The Worst Job in the World

Duck suits are yellow. This is the norm. We didn't like it. As I watched the more realistic white and brown duck-man with a green duck head zig-zag in and out of sight, I counted to ten. Then I decided ten was a boring number and counted to fifty two. Counting the first ten of course, I'm not an idiot. I hit the number of awesomeness and gave chase.

After at least a minute of shenannigan-filled pursuit, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man with a plastic beak slamming into an invisible wall. I sped off in that direction, while rapidly renaming my gun from .50 Desert Eagle to .52 Icecap Ostrich. I arrived at the plywood corridor he had inadvertently stopped in, and raised Icecap Ostrich. He turned to face me, looking the perfect mix of ridiculous and awesome. I emptied the chamber into his head. A hole formed as flesh, bone, blood and brain matter spattered over the invisible wall.

I helped him back to his feet as sinewy fibres lashed over his forehead.

"Must we go again?"

"Just eight more bullets."