“Hey, you, snugglers,” I yelled as Wild Jill and I stepped out of the bushes, “you got any ill eagles there ?
We’re from the Hoarder Patrol !”
“No your not”, said which ever Rosenblum he was, “you’re that private guy and she’s the cops !”
Jill pulled out her shooting iron but was pressed to the ground by the other Rosenblum who had bull rushed us from behind.
Maggie Hatcher, who must have heard my ill eagle crack, flew right in the face of our adversity.
It was no yoke, her squawks egged on the other chickens to attack.
At the same time I felt a cold, grave wind at my back.
It was the bird tenders of Wetburg!
They came up the road like the four oarsman of the Epoxylips.
The Ghost Bride astride Cobweb, the night mare, it’s eyes aflame and snorting sulphur.
Guggle Flush, drunk driving a 1938 Fantom.
Bench-A-Man Franklin came in a flying tackle.
While Little Emily Trickerson was a shade behind, bear back on a polargeist.