“Hey,” Qin Gon Juin protested.
“Sorry, son, no offense intended. Now, gather around, folks, let’s make sure we got this figured out right.”
The sun rose above the barnyard like usual.
What was unusual was the absence of any crowing to herald in the new day. The quiet made everyone late getting up, at least among the four-legged and Old Farmer MacDonald.
Moopero Trots struggled to get his herd organized. As usual, no matter how hard he tried to aim them toward the entrance to the feeding trough, they wound up missing it. He never saw the flock of chickens hopping down from the roof of the barn. The attacking fowl landed right on target, talons digging with all their might painfully into Moopero’s, and every other cow’s back.
Mooing in terror, and vainly trying to shake off the attacking chickens, the herd stampeded for the far fence where Furkin Halfwit and the other plow horses were grazing their breakfast. No sooner had they registered the stampede than another threat materialized. Qin Gon Juin and the geese were closing in at full honk. Eyes flared wide in terror as Halfwit and his companions bolted again for the fence line, clearing it easily in a single leap as they ran away. The cows slammed through the fence as if it were tissue paper. Seconds later, they raced out of sight.
Dealing with the flock of sheep had fallen to the turkeys and ducks. But one single roaring gobble from Ace had sent the sheep scurrying after the horses and cows. Ace shrugged an apology to his fellow ducks who groused about missing out on the fun.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Jubbah chuckled as he took one look at what was happening and sank below the mud in his pigpen, exactly as Brooster had expected.
Probably hearing the growing chaos, MacDonald stormed out the back door. He was barefoot, only had his jeans and a T-shirt on and his suspenders dangled at the sides of his legs.
“What is going on out here?” he thundered, pausing on the top step.
Las swooped into action, racing toward a dangling rope directly over the Dark Lord’s head. Grasping it in his beak, he increased his speed, towing the rope behind him until it pulled taut and loosened the knot. The knot held closed a bag full of chicken, goose, duck and turkey eggs—and a small rock that Durass had mistaken for a goose egg—directly above the Dark Lord’s head.
The eggs all tumbled out, bombarding the Dark Lord. The rock made a satisfying thump when it made contact, and the barrage knocked the Dark Lord down the steps.
“Yeow!” he clutched at his left ankle when he reached the bottom. He tried to get back to his feet, but the injury and the slippery goo of cracked eggs on the steps above and the ground around him kept sending him painfully back to the ground. He looked around and saw every fowl closing in on him with angry looks upon their faces.
Every bird capable of flight took to the air and began dive-bombing runs on the Dark Lord, raining large white goblets of goo upon their foe.
“Aaaiiigggghhhhhhh!” The Dark Lord shrieked in terror as the filth got past his shielding arms and hands. He scrambled up the stairs, using his hands to claw his way up to the door. One goose got in a final insult as he flew by, biting the Dark Lord on one denim-covered cheek and drawing a satisfying howl of pain from his target as his reward before the door slammed shut.
From inside the house the attackers heard the sounds of the Dark Lord quickly shoving things against the door to separate him from a barnyard filled with fowls and one black spider.
“We did it,” Brooster exclaimed. “I’ll be a son of a suck-egg mule, but, by golly, we did it! We beat the Dark Lord!”
The barnyard filled with honks, quacks, crows and gobbles of celebration.
The victory party lasted for three days.
During that time, there had been no sign of the Dark Lord, Hartvar, or any of the other four-legged minions of the Empire. Brooster perched on top of the fence and looked out across the barnyard with pride. Naebi spun a web to his right and Las flew in to perch on Brooster’s left.
“What a sight,” Brooster said. “We defeated the Empire. Why, there’s nothin’ we can’t do now!”
“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Las counseled. “They might just come back.”
“Naw, son, not a chance,” Brooster scoffed. “They got a bellyful of us before. They won’t come back here.”
Just then, a large white object appeared on the horizon and slowly approached.
“What in tarnation is that?” Brooster squinted as he tried to make it out. “It looks like a big ol’ moon.”
