Sir Paul Pickle Pants to the Rescue, sort of

"Fuck a duck."

Burp.

Guinness hits different after a bar brawl.

"I wish I'd never taken you to the North of England for our anniversary, Paul."

My wife's patience is wearing thin at my overuse of colloquialisms, God love her.

"Alright, Fanny, ducky, I'll give it a rest!"

At least until tomorrow, I think to myself.

"I do love gravy, though!" she continues, licking her lips.

What a damn fine life you lead, Paul.

With my feet up, Guinness in one hand and a good book in the other, I let my mind wander through the pages of the highbrow satire of Gary Larson's The Far Side, laughing at the foibles of our species. Humans, when will we learn? People like Larson, I suspect, hope we never learn.

"Do you want to have Thanksgiving with the outlaws?"

She asks this every year, knowing fine well the last thing I want to do is spend Thanksgiving, a holiday I have deeply conflicted feelings about, with the ruffians of lower social standing she calls family.

"I want to have you for Thanksgiving. Stuffed with pickles," I say, smirking and pinching her bottom.

"You're filthy."

"You married me and haven't complained about picklegasms in the past!"

"True," she sighed, as I dozed off. The Guinness, as well as the several gin and tonics I had at the pub, were taking effect.

My heavy eyelids locked shut, bringing darkness. I heard Fanny calling from the bedroom. She sounded distraught. Though I still felt heavily intoxicated, I slowly stumbled into the hallway and up the stairs to our bedroom.

"I'm coming!" I shouted.

"Paul, I'm... Well, you'll see. I'm in a bit of a pickle..."

Her perplexing words and distressing tone helped me move at least half a step quicker.

"What do you mean, Fanny? Are you—"

As I walked into the bedroom, I was shocked to find Fanny literally stuck in a pickle jar. Well, her hands were stuck. Let's not be dramatic.

"It was that duck you fought at the bar, who argued against Kylie's musical career."

"All those times I wanted to have your hands restrained in a pickle jar, and you let someone else do it!" I laughed.

Fanny didn't see the funny side.

"He said this was just the beginning and, because you called him a shitty swan wannabe, you would face a fate worse than death... He monologued pretty heavily. I didn't really listen until he mentioned my family."

"Oh, no! Not the outlaws! However will I sleep at night?"

"Paul! That's my family!"

"Okay, well, what did the shitty faux swan say?"

"He said he was going to stuff my sister and serve her for Thanksgiving dinner..."

"Let me guess, to the poor?"

I laughed.

Fanny, bless her, still didn't see the funny side.

"No, the extremely wealthy."

"Shit, the extremely wealthy are the people I hate most!"

"Exactly. He said that would get your attention and laughed for a painfully long time."

"Well, yes. He clearly did his research. Wait, how long is painfully long?"

"Well, while he laughed, I was able to sing all five hundred verses of 'American Pie'."

"I prefer 'Vincent'."

"Anyway. You need to do something. I don't want to think how my sis will feel being stuffed by anyone other than Ryan Gosling."

"Does she still hallucinate that a frozen carrot is Ryan Gosling?"

"Yep. She's been to see at least one therapist and a greengrocer."

"Okay. Look, it's up to me, but goddamn, woman, you owe me, and you know what I want."

"I know. Just get me out of this damn pickle jar, then we can talk recompense and reward."

"First, it's time for me to resurrect an old friend."

"Not him, seriously, Paul."

"Fanny, I've never been more serious about anything in my life. I need to become—"

"Don't say it."

"Sir Paul—"

"Oh God."

"Pickle Pants."

"Fuck a duck. We're doomed."

I ignored Fanny's lack of confidence and went to the lab, and by lab I mean kitchen.

"It's time things got a little..."

My grandiose transformation was interrupted by a video call on my TV from the dastardly duck himself.

"Ah, there you are, good man. Hope I'm not interrupting quality time with your fanny?"

"Funny duck."

The duck was not tall or especially intimidating. He was rather small and irritating but had unlimited resources.

"She's a tasty fanny, a fine woman too. Smack, wack, hack, hack, ha!"

"Keep my wife's name out of your fucking mouth!"

I switched it off and grabbed a fresh jar of pickles. I placed four on the counter. Then I got the electric saw out.

First, I cut off my right arm at the elbow as blood splatters everywhere, and use the remainder of the bone to stick a pickle with a fork in, the tines as fingers. Then I work on the left.

Next, my legs, cutting them at the knees. Fuck, this hurts.

Understatement of the century.

Just need to slot my new pickle legs in place and finish the transformation with some DMs!

Now it's time to fuck a duck up.

Sir Paul Pickle Pants, for one day only, is Captain Thanksgiving!

As I can't fly or teleport, I free Fanny from the jar so she can drive to the pub.

"For fuck's sake, Paul! You look even worse than last time."

"Have a pickle and drive, woman!"

Fanny can't be arsed complaining, so we take a leisurely drive to the pub.

I prefer the element of surprise.

So, once parked, I walk through the front door and the duck is there, precariously holding a pickle against my sister-in-law. I can't tell whether he's going to impale her or impale her!

"No grand entrance? Pickle Paul, you disappoint me!"

"That's Sir Paul Pickle Pants to go, fucker."

And before he has a chance to do anything, I walk over, grab the pickle and smack him twice in the face with it.

"Happy Thanksgiving, wannabe swan!"

*

Thanks for reading!

This madness is for the Vocal+ Assist Captain Thanksgiving to the Rescue Unofficial Challenge.

You can still enter, details below:

Bell deserves credit for helping to create my take on Pickle Rick from Rick and Morty, iykyk. She nicknamed me that and so therefore I created the character. So, her fault or she takes credit. Either way, check out her profile for some truly exceptional writing.