hololive's Takane Lui, Laplus Darknesss, and Chloe Sakamata play Ultimate Chicken Horse.
Original stream: • 【Ultimate Chicken Hors...
‪@TakaneLui‬ ‪@LaplusDarknesss‬ ‪@SakamataChloe‬
The bow-legged residents of Stonetomb scuttled from the crooked timber of one saloon to another, strutting along the sun-bleached plank sidewalks like crabs crawling over a whale carcass. It was the only town for miles, growing like a mold in the center of the desert. The sound of spurs jangling, vultures cackling, and loaded six shooters rattling in their holsters was everyday fanfare in Stonetomb. In fact, you’d be harder pressed to find a porcupine without quills than a denizen of this fine town who was not carrying some array of knives, guns, and brass knuckles.
That suited most, but not all.
She flew in like a hawk, driving a covered wagon, upon the canvas of which was embroidered the words ‘holoX Law Enforcement: We take the Wild out of the West’. By all accounts, she knew what she was about. Her first stop was the meanest saloon in town, The Syphilitic Armadillo. When she jumped down from the driver’s seat of her wagon, not a soul was to be seen in the streets. One does not last long in Stonetomb without a healthy sense of danger. The Sheriff eyed the darkness of the saloon, glaring over the swinging doors. She snorted and spat out of the corner of her mouth. The gob hit a weather-vane with a sharp pa-twang.
“Lil’ Deputy!” she barked. “Get your tail out of the wagon. Now.”
From the box of the covered wagon, an impish groaning struck up. “C’mon, Lui. You’re a big bird. You don’t need me for this.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” said the Sheriff. “But you got to earn your badge. And you sure as shooting aren’t gonna do it reading those damn cartoons all day.”
“I told you: they’re not cartoons, they’re manga. I imported them from the land of ‘Nippon’.”
“Well, if you don’t get a move on, I’m gonna export you to the land of Heaven.”
“Demons don’t go to Heaven, moron.”
The Sheriff put a hand on her revolver, shook her head and sighed. Under her breath, she said, “I gave you every opportunity.” She spun on her spurs and marched to the back of the wagon and threw back the flap. A horrid screeching, like a raccoon with a lungful of helium caught red-handed getting into the garbage, blew out from somewhere in the covered wagon. When the Sheriff climbed up into the wagon bed, the screeching redoubled. From an outside perspective, the rocking wagon and its canvas cover seemed like a bag containing a bulldog and a bobcat fighting to the death.
About ten seconds later, something purple and black was punted out of the back of the wagon. A demon child, about waist high if she were standing on an encyclopedia, stuck in the dirt road, horns first, like a two-pronged pitchfork. Her pea shooter slipped from its holster and clattered to the ground. The demon child reached her hands above her head, but her horns were too long, and she could sooner touch the sky than the ground. She let her arms dangle above her head and, to all appearances, lost interest in life.
The Sheriff hopped down from the wagon, taking the time to dust off her shoulders and straighten her cuffs before moseying over to her upside-down deputy. “Well, Lil’ Deputy,” said the Sheriff. “That ought to straighten you out.”
The deputy mumbled something under her breath.
“Hm?” The Sheriff bent at the knees and put a hand to her ear. “You’ll have to speak up if you want to be heard.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” said the deputy.
For a moment, the Sheriff exchanged a dead-eyed glance with the deputy in distress. Then she threw back her head and cackled like a seagull. When she was finished, she wiped a tear from her eye and said, “Or what? Are you gonna do something?”
“No,” said the deputy. “But I know someone who will.”
The glow of mirth on the Sheriff’s face evaporated.
Before the Sheriff could get a word in, the deputy filled her lungs with dusty air and screamed, “SAKAMATA! LUI’S FIXING YOU ANOTHER BATH!”
“No!” squawked the Sheriff. “It’s not true. I’m not fixing to do no such thing! I would never suggest it again. Not after…” She gulped. “Last time.”
The wayward afternoon sun pushed long shadows from the sundry forms of the town. As if by some omen-laden solar event, the sunlight took on the tinge of blood and the shadows of the town deepened so much that they could’ve been mistaken for tar-pitch.
“No,” whispered the Sheriff. “Please.” Sweat rolled down her forehead and stung her eyes. She twisted her head this way and that, searching for the silhouette that would spell her doom. Then she saw it. At the far end of town, standing in the middle of the street, was a hooded shadow made manifest.
Stonetomb was never the same after that. They say the water was poisoned. They say that shadows didn’t always stick to the things that cast them. And no bird would ever step talon in the town again.
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