“That’s no moon,” Naebi said ominously.
The object closed the distance before turning away, It was a large, white delivery van with strange letters on it in purple and orange. A human clad in purple and back stepped out of the van, carrying a white box to the house where the Dark Lord had retreated three days before. After a minute, the human returned to the van and it headed back the way it had come, disappearing below the horizon.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Las replied.
A few minutes later, the back door opened and the Dark Lord, one foot in a cast, limped out. He used a cane in one hand but, in the other, he held the mysterious white box. He hobbled over to the main gate, opened it, and stepped into the barnyard. He placed the box on the ground and opened one end of it.
No matter how hard Brooster peered into the opening, he could not make out what was inside.
The Dark Lord straightened, favored the barnyard with a smug, satisfied smile, and hobbled back to his house, closing the gate behind him.
No one in the yard made a sound as they all stared at the box.
At length, a gray rabbit with a fluffy white cotton tail hopped out. He stood up on his hind legs and produced a carrot. Taking a bite from the vegetable, the rabbit gazed around at his new surroundings. He stopped when his gaze fell upon Brooster. Then he smiled and spoke for the first time.
“Eh,” the rabbit said around another nibble. “What’s up, Cock?”
Coming Soon—BARN WARS 2: The Hare Menace
The End
About the Author
Richard began his writing journey as a freelance writer in 1984 and gained his first fiction credit serving as the lead writer for the first two issues of the Elite Comics sci-fi/fantasy series, Seadragon. After a 20+-year career, he retired as a sportswriter and returned to his fiction writing roots. Since then he has written several novels, two non-fiction sports books, and has appeared in many anthologies including four Sherlock Holmes collections. He has won several awards and his novel, Escaping Infinity, was a 2017 Dragon Award Finalist for Best Sci-Fi novel.
Find more about him at: http://www.richardpaolinelli.com
Chicken Dance
Denton Salle
Chicken Dance
Denton Salle
One Saturday last month, the youngest, all six-three of his teenage testiness, and I drove over to my friend Phil’s place to take care of his chickens while he and the missus were off in Tennessee. Some sort of convention. I kinda tuned out the details when his wife mentioned cosplay. She raises these ornamental chickens—I dunno why—the eggs taste the same as those from Piggly Wiggly.
Anyway, when she stared talking about dressing up for the con, as she called it, all I could imagine was her in a chicken costume. Now, I don’t judge but really… Elza was about 5 foot and a plump thing. Lord forgive me, but I imagined her as one of the hens from those old Leghorn cartoons. The ones that looked nearly round.
I promised I’d feed and water her birds and at the same time, ahem, remove the excess roosters from the property. I actually was going to whack all of them and make what my boys call bad rooster stew and the French coq au vin.
Elza preferred not to know the details. We did this thing every four months where I killed off the excess males from the eggs she let hatch. Apparently, these funny-looking breeds ran fifty-fifty on sex.
Maybe all chickens do. Seems like a waste, if so, since Phil only keeps one rooster around. One fairly tough old bird too from what
I could tell. Grumpy fellow for someone with his own harem. Maybe there is truth to that story about Vladimir of Kiev where he decided against Islam because, if he kept his harem, he needed to drink.
Saturday morning, I packed up the pickup and loaded my youngest, Ben, in the front seat. All it took was the promise of breakfast tacos from the food truck outside town. And coffee. Like his daddy, he’s not safe to be around before coffee.
We headed up I-35 until we saw the TA station with the taco truck in the parking lot. Ben got in line to get tacos and I headed inside to get us coffee. They had decent coffee. Not as good as Buc-ee’s or Love’s but decent. I got us two large cups then loaded his with sugar and cream. Mine stayed black.
We clambered back into the truck and followed the road past the Western Wear joint and into the small town. A small, kinda old-school place where high school football was still king, church on Sunday required, and well, we don’t ask about family trees. Good people in general. I’ve been to Lodge there and, really, you couldn’t ask for finer people.
