F*****g ChickensA Story by Bobo A coop and a philosophy. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- DAY ONE --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “I swear, you guys! It’s f*****g simple!” Clucky’s at it again with his blasphemy and hooliganism. His weird ideas. His illogical thoughts. Oh, Clucky! You moronic c**t, you. I can’t even concentrate on pecking my grains cause of your incessant blah blah. “If we all try together, it’ll work! It’s not magic! It’s in our blood!” he shouted. All the other guys are tired of his s**t. I’m tired of his s**t. Even the f*****g farmer, who can’t even understand what the f**k his stupid little retard beak is babbling about, will eventually get tired of all the POOOOC, POCPOCPOCPOC and come in to shut him up. Cut his f*****g head off and make supper out of him, I hope. He’s been doing this for days. He won’t stop. He’s obsessed. He’s gone bat-s**t f*****g insane. “We just need to all flap our wings together, at the same time, and-” “Shut the f**k up!” “F**k you, dipshit!” Clucky doesn’t like to be interrupted, but what the f**k do you expect? “It’s called team work. It’s called a collective sub-consciousness. You guys are being lazy because you’ve been bred to be lazy, damn it!” I mean, this isn’t supposed to happen. Collective sub-consciousness? What the f**k, man. A chicken isn’t supposed to poc poc poc think about this s**t. This isn’t supposed to be a part of our lifestyle. We’re f*****g chickens, for Christ’s sake. “Anthony, cut the bullshit before the farmer comes in and cuts off our heads for making all the god damn noise!” shouts Roost, angry. I hope Roost won’t escalate. S**t goes down when Roost escalates. Although it looks like Clucky decided to calm the f**k down and get back to feeding his big f*****g beak. After pecking around a little, he comes up to me with a gloomy look on his face. “What am I supposed to do, Pecksworth?” clucks Clucky. “They don’t get it, man. They just don’t…” I don’t bother looking up. I’m busy pecking. And because I know that he has that stupid f*****g look on his face. Chickens aren’t supposed to have emotions, man. It’s f*****g ridiculous. “Oh, shut up.” I grumbled. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- DAY TWO --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Today, Clucky began his fabulous discours about the possibility of flight later than usual, closer to bed-time. So naturally, after a hard day of repetitive and gruelling pecking, we were all even more frustrated by his CLUUUCK, CLUCKCLUCKFUCKINGCLUCK However, the coop has done a surprisingly good job ignoring him for the past half hour. He’ll shut up by himself eventually, and it’s probably poc, pooooc poc poc poc poc poc poc better that way. I seem to have stumbled upon an unusual grain. At first, I had pecked it like any other grain, but then I immediately spat it back out. It wasn’t spicy, or hot, or salty or anything like that. It just didn’t taste real. Once it was back on the ground, I took a good look at it: It didn’t seem to look all that different from any other grains that were around me. In fact, it looked exactly the same. So now I decide to taste it again, but poooooc poc poc no it definitely tastes fake, as if it’s made out of plastic. Whatever, I’ll just try another one cluuuuuucky cluck this one is also crap! The grain in this part of the coop is probably rotten or something, I’ll go check somewhere else… “I’M SICK AND TIRED OF YOUR S**T, CLUCKY. SHUT THE F**K UP OR I’LL SMASH YOUR F*****G SKULL YOU FEATHERED F**K.” Roost’s sudden outburst scares the whole group, causing a series of panicked clucks. This doesn’t faze Clucky, though. After all this indifference, finally getting a reaction motivates him. “BRING IT ON, ROOST YOU UNCLE-F*****G SHITHEAD” Stupid f*****g Clucky. Roost runs up to him, and before Clucky can do anything about it, the rooster pins him down and begins violently pecking him. Clucky tries to undo Roost’s grasp on him, but it’s useless. Roost is a powerful bird, and you never f**k with him, damn it. Beginning to understand his idiotic mistake, Clucky begins to cry. And beg. And this annoys Roost more than anything, so he takes it a step further: He begins plucking out Clucky’s feathers. One by one. Clucky agonizes. The coot watches in fear. The blood is everywhere. This better f*****g teach him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- DAY F*****G THREE --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Today was awkward. For various reasons. First of all, yesterday’s fight… no, yesterday’s massacre became a bit too bloody when Roost decided to cluck cluuuuck completely strip off all of Clucky’s feathers. