet here they are, having a domestic moment of bonding in blundering...man shit. Pip just doesn't get it.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" Their crimson menace finally addresses him, eyebrow cocked. Badou is as unimpressed as ever. It's a teenage thing but also a Thing when faced with the geese. Until the battlefield.
Pip's mouth tips wide, the moment everyone braces themselves because his mouth usually does that when he's about to say something disarmingly stupid. A few knowing sniggers sound in the background.
"I was just thinkin'...I'm gonna be so sad when I give you away."
[Later, later, later when brick and mortar comes down around him and the air is thick with blood, he'll think about this line, the way Badou's face crumbled--]
The teen surges up, mercury on his tongue and fire in his eye, but Pip finishes:
"Your dowary's gotta be impressive to give away such a good little housewife. I'll be sad to see my sweet little daughter go."
Pip is thereby strangled by his own braid to the musical accompaniment of his men laughing until they pee and his teenaged ward screaming bloody murder, but it's better to think about than the journey they've just pledged themselves to. He tries not to think in numbers. You can't bounce back if you do.
Just think about their turned backs when they march off, guns over shoulderblades and disarming smiles that cut as deep as muscle. Think about obnoxious laughter and Eskimo pussy songs and even that one time Marcus put a marshmallow on his-- no, not that last one.
[don't think about her tears, her screams as you fade away]
[whatever you do don't think about his face when he wakes up in the middle of the countryside with nothing but a letter that says fuck you and thanks for all the memories]
He'll think about the grumbling in his ear instead about holes in underwear, pull a pale little ear till he screeches and bites. That's right. That'll do.
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