Thunderfunk the Superchicken - Chapter 27

27. Lava Crocodiles Indeed

Thunderfunk and Straw Daq took their time on the short walk from the landing area to Cornelius J. Breadbuuter's back door. The estate was possibly larger than Thunder’s, though it was not quite as picturesque. A grove of trees was to the side of the house, surrounding a picnic area. The rest of the grounds was just manicured lawn. The fake landing pad was about 200 yards behind the house, just to the left, while the real landing pad was about fifty yards from the house, just to the right. On the real landing pad was a Westland WAH-64 helicopter, a Gazelle helicopter, and a Lynx AH9 anti-tank helicopter, which was out of service at the moment because the wheels were all smashed up, as though its last landing had been particularly hard.

The house itself was rather impressive. Three stories high, it was a mansion by any definition of the word. Built in the early nineteenth century, it seemed to have been built with style in mind, rather than comfort. The walls were stone and the roof was clay mission tiles in a faded red colour. A balcony ran along most of the entire second floor, and isolated rooms on the third floor as well. The windows were high and rectangular, looking very foreboding. Thunder walked up the path that cut through the garden in the back and rang the doorbell.

It was but a moment before the door opened to reveal a man in a butler’s uniform standing stiffly before them. Thunder was sure that this was the butler, and he was proved right when the man spoke. “Good evening gentlemen. I am The Butler, the butler. May I take your coat?”

Since neither Thunderfunk or Straw had a coat, they declined the offer and were subsequently ushered down a short hallway to a waiting room where The Butler left them. They waited for about fifteen minutes, chatting about sports (‘I think curling IS a sport, Straw’, ‘Well, you also think lava crocodiles are real’) and knitting (‘Is it purl one, knit two, or the other way around?’, ‘I’m not sure, I crochet myself’) until The Butler came back. “Mr. Breadbuuter will see you now”” he intoned.

They followed the butler to the drawing room where Cornelius J. Breadbuuter sat in a comfortable easy chair. He was a tall, willowy man with a pale complexion offset by a shock of red hair that seemed to be perched precariously on the top of his head. His clothes were immaculate, and he sat smoking an ornately carved pipe. A snifter of brandy sat at his elbow. He waved his two guests in before bounding enthusiastically to his feet. “Can I get you anything to drink,” he offered, hurrying over to the bar in the corner and grabbing a couple glasses. “I have the most exquisite scotch that you simply must try.”

Straw demurred politely, saying that he had to fly and couldn’t drink, but Thunder accepted gratefully. A sip was all he needed to see that his host was correct in claiming this to be a fine vintage of scotch. “Thank you sir,” he said before settling himself down in a chair that was facing the chair into which Cornelius settled himself. Thunderfunk leaned forward. “I simply love what you have done with this place,” he said enthusiastically. A sweep of his wing encompassed the entire room. One wall was devoted to different books, from advanced texts on the latest in quantum physics to J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Paintings adorned the remaining walls, including an original van Gogh. “This room was being renovated the last time I was here.”

Cornelius nodded sagely. “Yes, and what an awful experience that was. The contractor gave me an estimate, and then was way over budget. And he took at minimum twice as long to do the job than he had promised.” He sighed heavily. “So I had no choice but to kill him.”

This interested Thunderfunk greatly, and he listened as Cornelius described the torture of the tradesman before finally throwing him to the lava crocodiles. When the story had finished, Thunder sat back in his chair. “Amazing,” he breathed. “The feather actually worked out that well for you? I always have trouble with that.” He looked over at Straw Daq, who was sitting on a couch behind them. “Lava crocodiles.” The young man merely rolled his eyes and shook his head. He rose to his feet and walked out of the room, leaving the two megalomaniacs to chat.

Rounding a corner, he jumped back in surprise, stumbling and falling to his knees. Another young man was standing in the hall, his hand raised high above his head, a knife poised to deliver a killing blow.