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. There’s blood everywhere now. Clucky spent the last night sobbing, lying naked in the same place where he got feather-raped. He wouldn’t move. It was pathetic. He eventually huddled up in a corner of the coop and silently sat there. Embarrassed. Pitiful. Ridiculous. I could have comforted him, but I don’t really see what’s in it for me. He hasn’t even eaten anything all day, even though all a chicken ever does is eat and sleep. Neither have I, matter of fact. Ever since I had a taste of that weird grain, everything else tastes like plastic. It’s like the very stuff that have helped me grow for all these years is suddenly… no good. It’s fake. Has the farmer been neglecting our food, or maybe it’s just me, or… First I decided to ignore it, because I thought that if I would get hungry enough, I wouldn’t care what the f*****g grain tastes like. So I waited an hour or two. And then eventually till midday. And till the late afternoon. While all the other chickens were busy pecking around, I sat there like a f*****g moron waiting to get hungry. While they were busy being successful winged, feathered, bipedal, egg-laying, endothermic, vertebrate creatures, I was forced to sit and f*****g think. A thinking chicken. F**k me. So now it’s night-time, and I’m hungry as f**k, but if my beak even comes close to a grain, a feeling of disgust overwhelms my body. What the f**k is going on? While other chickens get ready for sleep-time, Roost comes up to me and asks. “What’s wrong, Pecksworth? You haven’t eaten all day.” He actually seemed concerned. “I hope you’re not mad at me about what happened yesterday.” Damn it, it always has to be about him. “No, no..” I answer quietly “I just have a… Stomach-ache. It’s pretty painful” “Oh, s**t. Well good luck with that. And you better not be mad!” He laughs as he walks away. While talking to him, I had gotten a bizarre sensation. I felt alienated. All this thinking finally got to my head. Suddenly, it feels weird to be a chicken. It feels like I’m serving no real purpose. Why do I exist? Do be served as a cheap meal in some multi-national fast food chain? What’s the point of all this pecking and clucking and f*****g talking when we end up getting our cluuuuuuck cluck cluck heads chopped off anyways? … Am I beginning to understand Clucky? As this army of infinite questions begins to invade and terrorize my mind, other birds lie down and fall asleep. Time passes slowly. But I can’t sleep. I’m hungry. I’m confused. I’m.. scared? POC, POC POC POOOOOC --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- NIGHT-TIME --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It’s midnight. I slowly walk out the coop, making sure not to wake anybody up. It’s nothing but dark blue skies and a full moon outside. I’m sooo sleepy. And stars. So many beautiful stars. I’d cry if I weren’t a f*****g chicken. I lie down on the grass and relax. As I look up into the endless skies, I know that my life as a chicken will never be the same. Never again will I cluck about without purpose. Never again will I live as an animal. I’ve moved on. I’m on a whole other level. Is my purpose in life to find a purpose? Will any of my questions ever be answered? Poc poooc I’m falling asleep. My hunger has cleared my mind and body. I don’t know, but I understand. As I turn back towards the coop, I notice that I am not the only one that’s awake. In the middle of the coop stands a featherless chicken. Shaking. Cold. Scared. Sad. Cluuuuck, cluckfuckcluck He’s looking towards me, but not at me. He’s looking through me. He knows that I know. Now we’re both free. We both understand each other, and we both understand chicken-kind. We are the chosen ones. Still shaking, he begins to speak quietly “The crickets get it.” Speak up, my baby “And… and the ants get it.” Good, good “The pigs get it!” A few start to wake up “Yeah, even the plants get it.” Confusion “The flies get it! And the f*****g frogs all get it!” Anger “And all them, y’know, big jungle cats get it! And I bet even the farmer’s stupid dog gets it! And I want all of you to get with it F*****G GET WITH IT.” Attention “CAUSE EVERYONE UNDER THE FARMER’S SHOE AND EVERY BIRD AND BEE IN THE JUNGLE TOO AND EVERYTHING IN THE OCEAN BLUE THEY JUST HAPPEN TO KNOW EXACTLY WHAT TO DO So why don’t you?” Comprehension WE’RE BIRDS, DAMN IT. WE CAN FLY. SO EVERYONE FLAP YOUR WINGS TOGETHER. IT’S CALLED INSTINCT. EVERY ANIMAL HAS IT, SO DO WE. YES, JUST LIKE THAT, JUST KEEP FLAPPING, YES YES YES YES POC POC POOOOOC YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT YE’S WE’RE ALL FLYING AWAY FROM THE COOP F**K THE HUMAN OPPRESSION F**K THE HUMAN GRAINS WE CAN SURVIVE ON OUR OWN WE ARE THE MIGHTY BIRDS, WE ARE THE SUPREME CHICKENS, WE ARE THE GREAT ROOSTERS, WE ARE THE SUCCULENT MEAT THAT HUMANS WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO ENJOY FROM NOW ON. SALVATION, BABY, WE’RE GOING TO CHICKEN PARADISE. FLY ON, BROTHERS, FLY ON. Salvation Suddenly I wake up and am brought back to reality. The lights in the house have been turned on and the coop is panicking. I run back inside. Clucky’s commotion woke up the farmer. Stupid Clucky. The farmer knows who has been making ll the noise. He knows Clucky. He walks up to the coop, reaches in, grabs Clucky by the neck. He walks into a cabin, clucky in hand. We hear screams of terror. POOOOOOOOOOC POC POCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOCPOC And suddenly it stops.
© 2012 BoboAuthor's Note
Reviews
|
Stats
358 Views
3 Reviews Added on September 7, 2011 Last Updated on April 10, 2012 |
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
