Gilda is Hogging Your Bed, and Eating Your Chicken (theRedBrony)
Gilda is Hogging Your Bed, and Eating Your Chicken
TheRedBrony
The work day is over and done with, finally! The crazy lady that came in right before closing time had done a number on your patience. Why the heck did she think you could sell her something to detect wiretaps and bugs? It's not even that kind of store! Customers, you have found, are unfathomably stupid. Whatever, home is the goal now. Home, and food.
A feeling of longing fills your heart as you pass by Panda Express on your way home from work. Dinner tonight will be something… less. That bucket of fried chicken in your refrigerator is about to spoil. A neighbor unceremoniously bequeathed it upon you, probably left over from some party you weren't invited to. So you'd better eat it before it goes bad.
Keys in hand, standing at your front doorstep, you begin to wonder if you have another 'special' houseguest. Seems they only appear on Monday nights… who knows why? Today being a Wednesday, odds are pretty good that your house is devoid of any ponies paranormally passing through dimensions. No headaches and a good night's sleep sound nice for a change. But… on the other hand… you had to admit that the random appearances of ponies in your bed have actually added a little spice to your life. A little bit of the unexpected. Sure, some of them were headache – ok, a lot of them – but a few were kind of pleasant guests.
Despite it being a Wednesday, you decide to err on the side of caution, and as soon as the front door is open, you shout into the darkness of your home, "Is anypony home?"
Half-expecting an answer, seconds pass with no reply. But as you take off your coat and click the front door closed, it becomes clear that someone has the TV on in your bedroom. Upon reaching the apex of the stairs, you find the door to your bedroom slightly ajar. You decide to knock first to announce your presence, but enter without waiting for a reply.
It is your bedroom, after all.
What you see in your bed is a lot to take in. The sleek, toned body of a lioness. Feathered wings to match. Enormous wings, spread wide, as if soaring in flight. A coat of golden brown borders against stark white feathers. Purple tinged crest feathers hang above a golden beak, sharp and hooked, the beak of a bird of prey.
What you are seeing is none other than Gilda What-the-heck-is-her-last-name.
Yet for what might've been a majestic sight, you can't help but scoff. She's splayed out on her back, slouching up against the headboard, her wings drooping off either side of the mattress, her tufted tail hanging lazily off the side, she's munching on a chicken leg held in one hand, her other arm is wrapped around the KFC bucket – that was supposed your dinner. Gilda is the living poster child for griffon couch potatoes, it seems.
She's watching TV, too. A soccer match – of all things – on the Spanish channel.
Gilda barely turns her head away from the screen to regard you. "What're you lookin' at, sasquatch?"
You take some offense to the term, and you can't help but reply with a comeback. "Sasquatch? Who're you calling sasquatch, birdbrain?"
"I'm callin' you sasquatch, monkey-ears," she casually replies, not taking her eyes away from the soccer match this time.
That last one gets a little chuckle out of you, so you decide to play along. "Bird-cat."
"Pointy-nose."
"Beak-face!"
In the blink of an eye, you find yourself nose-to-beak with your houseguest, who seems to have a very firm grasp of your shirt collar. "What did you call me?!"
"Whoa, nothing! Nothing! Hey, I didn't mean it!"
Snarling and practically steaming at the ears, she says nothing, only staring you down.
You… are about to piss yourself. "Easy, now," you shakily try to reassure her. "Really, I didn't mean anything, I swear."
Looking no more pleased than before, she suddenly releases her grasp on your shirt and lazily climbs back onto the comfortable bed.
Running your hand across the upper part of your shirt… a bunch of finger-sized holes become apparent. A small sigh of annoyance escapes you. Gilda just ruined a work shirt.
"Your water tastes like crap, by the way," your bed-hogging guest off-handedly remarks, briefly pointing a taloned thumb in the direction of the now-empty water glass on the nightstand.
You cringe at the sight of the crusty ring around the inside, where the water level once was. "I… think that water has been sitting there for a couple of weeks."
Gilda slowly turns and glares daggers at you, while a frown of sheer disgust curls upon her little birdy lips at the edges of her beak.
"I'll uh… just get you a fresh glass of water."
Before you make it out the door, she calls back to you, "Water is for dweebs, ya got anything for grown-ups?"
You turn a quick 180 degrees on your heel. A naughty smile creeps upon your face. "I think I got some cider buried somewhere in the fridge."
