Conker

The grass was too green. Not just the usual cartoonishly vibrant green typical of Spiral Mountain, no. This looked freshly repainted—like someone was trying way too hard to make ‘cheerful’ a hostile aesthetic. Conker squinted against the blinding morning rays, a lit cig already dangling off her lower lip, trailing smoke that spiralled lazily in defiance of the unnatural cheer around her. “Bloody hell…” she muttered, tail flicking behind her like an irritated cat. Even the birds were chirping like they'd been bribed. “Feels like I’ve walked into a cereal ad.” She kicked a pebble. It bounced off a sunflower that giggled. The sunflower giggled. She froze. Blinked. Took a drag. “Did you just giggle, mate?” The sunflower, whose thick pollinated face bore an uncanny resemblance to someone who’d eaten one too many glue sticks, tittered again. “Ooooooh, it’s you! Her Majesty, back from her sabba-tickle!” “Oh, piss off with that royalty shite,” Conker barked, flicking ash in its direction. “I haven’t ruled anything since the last time I blacked out in a pub toilet, and frankly, the throne can stuff itself.” “But you’re the queen!” it insisted brightly, petals flapping like they were applauding. “You’re on the stamps!” She stared at it. Took another drag. Then pinched the bridge of her snout. Brilliant. I’ve stumbled into a garden of talking sunflowers with a monarchy fixation. Just what I needed. What next, a singing toilet? A rustling noise behind her made her ears twitch. Something big. Possibly stupid. She didn’t turn around yet. Just sighed. “Go on then,” she grumbled. “What absolute bollocks have I wandered into now?”