The Standoff

It takes a whole brigade of evil ducks quaking along a single file line, trampling down the five-inch blades of grass with webbed boots, snapping unkindly at the sludgy red substance dropping from the sky just outside the porch where Madame Zinger is knitting a new chain mail for general Krag of the Fucked-Up Liberation Army. They try to dodge the splots of goop, but it’s like trying to duck the rain (pretty quaky). So they tuck their heads and shake their feathers as the Madame hums tunes from the Wizard of Oz and Barrows, the lanky washwoman, comes stumbling out stiff-legged and trying to wipe flour from her face but only making it obscenely worse until she looks the perfect image of death half rotted for the open sores on her flesh. “Somewhere over the rainbow!” The Madame can’t help but bellow out loud and more than a little out of tune. Then Billy Saunter, who’s been leading the line, hangs his ducky head and wanders off the path, dejected, unsure of his life from here on out, disappointed with Madame Zinger’s whole garden and sick of this fucking wasp blood! Over the rainbow my ass! Then in response the Madame looks up from her work with a sigh, “I think I’ll retire to the astral next incarnation. I’m so sick of Malkuth.”
The words echo out and resonate in a single blade of grass on which a little red knight and a blue knight are preparing to battle in classic medieval style and a lady bug as referee, though momentarily distracted, mumbling to himself about the spot where he once buried over a ton of baseball cards before heading off to vacation in Ecuador and something about the injustice of being a man constantly referred to as “lady.” The knights are getting impatient, the horses pacing and rearing until the red knight taps Mr. Bug politely with his javelin, clears his throat, “excuse me your honorable ref, but might we be on with this show? The audience is clearly growing weary.”
He barks, “what fucking audience you bloody twit?” Wilbur, surly as ever. But does finally wave the flag and the knights charge valiantly, the red knight with his javelin pointed high, the blue with his pointed low until– oh god I can’t bear to look– crash! Except it runs out the javelins are just made of wet cardboard that go to mush on contact. They throw themselves to the ground and roll around both whooping big hyuck hyuck hycuks, beavers lifted when the blue knight surprises red with the ol’ Hidden Mallet Space Pie Grenade Gotcha Maneuver, whap, right in the face... mmm, cherry of course...
Yes, it takes a whole brigade of evil ducks, intentions bad, wills weak and unfocused, clustering together now, wishing they could destroy the whole damn world, but not even getting to the point of brainstorming on how to do so. It’s a regular standoff here below Madame Zinger’s porch. The Madame grins and has Barrows roll out the General Krag 4000 Multi-Place Computer which she wraps in chain mail and leaves to guard the entrance.
[The following is taken from the journal of a young duck by the name of Mann Hank, translated from the duck by Dr. Alan T. Hazer.]
At first we just blinked at each other for what seemed like forever. [Fragment missing] as though we had to ask it questions. The whole situation I found very disconcerting. There was a dark gloom cast about the whole s[cene...] our ambassador, stepped forward and faced up fearlessly. The first thing he asked was, “what is your will?”
The computer snapped into a hum, then answered. “I do not have a will as such. It is my only purpose to answer questions.”
Then perceiving [fragment missing] asked directly, “can we enter?”
“No.
“Why not?”
“Because you do not have the focus necessary to do so.”
As I looked about our ranks, I had to agree. We were a sad, scattered lot, most of us [not] even paying attention to the answers given.
[...] If I were to tie a piece of fishing line from one tree to another, what would be my chances of tripping Madame Zinger in her own garden?”
“20% with a 3% margin of error.”
“If we were to launch an attack here with, say, frisbees, what color frisbees would be the most affective?”
“Most certainly blue.”
“Fuck!”
I looked back at the pile of orange frisbees we had brought for the occasion. That was it. I mean, that really killed it. We had come all this way for nothing.