Piggie Plumpkins meets “The Femcan-azons” motorcycle gang. Episode 3
By morselman
Plumpkins squealed out a scream at the top of his lungs, and frantically struggled in a futile effort to avoid the blowtorch flame. The sturdy Femcanazon firmly grabbed his leg to prevent her aim being spoiled, causing him to screech even louder. All the commotion disrupted the craps game, causing the gamblers to gather around and grumble in annoyance.
The gang leader scowled “Our new piggie seems to be quite a fussbudget!”
“How about we hold off cooking him until our game is finished up?” suggested a petite and exquisitely pretty little Femcanazon. “Then we put could him into that old ‘Roasting Rig’ setting out on the junk pile!” The gang members all laughed uproariously and heartily agreed.
The Femcanazon with the blowtorch shut her flame off with a huff. “Fine then--but don’t take long--I’ve got a major hankering for piggie steak!” She then nodded toward the gang leader and said “Meantime let’s us whip that junker into shape…” They both headed out the back of the clubhouse toward the junk heap.
The craps game continued on, steadily dividing the helpless Plumpkins up amongst the gang piece by piece. Meanwhile, behind the shack in the darkening evening air--flashes of welding, sparks of grinding and clanks of hammering steadily repaired the “Roasting Rig”, all in preparation for Plumpkins’ celebratory BBQ...
Finally, after every morsel of Plumpkins had been won and claimed, the craps game ended and he was bustled outside by the cheerfully rowdy Femcanazons. He then beheld with horror their newly refurbished cooking contraption, ominously awaiting his arrival within it’s merciless embrace.
Plumpkins began to frantically struggle with a sudden burst of adrenalin-fueled panic! “NOOO--NOO--NO!!!” he bellowed as the Femcanazons implacably tightened their grips--relentlessly dragging him into their dinner-device of doom. It was formed from welded up scrap motorcycle frame tubing and shaped into a hideous exoskeleton--intended to enclose a helpless piggie like a tight fitting cage.
The squirming, whimpering Plumpkins was no match for the gang of determined--and hungry--Femcanazons. He was strapped spread-eagle into the metal beast in short order as it dangled from an engine hoist framework. The “Roasting Rig” was festooned with countless blowtorch nozzles all aimed directly at every inch his quivering flesh--and each with a control valve for finely tuning it’s cook-flame! All were plumbed to a large portable propane tank of the sort used by backyard BBQ grills.
The same exquisitely pretty little Femcanazon who first suggested using the abominable apparatus gleefully produced a small BBQ lighter--displaying it to Plumpkins with an exaggerated flourish. She then proceeded to tenderly light all the cook-flame nozzles in turn, cooing and coaxing each to life and gazing at the results with the same delighted wonder as a child witnessing her birthday cake’s candles.
Soon all were lit, surrounding Plumpkins from head to toe with a gentle blue glow as the myriad small blazes gently puttered away at their lowest settings--like an army of little teasing tongues lightly tasting him in anticipation of flaring up full size to greedily gorge upon his defenceless flesh.
The Femcanazons gathered around watching the scene were completely in awe. They all stood there perfectly still, some garbed in leather biker jackets and vests emblazoned with their club emblems, others in just skimpy bikini tops above their tight low cut jeans and calf high low heeled boots.
“Well--I don’t now about the rest of you…” the sturdily built Femcanazon said, breaking the spell “…but I’m still hankering for my slice of piggie-thigh steak!” She then reached over to the cook-flame nozzles aimed at her portion of Plumpkins and twisted their throttles full open. Plumpkins reacted with a blood curdling shriek and panicked struggling against the unyielding bonds holding him fast as the flames jumped up to greet his helpless flesh.
The remaining gang members burst into howling laughter and then each proceeded to make similar culinary adjustments for their own choice selections of him. Soon it seemed as if Plumpkins was wearing a glowing blue suit as he writhed within the “Roasting Rig”, and his piercing screams became like a whistling tea pot’s…
