Having returned from yet another hard mission of bombing perfect strangers in order to distract the press from their Commander in Chief's peccadilloes, the two aviators were now thoroughly drunk. They had been walking around town for over an hour since the bars closed, sharing a bottle of Jagermeister. In strict violation of command policy, they were drinking off-duty, plus, wearing their flight suits, with all insignia removed except name tags with their call signs on them.
Mother Goose, an EF-111 pilot, was naturally enough, a female Lesser Canadian, and her EWO, or 'guy-in-back,' as she preferred he would NEVER AGAIN REFER TO HIMSELF IN PUBLIC, was an ambulatory, talking egg called Humpty-Dumpty. He said the name referred to poor target identification during a college fraternity initiation encounter with a sheep. He was currently balancing himself on top of a stone wall, singing "junior birdmen" at the top of his hypothetical lungs.
"Get down off of there, you fool! You'll fall and break something, I swear," Mother Goose yelled. "Drunken sot. Last time I take you on a pub crawl." It was alIt was almost 3:00 AM.
Humpty-Dumpty balanced precariously, tiny, almost useless arms wind-milling at his round sides. Briefly recovering his equilibrium, he stuck out his tongue at her and deliberately raised one foot. Overbalanced, he fell to the pavement with a sodden 'crack.'
"Medic! Call 911!" Mother Goose flapped her wings and squawked, generally getting in the way of the steadily assembling crowd of assorted elves and fairies of indeterminate gender, leather-clad dwarves, and similar shiftless individuals of the type who hung out in the district around the Haupbahnhof, especially there along Der Ringstrasse, the euphonious and, indeed, literal name for road outside the old city wall.
First to arrive were the nightwatch, well-fed, portly king's men who began taking statements from 'witnesses,' and pushing back the crowd with their truncheons. As they began to arrest the usual suspects, Goose suddenly remembered an earlier appointment. Humpty'd been a good egg, but she didn't want to appear in the morning report. As the watch removed his wallet, (as well as his watch), the ambulance crew arrived. An equine wearing a stethoscope over the king's livery gave the cracked shell a cursory examination.
"He's dead. Gym." Solemnly, he announced, "Yes, gymnastics on the wall, that's what caused it." His partner spun his tricorder on it's vinyl strap and clubbed him senseless.
"There's only one thing to do. Fetch twenty pounds of cheese, a dozen onions; and arrest that man!" He pointed to Mr. Potatohead, who was standing nearby with his arm draped over the shoulder of a Hobbit wearing fishnet stockings, and very little else.
A big, bad wolf spoke up. "Some bacon would go good with that omelet, too."
"Huh?" A little pig perked up his ears suddenly, but before he could say anything else, his two brothers dragged him away.
"Wait." The equine was still examining the corpse. "Something is not right here. There is no yolk oozing onto the pavement. This was a fertilized egg!"
"Eeeewwww! Gross!" Said the crowd. Everyone watched as he tapped on the shell with his hoof. A faint tapping replied. They watched, silent.
Pecking her way free of the shell, a baby bird looked around at the assembled creatures, letting out a faint 'peep.'
"My God, that's an ugly duckling," muttered one of the king's men. But that's another story entirely.