She agrees with a slight nod. Having already raided your new refrigerator for the chicken – just about the only thing in there, honestly – you're a bit surprised Gilda didn't find your stash hiding in the produce drawer at the bottom. Moments later you graciously hand a cold one to your houseguest. Quicker than you can say 'twist-off bottle caps,' Gilda uses the side of her beak like a bottle opener, and spits the cap across the room.
You can't help but stare, slightly horrified at the prospect of what that beak might be capable of if its owner wasn't in a particularly happy mood.
"What?" She flippantly asks.
"Uh… they're actually those twist-off caps..." You go ahead and twist the bottle cap off with a firm grasp of your hand. As with every time you do this, you briefly think of your estranged older brother who's too much of a wimp to twist off his beer bottle caps with his bare hands.
"Huh." She observes before taking a swig from her bottle.
You pull up a chair and sit next to the bed. Your bed. Which she is hogging. With that giant wingspan of hers.
A slight rumble comes from your belly. Your stomach making its demands audible, apparently. Immediately your eyes lock onto the bucket of greasy meaty sustenance, which is firmly clutched by a particular griffon who happens to be occupying your bed.
Gilda eyeballs you. Then the bucket you're looking at. She glances back and forth between you and the bucket several times, looking none too pleased about your ogling of the food she's obviously staked a claim on. But she soon heaves a loud, overdone sigh of annoyance, and unceremoniously shoves the paper bucket in your direction.
You thank her – although you're not sure why – and dig through the scraps and bones for an edible chunk of bird meat to consume. A chicken wing – that was spared the ravenous beak of Gilda – is your prize.
As you dig in, the TV voice announces that a goal has been scored. He continues announcing it for several seconds. You begin to wonder what that man's lung capacity must be to enable him to shout the word 'GOL!' for almost a minute straight without a breath.
Gilda, meanwhile, shifts around on the bed, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. She accidentally slaps you with one of her primary feathers as she repositions herself. She doesn't seem to notice. Or care. "Your bed's all lumpy, dude."
"No it's not," you state as a matter of fact. It's a fairly new mattress, even if it is slightly charred. Couple years old, maybe? And a pretty expensive mattress too. Despite all the self-inflicted sleep deprivation, you are familiar with the importance of a good night's sleep.
"Sh'yeah it is! Trust me, dude. Griffons are super sensitive to stuff like this. Bed lumps, I mean. Ever heard that story about the princess and the pea?"
"Uh…"
"Yeah. Griffon princess. So let me guess: you never flip the mattress over, do you?"
"Well…" You think back. On the rare occasion that you actually change out the sheets on your bed, you're generally too exhausted from doing laundry and other such back-breaking chores to be bothered to wrestle with your mattress. So, she had a point. "I guess not."
"Yeah. I knew it. You need a new mattress, dude."
"Gilda, are you trying to sell me a mattress?"
"No, no. I just, uh, know someone who can hook you up. Yeah, that's it." She has a terrible poker face. In fact, you find her dorky bird-smile a little amusing.
"Wait a minute. Are you a mattress salesman? Saleswoman? Salespony- griffon? -bird? …cat???"
"Bird. It's salesbird, numb-nuts," she answers. "And yeah… I am." She looks away and runs her hand over her crest feathers, as though nervous.
"Are you seriously trying to sell me a mattress? I live in… like, a different dimension or something. How did you think you'd to deliver a mattress here?"
Gilda heaves a sigh. "I dunno! I'm desperate, alright?"
"Wha- you're that desperate? You transcended reality itself just to try to sell somebody a mattress?"
"What? No. I just figured, you know, since I was here I might as well try to score a sale… ok, yeah. That does sound stupid."
"Why would you even… I just… don't. Seriously, why?"
"I work on commission, alright? The cheapskates who own the shop don't pay me anything if I don't reel in at least a couple of suckers a month! Do you know how many ponies actually buy mattresses? I mean, yeah, sure, they go bad eventually. But every five or ten years ain't often enough for the poor bird who's gotta sell 'em!"
Gilda has a valid point. "Yeah," you admit, "I'm in retail myself. I have friends who were in mattress sales. Keyword 'were.' They all quit and got better jobs pretty fast. It's a crappy line of work, or so I hear."
"No kidding! Doesn't help that I'm a griffon in a pony town and ponies are specist snobs."