We drove through the square and enjoyed seeing folks about. Ben ogled a few of the girls. They did raise pretty ones around there. I think he was planning on heading back with the dogs and take them for a walk. Both boys claimed walking the standard poodles is a great way to get phone numbers.
Phil’s place was just outside the boundary limits of the little town. We headed down the tree-lined road toward his home. Lovely day to be out. Sunny but not yet hot, blue skies with white fluffy clouds and enough breeze to bring the scent of honeysuckle to the truck.
We pulled off the county-maintained road onto the gravel road. It was pretty open out there. There were trees along the fence lines, by houses, and in the bottoms or by tanks, but the rest was flat. Green native grasses covered most of the fields. Cattle, with the white herons called cowbirds on their backs, grazed peacefully in the fields. Calves were frolicking.
We turned into the short circular drive in front of a white four-by-four house. Phil’s kids were grown and out on their own. That led Phil and his missus to move out to the country. The neat little wood-frame structure sat on four acres that were mostly let go wild, as a nature preserve, which Phil told me got him a tax break. He was a line man, but senior enough he did mostly supervision. Heck of a woodworker and that was his retirement plan.
I wasn’t sure how that would go with Elza’s love of cosplay. We’d see.
Ben hopped out of the car and stretched. Even in his teens, he towered over me. A big boy, well filled out for his 16 years, who insisted on breaking the high school football coach’s heart by refusing to play. He told that coach that any sport where guys slapped each other on the butt wasn’t for him. Powerlifting and martial arts kept him busy and also made sure the football team left him alone after the wisecrack.
I got the cooler out, with ice and trash bags in it. Ben had already taken the ax and headed around to the back of the house. Phil would have the roosters separated out: the little monsters were starting to attack the hens and tried to fight with everything. The older rooster had apparently already killed one. People thought cock fights were wrong, and I didn’t argue that, but the damned things liked to fight. There was a reason why knights had roosters as part of their arms and the flag of Walloon has a cock on it. They were as aggressive as hell and almost didn’t know what fear was.
And they were also a bit dumb. I’d seen them try to fight with their reflections. It was a hoot.
The chickens lived in small enclosure on the side of the massive free-range coop Phil built. A monster of PVC pipe and chicken wire, it must have been 50 yards square. He linked together PVC pipe sections and bent them into this huge arc. Then he covered the whole thing with chicken wire and anchored it to cement. Added a door on one end. Took up most of the yard area. Probably made the local coyotes and foxes cry.
Inside the cage was a chicken coop as well as lots of room for the hens to wander. It was a masterpiece of redneck engineering. A necessary compromise to let the land go wild and let the chickens sort of free-range. Clever guy, Phil.
We didn’t waste a lot of time beheading the roosters. Sixteen this time. The little monsters tried to fight or run but Ben and I had a system. I moved in front and he grabbed them from behind. He held the feet and wings and stretched the neck onto the stump. Before long, we had a trash bag full of heads, a cooler full of birds we’d dress as soon as we got home, and a mess to tidy up. I swear the old rooster from the coop was watching and grinning.
As I cleaned up by hosing off the stump and washing the blood away so it wouldn’t attract beasties, Ben changed out food and water for the birds. He also collected eggs. Normally, they would keep and hatch some of the fertile ones, but, while they were cosplaying, we were told to take them all. A lot would end at the soup kitchen in town. No way only five of us could eat as many as we got in two weeks of chicken sitting.
I got a whiff of chicken shit and looked over. Ben was shoveling the manure into a barrel. We’d leave that for Phil. Our garden had more than enough.
I was just finishing hosing down the stump when I heard a weird noise. I looked in the coop to see the old rooster squaring off with Ben. Then, for some reason, Ben started doing the chicken form from his martial arts style at the rooster. It’s this fast, light footed thing and as he did it, the rooster started moving like they do when they fight. Apparently, the bird took it as Ben was a six-foot three rooster after his hens.
