It was a struggle, man. I was all turned around and the vultures continued to squawk around at me, at each other, at the big white chicken that was supposed to fight me—the wig continued to cling to my face like a champ, sticky somewhere towards the back with the thin trickle of blood that traveled down the right side of my neck, a slow, ticklish sensation that wasn’t helping at all in this mess. The pink burrito wrap dress was constricting and itchy as it was getting wet, and the shoes wouldn’t come off, no matter how dangerously I wobbled. I shook my head this way and that; I blew at the strands in front of my nose, and somehow, I was given enough time to untangle one eye from the shadow of the clumps of hair.

Not that I got a good look at anything, really; it was sandy and hot and rainy at the same time; I guess Pa was still laughing somewhere, up in the sky or in the back of my head or somewhere; large, dark shadows lined the battlefield, chattering and calling out obscenities in a harsh, birdish language that I didn’t understand. My range of sight was limited; it wasn’t until I heard a single sentence, deep and feminine (“Are you okay?”), before I locked on the white chicken again—a chicken that turned out not to be a chicken, or a vulture, or any kind of real bird. Jeez.

Why couldn’t I have been a bird? But nah, I ended up being a harpy.

There was a flush of renewed humiliation when I realized here was one honest-to-god soul who was bearing witness to this ultimate bullshit--something inside told me that Pa was a jerk, but he wasn’t a snitch who went around running their mouth about crap they didn’t need to. He kept secrets; Birdman over there was an unknown quantity. Er, Birdwoman. Whatever.

“Shut up and fight me,” I snapped, voice sparked with nervous, angry energy; I squared off (wobbled off), trying to create some sort of structure and stability to my bearing. Which wasn’t happening because I guess stiletto heels weren’t made with structure and stability in mind. Just--ugh, what were they even for? I already didn’t understand shoes!

There was a lot of movement all at once, very suddenly; feathers were everywhere and something was making this alarmed, painfully adorable squeal off to the side. I snatched my eyes over toward the squeal—then snatched them back in front of me, seeing a blurry, birdy battle between Birdwoman and another vulture—a battle that was comprised mostly of indistinct blobs, because goddammit the wig hair had gotten back into my good eye and I was blind again. With a roar of frustration, I finally flung my head upwards, backwards; the wig would have gone flying with the strength of my head toss, if it weren’t enchanted. However, miraculously all the hair that had curtained my face flown backward, luxurious and mockingly sexy as it settled wavy and voluminous against my shoulders. I had both eyes now, hot damn! And both eyes watched as Chickenwoman hurled toward me, a white, feathery, one-winged wrecking ball.

There was no escape. I tried to scrabble backward again, but my ankles weren’t having it—they still smarted with pain from when I had twisted them. She hit me like a fluffy battering ram, one wing flopping comically to the side, almost close enough to whack me while I got a face-full of chest and neck and down feathers. Okay honestly she didn't hit me that hard; I was the one who had no balance whatsoever, the walking epitome of precariousness. Instinctively, almost impulsively, my teeth grasped for flesh or feathers or whatever they could reach while we made contact, but honestly, I didn’t know what was going on anymore; I didn’t know what I was doing. The contact was brief, and I fell backward again—but as I flew, a bolt of something emerged from my horn, shooting somewhere, directionless and futile—like this fight, I guess.

I kept falling. In a final show of cosmic disgrace, my fake ass cheeks decided they weren’t impenetrable pieces of cushiony armor, after all. I hit the ground ass first with a resounding

P O P

and, as I flopped onto my back, more out of defeat than anything, I got showered with pretty, happy little red sparks. Yaaaaay….



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[ W/C: 744 | 2/2

Summary: Is still having a shitty time. Struggles to see through her wig; is unable to avoid Tandavi's stumble toward her, and is hit by Tandavi head-on hard enough to topple backwards. Tries to bite at Tandavi's neck as they close; looses an aimless bolt of lightning as she falls backward. The ass bursts as she hits the ground; kinda lays there.

*Disclaimer: I'm in no way, shape, or form trying to say ill of Kim Kardashian's character with this post/spar. The word play worked so I went with it. ]




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