Egg On Her Face

 “I don’t see what’s so good about you!”

Rockstar Chica turned away from Candy Cadet, candy in hand. “This seems a bit anachronistic,” she deadpanned, before popping the candy into her mouth.

Chica seemed flustered. “T-That doesn’t matter! Why are you the one who gets to hang around on stage entertaining the kids instead of me?”

Rockstar Chica stared at Chica for a few moments with a blank expression, then turned around and put a token into Candy Cadet. Some more candy popped out. The Rockstar animatronic immediately popped it into her mouth and put in another token. A squawk brought her attention briefly to the side.

“I-I challenge you! Winner gets the show stage, loser has to clean out the ball pit!”

“Denied.” Another token, another piece of candy.

“What’s the matter,” Chica asked. “Are you chicken?”

Rockstar Chica turned to face her counterpart at that. “I’m sorry, but did you seriously just-“

“If Foxy were here,” Chica continued, “He’d call you yellow-bellied!”

“Wait, hold on, are you actually-“

“Or are you just that confident that you’d win? Well lemme tell you, sister, you shouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch!”

Rockstar Chica’s hand came up to pinch the bridge of her beak. “Ay, Dios mio. I seriously can’t even right now.”

Chica crossed her arms triumphantly. “So, giving up before it’s even begun, huh?” Rockstar Chica sighed heavily, then returned to putting tokens into Candy Cadet. Chica pouted and stomped her foot. “Hey, so are we gonna do this or what?”

The final token went into Candy Cadet’s slot. Rockstar Chica eyed him up intensely. Colorful lights flashed. Candy Cadet gave his little spiel. Everything went quiet, even Chica waited with baited breath.

Another piece of candy.

Rockstar Chica huffed in annoyance. “Ugh, fine, whatever.”



The two avians stood on the show stage. Chica enthusiastically bowed to the audience, Trash and the Gang. Rockstar Chica crossed her arms and looked bored. “So,” she said. “What exactly are we doing?”

Chica laughed haughtily. “Why, what else but a performance? It’s obviously the only way to decide who gets stage rights.”

Rockstar Chica backed away to the side of the stage without a word and gestured for Chica to get on with it. Chica, momentarily ruffled at unexpectedly being in the spotlight, cleared her throat and addressed the audience.

“Alright fellas, for my act I’m going to be…” Chica mimed a drum roll with her hands and mouth. Rockstar Chica rolled her eyes. “Juggling!”

Chica hopped over to the side of the stage and pulled up a large sack, grunting with exertion. After dragging it center stage, she wiped some imaginary sweat off her forehead. Then, she opened the sack. A half-dozen cupcakes spilled out. Chica gathered them up in her feathery arms and cradled them as though they were her children.

“Alright Carlos, Charlie, Karl, Charlotte, Carol, and Charles. Let’s show ‘em what we got!”

Lefty wandered over to the stage. “Did somebody call for me?” Lefty was promptly ignored.

Chica tossed the cupcakes into the arm, starting with three and eventually working her way up to all six. The chicken animatronic was a juggling machine, varying the tempo, the height, and even doing tricks along the way. Chica even added sound effects and music with her mouth.

After a performance that went on for far too long Chica finished with a flourish, catching every cupcake and holding them in a tight hug. Then she struck a pose and awaited the adulations of her audience. Lefty politely clapped. Trash and the Gang didn’t make any noise. Despite this, Chica seemed happy as she addressed her cupcakes.

“You guys made Mama so proud!”

Chica cleared the stage for Rockstar Chica, positively glowing with the certainty she had won. Rockstar Chica trotted up onto stage, faced the audience, and shook her maracas a single time.

The ovations of the audience were deafening.

Rockstar Chica blinked. “Wow, I had no idea Mr. Can-Do could even clap.”

Chica angrily stomped up onto the stage. “Th-This isn’t over yet! Best two out of three! Two outta three!”

Rockstar Chica sighed. “Alright, sure. You wanna do a repeat performance?”

“No,” Chica shook her head slowly. “No, I’ve got a better idea.” Chica struck a pose. “A cooking contest!”

“Whatever happened to a performance being the only way to decide?”

“Sh-Shut up. Making sure the guests have some good pizza to eat is essential to entertainment.”

Rockstar Chica groaned.



The stage – or kitchen, rather – was set. Two ovens, primed and ready for cooking, and enough pizza dough to feed an army. “You ready,” Chica asked, shooting a quick look at her Rockstar counterpart. She didn’t wait for a response. “Begin!”

