I do not own Horrible Histories! If you want to see the sketch that this is (heavily) based on, Youtube it. I think the Middle Ages one is just called "Historical Paramedics" but all of them are hilarious.
It was a stormy day; so even though everyone in the flock was phenomenally bored, they couldn't go flying, because the idea of getting struck by lightning didn't really appeal to them. Gazzy was curled up on the lounge with a packet of salt and vinegar chips, watching his favourite tv show – Horrible Histories. Just as it cut to an ad break, there was a loud thump from the dining room. Everyone ran to investigate the source of the noise, fearing the worst, but it was only Dylan unconscious on the floor. "Uh… what do we do?" Nudge piped from where she stood on the staircase. "Max?" She looked over at her.
"We can't take him to hospital or anything, obviously." Max looked like she honestly didn't care about Dylan's health, but welcomed the distraction from her boredom. "Any suggestions?" She looked around at her flock, but only received blank stares. "…anyone?"
"Umm… I only know what they did for this kinda stuff in the Middle ages…" Gazzy mumbled, he had seen it on Horrible Histories, it was funny but… not a good idea.
"Well give it a shot, this could be interesting at best." Max had an expression of barely contained morbid interest on her face, mirrored by everyone present.
"Well, ok." Gazzy grinned as he leaned down next to Dylan's unconscious form. "It looks like he's fainted. We'll need a dead chicken" He rubbed a hand across his chin.
"A dead chicken… what is that going to do?" Iggy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Nothing, it's dead. It's not the chicken we need, it's the feathers."
"So, feathers from a chicken?" Fang inquired; Gazzy nodded.
A minute later, Fang was passing him a handful of bloodied feathers that had been unceremoniously ripped out of Dylan's wings. Gazzy ran to the kitchen, grabbed a box of matches and ran back to the dining room, where he lit the feathers and waved them in front of Dylan's face, filling the room with an unpleasant smell. "It's not working…" Gazzy mumbled.
"Hey, what's that on his arm?" Angel pointed to Dylan's wrist, which had turned purple on one side. "Looks like he bruised himself when he fell."
"In which case we need flour and bacon fat!" Gazzy stood up and turned towards Iggy. "I think you know what to do, Ig."
"Right on it." He made for the kitchen door, but Angel grabbed his sleeve.
"Hang on… they look odd…" She narrowed her eyes. "kind of… blotchy…"
"Skin disease. Agh, where are we going to get wolf skin at this time of night!" Gazzy all but yelled, enjoying being theatrical in this ridiculous situation.
"Total! Could you come here for a second?" With an innocent smile on her face, Max picked up a knife from the table where Dylan had previously been eating.
"It could be a boil!" Nudge blurted out, trying to save Total.
"The Victorian cure for that is warm porridge." Gazzy chewed on his thumbnail. "I guess the Victorians were at least slightly more intelligent… it's worth a shot."
Five minutes later, Dylan's hand had been smothered in microwave porridge.
"Actually, it looks more like ringworm…" Fang pointed out.
"The Middle ages cure for ringworm is a hair wash in boys wee…" Gazzy recalled.
"Well Gaz; in that case, it's your time to shine!" Max crossed her arms and grinned at him. Everyone else in the room looked disgusted.
"Uh… okay…" He hesitantly started un-buttoning his jeans.
Two hours later, Dylan was dead, (and covered in porridge and urine); no-one knew what killed him, but it was obviously something more serious than fainting.