A Murder in the Chicken Yard – A Tale of Attempted Cannibalism

By Elizabeth Russell

A few years ago, my family briefly lived on a farm, and besides giving our chickens very weird names, we learned many odd things about the species that we had never realized before. One was that chickens are gruesomely fond of eating each other after one is dead. Here below is a brief thought experiment about what goes on in the chicken yard and in the empty, blood-thirsty minds of the chickens.

Amidst the incessant clacking that daily erupted in the chicken yard, there was today a new sort of clucking gossip.

Said Dude Jr. to Ugly Duckling, while she was joyfully gobbling down grain, “Come quick! There’s been a murder.”

Said Darth Vader, running as fast as her short legs would carry her, “Well, my dear, it’s about time. So long as it isn’t Gorgeous, I think it’s a positive development.”

“Oh no Vader, Gorgeous is quit all right – the tall man has chosen Fluffy.”

“Ooooh!! How lovely!” cried Crooked Toe, as she ran up alongside them. “He’s such a terribly mean rooster, and quite tasty, I’m sure. The mean ones always are.”

“I’ve been in the mood for meat for awhile,” agreed Dude Jr.

They neared the picnic table, from which arose the bloody aroma that promised a scrumptious meal. The tall man, which his red beard and blond hair, was hunched over the wood, plucking and scattering feathers. Ugly Duckling and Weird Al were already amongst the group that clustered clucking around the table.

Said Dude Jr. to Weird Al. “Why is everyone just milling? We haven’t missed the feeding, have we?”

“Can you believe it?” cut in Chiquita, spreading her feathers in indignation, “that human man has kept Fluffy all to himself! Anytime anyone gets near him, he shoos us away!”

“Hah! That’s just like last time!” cried Dude Jr.

“Well how do you like that?” asked Crazy Dave. “First they steal our eggs, then they steal our chickens! What do they do for us? Hmm? I’d like to know!”

Gorgeous was pecking the ground a little ways away, and they all ran over to him.

“Keeping us away! Won’t let us in!” The ladies all cried in unison, “The nerve! About time someone showed him a lesson! Ooo! Is that grubs?” And as the tall man disappeared into the farm kitchen with the bald, dead chicken, they were all happily pecking the ground again.

The End

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