Brady Carmichael and the Poodle of Mass Destruction - The Kachina Shaman (5 page)

She tried to talk.

“Hey….” She whispered quietly, looking
beaten. “One last question….”

The shaman leaned down over her, triumph
shining in his glowing eyes.

Fifi whispered, “Why did the chicken cross
the road?”

Then she bit the tooth Gramps had given her.
A brilliant nova-like light erupted from Fifi’s mouth. The shaman
stumbled back stunned and blinded.

Suddenly Fifi was able to move. She brought
her nunchucks around and leapt at the stumbling, disoriented
shaman. She cracked him on the head with the steel shaft of her
weapon, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. The sound of the
blow was like a wooden mallet hitting a hollow coconut. Donk! Very
satisfying.

“Because I have the nunchucks.” Fifi answered
her own chicken crossing the road question as she flipped the
chucks back into their holster.

The giant chicken began to wooble, bits and
pieces starting to fall around her as the glow faded. Fortunately
she was near the top and was able to climb up onto the crumbling
chickens head.

She looked around and found a piece metal
roofing about the shape of a skateboard deck. Ahh - this might
work, she thought.

Her commlink crackled. “Fifi – we’re
back.”

“Stay put Brady.” She replied, “I’ll meet you
after the chicken falls apart.”

She jumped on the roofing panel and surfed
down the crumbling giant chicken, howling and yipping as she flew
along.

--

After they cleared things up with the museum
officials and New Mexican authorities, Brady fulfilled his promise
to Fifi, swinging by the White House on their way home.

Fifi and Bo went for a stroll in the rose
garden. Smelling good smells and chasing squirrels, they were
having an excellent time while Brady sat across from President
Obama in the oval office.

“Please now Brady. Isn’t there some way I can
convince you and Fifi to join one of our teams here?” The President
asked.

Brady looked at him and smiled. “Sorry Mr.
President, but what Fifi and I have to do is larger than any one
country. As you know, we serve all the sentient worlds. We strive
to bring balance where we can, preserve the weak from oppression,
and to generally kick butt as necessary.”

“As you know, Mr. President, if you need us,
you can always call.”

Brady looked down as the phone in his pocket
started to ring.

And it wasn’t his regular phone. It was the
red one. “Sorry Mr. President, I gotta take this.”

Brady picked up, “Carmichael here…”

--

David Carnes, Author

David lives in Minneapolis with his family.
He enjoys holding hands, long walks on the beach and playing
sensitive, bossa nova style guitar. Sometimes he smells slightly of
Old Spice and leather, although he usually wears Tom’s Deodorant
and sensible cotton / wool blends.

Brady Carmichael and the Poodle of Mass
Destruction evolved from bedtime stories David told his sons,
Jackson and Leo. This story is dedicated to them and to his
amazingly supportive and understanding wife Lisa.

Connect with David on Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/davidccarnes

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Christopher Park, Illustrator

Chris is a freelance illustrator and artist
living in Minneapolis. He is an avid civil war reenactment buff and
regularly attends mock battles every summer in the Carolinas.
Sometimes he hears and sees things that aren’t really there.

Connect with Chris on Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/plantmonster

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