The Beaver had managed to tear his pants again when Spike noticed that he wasn't the only self-propelled moving object in the office.
Whoever it was, smelled like an overheated electrical appliance soaked in pizza grease about to short out.
And feathers.
Lots of feathers.
With a faint whiff of… dead mouse?
Pretending to be casual, Spike reached over and turned down the small television nestled among the security monitors. The Beaver would have to, "Aw, gee, Wally!" on his own for now.
There was the whine of servos and a clumsy drum solo of heavy footsteps.
Allllll right then… so, a quick riddle kiddies from your dear ol' Uncle Billy: what's heavy and smells like a hot air popcorn popper about to catch fire that a mouse has died in while eating a feather pillow that's been soaked in Kool-Aid?
Spike caught a glimpse of something unnaturally yellow and fluffy reflected behind him in one of the monitors.
Soooo, what's the answer, me wee lit'l anklebiters? One of the soddin' animatronics he was allegedly babysitting, Chica, to be exact, complete with "Let's Eat!" bib and what was possibly a cupcake. With eyes. Whatever it was, it was giggling maniacally.
Which meant that some corporate designer who'd obviously never seen a real live chicken's idea of what was supposed to be a chicken was intently staring down at him over the back of the slowly disintegrating office chair, beak aimed at him like a whimsical orange gun barrel.
Having only seen anything remotely like this during Haight Ashbury's 1967 Summer of Love after having pigged out at a Love In, Spike shook his head, rubbed his eyes on one of the sleeves of the stale smelling uniform shirt that the job required him to wear, swiveled the chair around and snarled as he stood up, "Daddy's busy watching telly, Chica O'Deadlet. Sod off!"
Unblinkingly, the nasty thing now stood face to face with him before cocking her head to the side while opening her beak in a blast of thoroughly deceased rodent saying in a saccharine girly voice, "Let's eat, kids!"
"Yeah, (cough) right, (ugh, p.u.!) brilliant idea – nice and tender, but we're fresh out of ankle biters… now, go join your lit'l friends bumpin' around and dentin' the walls – Daddy wants to watch his show!" Spike took the ghastly yellow thing by the shoulders and turned it around – "Bloody 'ell, people who hire these things for parties must really hate kids!" He gave it a push towards the door and stood back expectantly. "Scram!" and then, "Bloody 'ell, where are your ears?" as Chica turned around and went back to eyeballing him. Exasperated, Spike gave the bothersome mechanical interpretation of Gallus gallus domesticus another shove closer to the big metal door that opened out into the hall.
"She's not going to leave, you know." Came a voice behind him.
"Bloody hell, now what?" and "Who the bloody fuck are you?" and then, "Am-scray, Chicken O'Deadlet! I'm tryin' t' watch telly!" all seemed to come out of Spike's mouth at the same time as he turned around to face whoever ELSE was in here with him, interrupting the mind-numbing bliss of TVland.
Unexpectedly obedient, Chica lumbered through the door. Spike pushed the button beside the exit and the big metal door slammed down. If he was stuck with an intruder or two, they wouldn't get far unless they made a runner for the door that mirrored the one he just closed.
Yeah, great plan mate, great plan… might have to bluff this one out or risk a killer migrane if he had to defend himself against whoever it was that had somehow slipped in during his confrontation with mechanized poultry bearing a psychotic pastry.
"How the hell did you get in here?" he said, turning so that his back was to the now closed security door.