Angry Birds Slashfic: Pork Chop Hill
Summary: The black bird has a forbidden desire for the mustache pig. But their time together will be tragically limited. Humor/Parody, rated PG-13 for slash and birdie innuendo.
Pork Chop Hill
He is my enemy. And I am his. For as long as I can remember, our two kinds have been locked in a life and death struggle for our very existence.
And yet, as I stare across the distance that separates us, I feel something stirring. Something unthinkable, forbidden. From the come-hither glint in his bulbous eyes as he stares back, and by the new sultry tone in his grunts as he taunts me from his ramshackle fortification, I know he has begun to feel it too.
The hour is at hand. Across a wide expanse of land dotted by boulders and scrub plants stands a haphazard structure of wood, glass and stone. Other pigs perch on platforms and shelter in various nooks and crannies, all of them emitting mocking grunts. He, himself, is safe behind a balustrade of stone. So near, yet so far.
First up are the blue brothers, Jay, Jake and Jim. So disciplined are they that they seem to be one bird as the great sling lets them fly, until they break apart to hit their targets with the most effect. Theirs is a weak talent, but useful nonetheless. I hear the tinkle of breaking glass and the unmistakable popping grunt of a pig giving up the ghost. Good -- they all need to die for what they have done, except perhaps one, and even he . . .
Next into the sling is Chuck. He is a foul-mouthed little thing, with his dark eyes and yellow plumage, but he has his skills. After he is flung forth, he speeds ahead under his own impetus, uttering a tweeting war-cry. After a hit to a crucial beam of wood, an entire wing of the fortification collapses, taking numerous minions to their demise. Well done, Chuck! But my nemesis, the object of my obsession remains untouched behind his shelter of stone. Am I disappointed? Or am I relieved?
It is Red's turn. He is the most basic of us, neither skilled nor powerful, but what he lacks in strength he makes up for with enthusiasm. His cry of, "Ya-hey-naaaa!" fills the air as he speeds across the void. His impact makes no kills, but a crack appears in the base of the fortress.
One step closer to the meeting with my adversary. I wonder what it will be like to feel the contours of his porcine body next to mine, to hear his snorts in my ear. The little feather atop my head that resembles a fuse stiffens and begins to smoke at the thought.
Only a single member of the flock is left before my own turn at the sling -- Matilda, with her voluptuous pear shape and her white feathers. I have little use for the hens, finding the whole process of egg-laying rather unpleasant to think about, even if it is necessary to the perpetuation of our kind. Matilda is weak, like all females, but her strength lies in those same feminine abilities. The egg she drops before ricocheting off to goodness knows where deals death rather than the promise of new life. Two layers of stone crumble, leaving only one between me and . . . him.
Finally it is my turn! My body quivers in anticipation as I hear the familiar creak of the sling, and I feel the rush of the wind as I fly to him across the distance. I crash through the remaining layer of stone as if it were nothing. We are face to face. The rough bristles of his moustache tickle my beak, the heat of his sweaty body beats against me, and his musky scent fills my nostrils. Such bliss cannot long be contained. We will die the little death together and the big one too, and whether it results in the success of our mission, I no longer care in the rapture of our mutual passion. I feel it building, building inside me. . .
Ah -- I fly into a million pieces!
Pork Chop Hill
He is my enemy. And I am his. For as long as I can remember, our two kinds have been locked in a life and death struggle for our very existence.
And yet, as I stare across the distance that separates us, I feel something stirring. Something unthinkable, forbidden. From the come-hither glint in his bulbous eyes as he stares back, and by the new sultry tone in his grunts as he taunts me from his ramshackle fortification, I know he has begun to feel it too.
The hour is at hand. Across a wide expanse of land dotted by boulders and scrub plants stands a haphazard structure of wood, glass and stone. Other pigs perch on platforms and shelter in various nooks and crannies, all of them emitting mocking grunts. He, himself, is safe behind a balustrade of stone. So near, yet so far.
First up are the blue brothers, Jay, Jake and Jim. So disciplined are they that they seem to be one bird as the great sling lets them fly, until they break apart to hit their targets with the most effect. Theirs is a weak talent, but useful nonetheless. I hear the tinkle of breaking glass and the unmistakable popping grunt of a pig giving up the ghost. Good -- they all need to die for what they have done, except perhaps one, and even he . . .
Next into the sling is Chuck. He is a foul-mouthed little thing, with his dark eyes and yellow plumage, but he has his skills. After he is flung forth, he speeds ahead under his own impetus, uttering a tweeting war-cry. After a hit to a crucial beam of wood, an entire wing of the fortification collapses, taking numerous minions to their demise. Well done, Chuck! But my nemesis, the object of my obsession remains untouched behind his shelter of stone. Am I disappointed? Or am I relieved?
It is Red's turn. He is the most basic of us, neither skilled nor powerful, but what he lacks in strength he makes up for with enthusiasm. His cry of, "Ya-hey-naaaa!" fills the air as he speeds across the void. His impact makes no kills, but a crack appears in the base of the fortress.
One step closer to the meeting with my adversary. I wonder what it will be like to feel the contours of his porcine body next to mine, to hear his snorts in my ear. The little feather atop my head that resembles a fuse stiffens and begins to smoke at the thought.
Only a single member of the flock is left before my own turn at the sling -- Matilda, with her voluptuous pear shape and her white feathers. I have little use for the hens, finding the whole process of egg-laying rather unpleasant to think about, even if it is necessary to the perpetuation of our kind. Matilda is weak, like all females, but her strength lies in those same feminine abilities. The egg she drops before ricocheting off to goodness knows where deals death rather than the promise of new life. Two layers of stone crumble, leaving only one between me and . . . him.
Finally it is my turn! My body quivers in anticipation as I hear the familiar creak of the sling, and I feel the rush of the wind as I fly to him across the distance. I crash through the remaining layer of stone as if it were nothing. We are face to face. The rough bristles of his moustache tickle my beak, the heat of his sweaty body beats against me, and his musky scent fills my nostrils. Such bliss cannot long be contained. We will die the little death together and the big one too, and whether it results in the success of our mission, I no longer care in the rapture of our mutual passion. I feel it building, building inside me. . .
Ah -- I fly into a million pieces!