Chapter 2: A Leaping Titan's Cider Too Much
Yeah, the second chapter is in! Sorry it took so long people, I had a lot of personal problems to deal with. It may not be as funny as the last chapter, but the next will be better. Trust me! I hope you all enjoy.
"Hmm . . ." Welch looked at the list of patented items as she yawned sleepily. It's been a rough night, throwing up and at the same time filling in six inches of paperwork. If fact, people should try that. Do they know how hard it is not to puke on paperwork?
She felt better this morning, but that didn't help the fact she was ALL better. All these inventors calling up on the communicator and asking for stupid little favors didn't help either. In fact, the worst call she had today was from a pip-squeak sounding, short, Italian man.
"Hi!" Welch began her usual opening statement.
"Would you like some cheese?"
"Huh? Um . . . no, not that I know of . . ."
"Would you like a Hummer?"
"What's a Hummer?"
"Do you like cheese?"
"ARGH! YOU DIDN'T ANSWER MY LAST QUESTION!"
"Would you like a Hummer?"
"WHAT IS A HUMMER, YOU ANNOYING F!"
"Would you like cheese with that chocolate milkshake?"
"AHHHHHH!" Welch screamed into the camera, grabbed a metal pipe that appeared on her desk, and began bashing the poor thing into oblivion. Temples throbbing, she sighed at the little pile of junk she just invented. This was just too much . . .
After sitting for an hour rubbing at her temples, Welch decided to pay a visit to the nearby pub. Standing tall and wobbly, she stumbled out the door and limped to the pub at the other end of Paterny. Hair a rat's nest, skin a ghostly pale, clothes shaggy . . . many people gave curious glances toward her, but it didn't matter. She needed to get to that pub . . . and fast.
Looking in the face of the middle age bartender, Welch stumbled to the counter. The bartended laughed to himself at the sight of the girl, thinking she was already drunk.
"Hey lil' missy, would you like a glass of milk?" Welch spat in disgust. She hated that. Hated being young, hated being underestimated. Just because she was small didn't mean she couldn't tolerate alcoholic drink, right?
Giving a nasty sneer, she grabbed the bartender's collar and spoke in a low, threatening voice, her face uncomfortably close to his.
"Alright barkeep, gimme the hardest stuff you have . . ." Her eyes flared as she growled lowly. The bartender, sweating bullets by now, spoke with a cracked and worried tone.
"Uh . . . uh . . . w-well . . . w-we have L-leaping T-titan's . . . C-c-cider . . . it w-was . . . just . . . i-invented . . . though . . . by F-Fayt . . ."
"Fine, gimme six quarts."
"But missy . . ."
"SIX QUARTS!" The young woman let go of the man's collar and shoved him back, walking to a table, waiting for her drinks. Sadly, the barkeeper did not know what was coming.
A quart of Leaping Titan's Cider later . . .
"Hic! This stuff is great!" Swaying slightly, Welch looked around the bar in her blurred condition until her eye caught a certain slightly over-weight body. Unfortunately, the body was the one delivering the drinks.
"Hey! Another one please! And make it snappy!" Welch somehow held a death glare that could pierce anything just as well as a knife as she spoke to the poor bartender.
"Y-yeah sure . . . but . . ."
"NOW!" Welch's fist shook the table as she struck it in a powerful, yet clumsy, way, in an attempt to scare the now chibi creature.
"Y-yes m-m-ma'am." The bartender desperately wished to tell her that a body could get drunk off the second drink, but there wasn't any use in fighting with an insane woman who could get drunk off the first.
3 Quarts of Leaping Titan's Cider Later . . .
"You . . . are . . . SO BEAUTIFUL . . . TO ME . . . HIC!" Welch began to sing in a slurred tone, attempting to wink at the bartender. Unfortunately, those winks were just another version of compulsive, involuntary eye twitches.
"Missy . . ." The bar tender gave a worried glare towards Welch, wondering if she'd make it through another quart.
"CAN'T YOU SEEEEEEEEE!" The sound of Welch's shrill voice, caused blood to trickle out of the barkeep's ears as he screamed in pain. In fact, you can tell the barkeep would be the perfect zombie for one of the Resident Evil games at this moment.
"STOP!" The bartender screamed over the singing voice. Welch suddenly froze, immediately giving loving, ogling eyes towards the poor, unfortunate man. The barkeeper, noticing her gaze, began to sweat bullets once again as he backed up into the corner of the room.
"Hey . . . u-um . . . want another drink?"
"Oh yea sexy boy, I sure do wanta drinky. Want to have a drinky with me, baby?" Gulping the sixth cider, she hiccupped.
"Um . . . maybe . . . missy you had too many drinks." With a seductive look young Welchy rose from her chair, stumbled onto the table, wobbled to her feet, and made a great drunken leap from the table.
"HIC! GIMME SOME SUGAH! HERE COMES WELCHY!" Soaring in the air laughing like a maniacal, crazed monkey addicted to coffee beans and her lips puckered like a duck bill, Welch flew towards her target like the "angel" she was. Sadly the barkeeper was too scared to move, for he was paralyzed with the greatest foe to ever stop him besides Welch . . . fear of Welch's kisses.
"YAAAAAH!" Welch gave her kissy kissy battle cry as her target was within reach. It was all over for the poor man . . . he should've given her a Shirley Temple . . . but now nothing could stop Welch! It was all over . . . there was no escape . . . good bye Mr. Barkeep!
. . . WHAM!
Welch flew straight into the counter with a sickening crunch as she sunk to floor with a small "squee" sound. Poor Welch . . . apparently her desperate lunge was cut off a little short.
The barkeep, snapped out of paralysis, looked to the face-bashed girl and sighed with relief. Suddenly, he began to laugh maniacally, singing softly to himself, twitching in little convulsive twitches.
"Ding, dong the crazy bitch is dead!" Oddly enough, as he sang the unusual parody of "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead," he dialed the emergency number to ask for an ambulance.
Three hours have passed. Three . . . very . . . long . . . hours. A pair of blue eyes opened slowly to the bright light as the figure found herself in a bed.
"W-where . . . am I? My nose . . . feels weird . . ." Welch looked around the room to find a smiling doctor walk in.
"Hey, little miss! You look much better!" The doctor took out his pen as he walked over to the girl and began writing information onto a piece of paper clipped to a clipboard.
"My nose doesn't though . . ."
"Here . . . maybe this might help," The doctor handed her a mirror to show what he meant. Unfortunately . . .
"AHHHHH! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY NOSE?" Welch looked at the mirror to find herself wearing a permanent, yellow chicken beak.
"Well, we kinda . . . err . . . well . . . when you were drunk and flew into the counter, as the bartender told me; you broke your nose in every place possible. So we had a replacement."
"BUT WHY A CHICKEN BEAK?"
"Well . . . Fayt called up earlier to see if you were okay and sent us a notice that you loved chickens. He also said you always wanted a chicken beak."
Anger built up inside Welch that moment. Pure fury . . . no . . . pure, raw rage. What was Fayt trying to do her? Kill her? Make her a freak? What? Well . . . not anymore. She won't let this happen. It is time . . . it is time for that moment . . .
"FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYT!"
Well . . . after screaming.