Chica sprang for the dough. Her computerized mind instantly processed the exact amount necessary for creating the perfect pizza. Her feathered hands worked deftly, rolling out the dough to a perfect circle as calculated within two hundred digits of pi.

Rockstar Chica grabbed a ball of dough, eyed it up, and shrugged.

With the dough base ready, Chica swiftly began pouring the sauce. She moved with a grace that resembled experts in Japanese tea ceremonies more so than it did a pizza chef. A flawless layer of sauce was put onto the dough, so beautifully done that even Chica was forced to pause to admire it.

Rockstar Chica splashed some sauce on the uneven lump of dough in front of her.

Next came the all-to-important application of the cheese. To Chica, this was the most essential step. Extra care and attention was paid. A mixture of different cheeses, rigorously tested through the scientific method to result in the perfect cheesey goodness. The right combination of gooey, browned, and flavorful.

Rockstar Chica grabbed a fistful of cheese and tossed it on top of her pizza.

The final step. The toppings. Chica stared at her pizza and thought long and hard. As important as the cheese was, so too could the toppings make or break the resulting pizza. After much deliberation, Chica decided on a Meat Lover’s. A classic combination that any omnivore could appreciate.

Rockstar Chica threw some slices of pepperoni onto her cheese.

Both animatronics placed their pizzas in their ovens at the same time, and both were ready simultaneously. Chica removed hers with style and grace, while Rockstar Chica pulled hers out with a bored look on her face.

“Well,” Chica crowed, “I think we can both tell who won just from looking at them.” Indeed, Chica’s pizza looked like a masterpiece, whereas Rockstar Chica’s was a mess. “Just to humor you, we’ll have someone give ‘em a taste test.”

“Yeah,” Rockstar Chica responded with a flat tone. “And who’s that gonna be?”



Michael Afton rubbed the back of his neck and cracked it. His posture really needed work, he idly thought to himself. Ever since his spine got realigned by the animatronic Voltron run by his sister’s spirit he’d been sitting with a noticeable hunch. Maybe he’d go see a chiropractor.

The screens in front of him burned into his pale retinas. Michael yawned, and some red tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. Running a restaurant was hard work. Michael glanced up at Helpy, who was dancing his little heart out atop the monitor, and smiled. Hard work, but definitely worth it.

A terrible cacophony came from the vents to either side of him. Michael looked back and forth, alarmed. A moment of silence, then Chica and Rockstar Chica poked their heads out. Both chickens extracted themselves from their vents and presented a box of pizza. “Michael,” Chica said. “ Judge our pizza!”

Michael looked at the two animatronics and frowned. “Did I let it get too hot in here again?”

Chica shoved her pizza box in Michael’s face. “Just eat the pizza and tell us whose is better.”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, okay. I skipped dinner, anyways.”

Both chickens waited, one with baited breath and the other bored out of her mind, as Michael took his bites. The undead entrepreneur chewed carefully, thoughtfully considering each slice he ate. Then, he put the boxes down and rested his hands on his lap. “Rockstar Chica’s was better.”

Chica exploded. “What! How can her abomination be better than the pizza I made?”

“I’m kinda curious about that, too,” admitted Rockstar Chica.

Michael leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. “It’s quite simple: I don’t like ham on pizzas.”

Chica shrieked. “That’s it? That’s it!?”

“Well, her pizza was also all uneven and stuff, and I thought it added character,” Michael admitted.

Rockstar Chica looked over at Chica, a gleam of victory in her eyes. Chica collapsed to the floor and sulked. Michael grabbed another slice of pepperoni pizza, offering the Meat Lover’s to Helpy. The small bear graciously accepted.

“By the way,” Michael said as he chewed, “Are you ready to make your debut on the stage tomorrow night, Chica?”

Chica froze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you properly. What was that?”

Michael finished his slice and went in for his third helping. Helpy belched, already done with his pizza. “Yeah, you’re gonna be up tomorrow night. You and your buddies from the 90’s restaurant. I’m rotating between animatronic sets every week, didn’t I tell you? I know I told the Rockstars.”

Chica stared in disbelief, eyes unfocused and jaw hanging open. She stiffly turned her head to face Rockstar Chica, suddenly feeling incredibly embarrassed. “So, uhh… I may have gotten ahead of myself earlier and said some things I shouldn’t have…”

Rockstar Chica didn’t even bother looking at her. “Hey Michael, can I get some more tokens.”

“Sure, here you go.”

Chica wrung her hands. “I’m, umm, I’m real sorry.”

Rockstar Chica turned and climbed into the vent. “Apology accepted, I guess,” she called over her shoulder.

Michael draped his arm around Chica’s shoulder and gave her a supportive squeeze. “So, want some pizza?”