“Oh. Dear. Jesus,” Piggy snorted in terror, trying to breathe.

Raccoon chortled, “Aren’t you supposed to be running around like a-”

“Oh, the Rooster has self-control,” whispered Rooster’s head from atop a pile of snack food bags. Without the support of powerful lungs that had challenged every sunrise, the voice was quiet and whispery.

“Yeah,” said the small head, “Rooster’ll fuck you up if it’s the last… aw, who’s the Rooster kidding, it is the last thing….”

“Just a flesh wound, mate?” Raccoon smirked.

A shadow darkened his face, sliced by a streak of light. He looked up at the magazine rack and shrieked as Rooster’s body exploded with a clap of wings. The headless body dove at his face, feet first and spurs down. He raised the knife in his paw and drove it into the dying body just as Rooster’s steel gaffs punched through his eyes with a wet squinch that was immediately drowned by Raccoon’s piercing screams as he left the knife hanging from the bird’s gut and tried to push Rooster from his face.