A Night to Remember for Philip K. Fuck

Phillip K. Duck shifted noiselessly on his perch above the guppy tank, drew its sweet, fishy scent deep into his lungs, and thrust himself down to the bar floor below. Months of dragging himself bill-first across the floor and driven jagged grooves into its surface, but he was sure the house’s residents hadn’t noticed. With quiet determination, Phil inched towards the stairwell.

By the time he reached the backyard, Phil’s breath had grown labored and his nictating membranes were heavy. Through a crack in the coop, Phil caught sight of Penelope, mounted boldly atop Potassium. Potassium’s half-tuft was plunged deep into the freshly-lain straw. Phil sighed and pulled out some pink panties he was using to stuff his lumpy keel and balled them in his mouth to prevent him from quacking.

Mesmerized by the Cayugas, Phil hardly noticed that Francis was still settled on top of the coop. For a minute their eyes met and Phil thought she might start whining. But in a mess of feathers she jumped to the ground and approached. The sex feathers on Phil’s fat behind curled in anticipation as Francis turned to present her downy cave. Gagging as he spat the pink panties out, Phil climbed on top of Francis and began tonguing her pink wattle.

After a few minutes, Francis let out a mind numbing, ear-piercing whine and collapsed into a feathery goo. Phil dusted himself off and turned back toward the house. The taste of wattle still sweet in his mouth, he climbed the dark staircase to the bar.

Phillip K. Duck. File photo.