"And uh, what town might that be?" You slyly ask.
"Some dump called Vanhoover."
"Really? Now how'd you end up there?"
Gilda chuckles a bit and takes a swig from her cider bottle. "Funny story actually…"
The soccer match eventually turned into a Spanish soap opera that neither of you could follow. A pair of empty bottles turned into a pile. And a bucket of fried chicken is now a bucket of scraps. Gilda regaled you with various misadventures of hers, and you shared your tales of life as a sales rep with her. She even tucked in one of her enormous wings and let you sit on the bed next to her.
Sadly, the hour is late, and you have work tomorrow.
"I think maybe we should hit the hay."
"Yeah, I'm beat." Gilda points the clicker at the TV and turns it off.
Hopeful that you might reclaim the gentle embrace of your own bed for a good night's sleep, you playfully insinuate that Gilda would be very comfortable sleeping on the couch downstairs.
"Or…" she says. "Maybe we could share the bed."
Suspicious of her intentions, you say, "I dunno…"
"What do ya say?" Gilda rolls onto her side, facing you with one arm holding up her head. Those bedroom eyes catch you by surprise. "Maybe you and me could share… a little more than just the bed." She slowly runs the smooth side of a talon from your collar down your chest. "If you catch my drift, monkey man."
What the heck do you say? You've never really thought about Gilda that way! What do you do? Do you just roll with the punches? Should you be the gentleman and politely decline? You're too drunk to think about crap like this!
Suddenly, a large padded paw presses against your hip. That paw shoves you off the bed. You roll onto the floor, landing painfully on top of a pile of empty cider bottles and that KFC bucket. Gilda laughs.
Well, more like a cackle, anyway.
"Ha ha! Like I'd fool around with a sasquatch nerd like you. You can sleep on the couch."
"But… I… you… I thought we…? Hey! I thought you said my mattress was lumpy!"
"I lied."
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Griffon-zoned.
Darn it, Gilda! You tease!
Son of a bitch. Gilda wasn't as bitchy as I thought she'd be.
I loved it!
On the plus side....she didn't eat him.
5535331 Does your pillow purr as well? Or wake you up at 5 am demanding to be fed?
Mine does.
Oh, Gilda. Troll to the end.
Hah, that is a fantastic little entry. Lovely bit of trolling on Gilda's part, with just enough friendliness to make you not hate her outright.
Love the bottle opening bit, will have to
stealborrow that myself!Nah, it gets lumpy if you're in it though... Might need a bit of wrestling to smooth down....
5535786
But on the downside, she didn't 'eat' him.
5536747 Dude, oral sex from a griffon would be like...trip to the emergency room bad.
must...resist...urge...to make...bad puns
5536752
emphasis on the word downside
Gilda the bird-cat-troll!
I approve of this chapter!
Admiral, I'm hijacking your comments.
5535682 LOL
5535707 Yeah, she's a tease alright. Doesn't that seem exactly like something she'd do?
5535772 I take it that's a good thing! Thank you!
5535786 5536747 ...or did she?
5535825 5536308 5537536
5536459 Exactly what I was going for. Often, her character is made into such a bitch, you just can't like her. And the bottle-opening thing was recycled from another of my older stories. Feel free to steal!
5536467 Not sure... what you mean. Is that a sexual innuendo? I'm genuinely confused.
5536752 Not that I'm familiar with such things, but there are a lot of avian furries... And you know how furries are...
5537376 You mean the downside? Hehehe... wait. I actually don't know what you're referring to.
5538729 it can be? Everything can be made sexual we suppose...
For the non-sexual explanation: when you sleep in a bed, eventually the bed starts to conform to your body, hence why you flip the mattress every so often. To new people, the bed would be quite lumpy indeed, and would require a lot of work to smooth it down to something resembling its neutral non-customized version.
Hehe. Nice one.
Like some other people in previous chapters, you need to work on classic "s/he said" quoting rules, though. They are explained in the writing guide here on fimfic, under "FAQ".
Oh, and I think this is a mistake: not sure what to make of it:
> How did you think you'd to deliver a mattress here?
5538729
raw said "but on the downside, she didn't eat him
[youtube=VTDCEiBeVAY]
That mah chicken bitch!
In fimfiction story, bird flips you!
The lumps was a lie.
Trollda strikes again.
Wha-- I don't-- huh? DOES NOT COMPUTE.