Chapter Sixty-One
Delilah
A Few More Weeks Later
The Wedding of Destiny & the Chicken Man
As witnessed by Delilah Darling, warpainted maid of honor
I’ve never been a bridesmaid before. But even if I’d marched the taffeta gauntlet and cried into a mimosa while a woman named Brittany pledged herself to a polo-wearing Kyle, I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me for Destiny marrying the Chicken Man in a backyard ceremony that feels like it was planned by an asthmatic raccoon during a meth bender. There are lawn chairs. There is glitter. There is the undeniable scent of hot oil and prophecy.
And I, somehow, am the Bridesmaid of Honor.
I’m in a pink velvet dress that might’ve once been a curtain. My heart-shaped sunglasses double as a weapon. My lipstick is a battle cry. I’m wearing stilettos that say “SIN” on one heel and “SUGAR” on the other, and I’ve got glitter in places that glitter should not physically be.
The bride, my beloved holding-cell sister in crimes of passion and poultry, Destiny, has smoke in her eyes and vape in her lungs. Her veil is made of caution tape.
I walk her down the aisle. “You look hot as fuck,” I whisper. “Let’s do this.”
We strut past the audience like we’re storming the gates of Hell. The guests are a mixed bag of jail wives, art hoes, minor deities, one man in a chicken mascot suit, and the reincarnation of Venus herself, currently vaping near a sacrificial snack tray.
She flips off a crow mid-flight. It caws. She caws back.
Rhys the officiant, dressed like a funeral director forced to attend a Barbie-themed quinceañera, stands at the makeshift altar in all black. The pink boutonnière I stabbed into his lapel is hanging on for dear life, like his composure.
He clears his throat. Hard. Once. Twice. You can actually see his soul trying to leave his body through his temples. “We are gathered here today,” he says, “for reasons I still don’t fully understand.”
I bite my lip to keep from howling. Jett, the best man, doesn’t bother, he snorts and mutters “same” under his breath.
Rhys barrels forward. “Legally, I have to ask if anyone objects, but I’m going to skip that, because frankly, no one here gets a vote.”
Destiny winks at me. Chicken Man clucks solemnly.
And then it begins.
The groom, shirt open, feathers painted down his chest in glitter and body oil, smiles like a man who’s stared into the void and decided to fuck it.
“Destiny. Prophetess of the forbidden spit. I stand before you not as a man, but as a vessel. A featherless prophet. A humble disciple of the Coop.”
I swear to God, three pigeons land on the roof on cue.
“From the moment you baptized your coffee with bodily fluids and foresaw my erection in the foam, our yolks were whisked. You are the cracked shell to my leaking yolk.”
I am crying. I am leaking glitter tears. Someone gasps. I think it’s Jett.
“I vow to honor your chaos. To share my Bluetooth signal and to always keep the coop warm. To never microwave fish in our shared nest. When the chickens come to roost, and they will, I will fight beside you in the Great Peckening. Together, we will raise the next generation of prophecy. Little hatchlings of havocand spite. You are my egg. My yolk. My forbidden feather. And I am yours, now and always, until the last cluck sounds and the coop returns to dust.”
Rhys closes his eyes briefly like he’s trying to astral project to a courtroom where this isn’t legally binding. “Benji. The ring.”
Benji is in a flower crown and suspenders, glowing like a Renaissance angel dipped in butter. He’s holding the rings in a repurposed KFC box, because symbolism.
Rhys sighs. You can hear his migraine start. He stares at it for one long moment. Then says, “Right. Sure,” and nods for them to proceed.
“With this ring,” Chicken Man intones, solemn as a preacher on shrooms, “I thee cluck. And I promise, on my robe, on my headset, on the sacred thigh meat of the ancestors, to love you until the coop collapses and the moon bleeds yolk.”
Destiny takes a long vape hit. Flicks a Pop-Tart crust into the ether. Then she stares into his soul like she’s either going to marry him or hex him into another realm.
“You showed up glistening like God’s favorite gravy. You whispered things I didn’t understand, and I got wet anyway. I vow to hex your enemies, worship your weird, and tongue-kiss you on every solstice. Together, we’ll build a nest of emotional damage and birdseed. We’ll raise hell and hens. We’ll astral project during orgies and fight the law with spells and poultry. I vow to always bring the chaos and the titty snacks. You’ll never be spiritually malnourished again. You are my cult husband. My poultry prince.”