I sat there and watched as my boy squared off with an angry pot pie. Ben would go through the motions of the form: fast quick hopping steps backwards and forwards, hands and arms moving like wings, his body swooping up and down. That silly old bird responded and rose up like he was fighting another rooster. Striking at Ben with talons and wings. Once or twice, it must have gotten too close because Ben slapped at it.
Not hard, just a finger flick to make it keep its distance. Of course, the size difference made it a bit rough on the rooster.
The bird bounced a bit on the ground, got itself up, and then came back for more. Like I said, pure aggression. Never understood why we called cowards chickens. Made no sense.
Finally, Ben skipped back and forth, almost like a dance. If you ignored the enraged squawks and the way the bird was trying to hook him with his talons. Ben worked his way back to the door and jumped out. As he slammed the cage door shut, the rooster crashed into it.
He walked over to me, sweaty and scratched in a few places from playing tag with the bird.
“Need to clean those good, kid,” I said. “What the heck were you doing? You look like an emu, not a chicken. You’re too dang big.”
“Hey, you studied a bit with a snake master, so don’t mock my class with Master Chicken.”
A loud crow echoed through the yard. The old bird was on top of the coop, crowing his heart out.
“He’s boasting he’s so badass he beat a giant rooster. The hens should appreciate him,” I said. I pulled my flask from a hip pocket. “Here, wash those off until we can get to the first aid kit.”
The rooster crowed again, screaming his victory to the sky. Ben, on the other hand, cursed as the alcohol hit the scratches.
“You kiss your momma with that mouth?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, she kisses you and yours is worse.”
The boy had a point. He looked at the rooster preening itself on the top of the coop.
“Well, I made one rooster’s day better.” Ben said. “His sons’ day—not so much.”
“Yeah, but we got dinner. And eggs.” I said. “Let’s load this cooler and go home and clean these guys. Some look like they might even fry up decent.”
Ben picked up the cooler. He was kind to his old man that way and let me carry the ax and the eggs to the truck. As we loaded stuff into the back, he said, “Kinda amazing how it was ready to fight me, even though I was, what, twenty times its size. No wonder you get expressions like cock of the walk.”
“Yep. Or gamecocks for a football team. We all
locked down here?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben answered. “You think Momma will make biscuits if we get these guys in a pot?”
“Maybe. Can’t hurt to ask,” I said. “We just got to get this cleaned before she gets back from Yoga. She still thinks food comes in white paper or plastic wrap.”
When Phil and Elza got back from their trip, Ben was out taking care of the birds. Ben said he and Phil talked for a bit, but that Phil kept looking at him like he was a bit special.
“Like short bus special?” I said, “Oh honey, I knew that.”
The boy grumbled at me. No respect, kids these days. I didn’t think much about it until Phil came by to say thanks. It was a lovely evening, so I invited him out to the back yard for a bit. We were sitting under the old magnolia I planted when I bought the place. The flowers were in bloom and the heavy scent filled the warm evening air. I handed him a glass of whisky.
“I do want to thank you for taking care of Elza’s birds while we were gone. And for cleaning out the troublemakers. I’d do it myself, but she’s too soft-hearted to be around for it,” Phil said.
“No problem. The meat comes in handy, and the eggs we don’t use we give to the soup kitchen. What do you think of the hooch?”
“Decent. Local stuff?
“Nah. From Japan of all places.”
“Huh. Hey, I got a question. When we got home last week, Ben was out there. I could have sworn he was dancing with my rooster.”
The End
About the Author
Denton Salle traveled a lot for business, and when they banned the fun hobbies in airports or on planes, writing took over. It’s really just an extension of a strong tendency to tell lies and long stories. After all, the truth can be so confining. Previous works in Deep School Tuition in Fantastic Schools, V1, Texas Otherworld, Daemonic Mechanical Devices, and West Texas Cozies. Updates can be found at www.dentonsalle.com.
CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories Page 28