CHICKENS MURDER FARMER
The wrath of the chicken is a very uncommon but extremely deadly occurrence. In the past, many have experienced small lashings out of the farm bird, and many feel they may be familiar with the creatures temper... but they are wrong. Only one man has ever truly fallen victim to this bird of prey's full power. It was midnight and the heavy fog ominously floated above the ground in a meager country subdivision, miles away from miles away from a small town located somewhere near Wichita, Kansas. Far from modern civilization, just as Hank McCurdy had always planned. Farmer Hank took pride in his work, to such an extent that he actually introduced himself as and preferred being called Farmer Hank. Raised to be a diligent worker, Farmer Hank found solace in these isolated acres that he considered to be his kingdom. Here, he couldn't be bothered by anybody except his clueless son and his decrepit father, both of which he had more or less learned to put up with. The reason he chose this plot near the hamlet that's near the village that's somewhat near the town which is quite close to Wichita, Kansas is quite simply that it was the only spot he could find that accommodated his need for privacy and peace. Farmer Hank was a chicken farmer. A damned good one too. He always hesitated to call himself the best but nobody else in the business would even give it a second thought. To them he was a living legend. The quality of the chickens he raised was simply outstanding. These chickens were the pinnacle in livestock that every farmer strived for... lean, intelligent, and incredibly strong. Making his way to the Chicken Pen with a bag of feed, Hank was deep in thought and hardly noticed the fog. Upon entering, the energy of the barn completely shifted, as if something had abruptly stopped. Halted. After a close inspection, Hank decided that the chickens were just doing their usual routine. Sitting, sleeping, strolling leisurely... Seemingly, there was nothing to be alarmed about. Hank brushed this vibe away without a second thought and began filling their feeders with his special solution. But merely moments into this chore he began to feel the feeling of eyes. Watching him. Staring at him. Whose eyes could they be?
He called out "Whose there?"
Silence. Not a motion, movement, or sound. Not a breath. "Nobody?"
With some contemplation Hank gathered his wits and brushed it off once again. Eventually he refocused on mixing his Chicken Solution. Hank was rather good at keeping chickens. Every chicken farmer in the industry wanted to learn exactly how he did it. How he was so good. The thought of this made Hank laugh just a little bit. They would never know. He would never tell them. This laughter evolved until Hank was bent over and barely able to catch his breath. Not even his father had realized what was truly going on, how Hank was creating this Super Chickens. Suddenly, the eyes came back. The ensuing silence was penetrated by the slow, tedious, creak of the barn door. Though not a word was spoken, the word Revenge filled the space as if the air itself was speaking in Hanks ear. Gulping, he turned around to pull the light bulb string that dangled from the ceiling and saw just what he feared. There they were. Hundreds of small, victimized, fierce chicken heads appeared in the light. Lining the walls of the pen and emerging from the fog. As Hank was about to learn, they didn't think he was the best at all. They didn't appreciate the solution, they didn't appreciate the solution, and they certainly didn't enjoy the genetic modification. During one final inhalation he contemplated screaming, apologizing, sobbing, laughing in what must have been all at once. What came out instead was one last groan as the mob of chickens attacked this cruel, tyrannical leader who had trained them all to be so very strong and intelligent. Hank did what he did for a reason. As a boy, there was nothing he wanted more than to be famous. He would seclude himself so he could sing the songs he'd hear others sing at the market or in the theatre, dancing joyously, without refrain. When his father caught wind of what happened, he tried to smash his glass bottle of moonshine over his queer sons head. Telling him that if he were to be ever to be famous, it's not going to be for some 'tooty fruitie queer song and dance routine' but for following in the family foot steps and farming chickens. From that moment on, Hank began researching the bird, taking notes on their behavioral patterns, and he came to one conclusion. That chickens are rather weak and not intelligent in the least. Using this theorem Hank starting operating on their brains, using vitamin supplements to create potions that could enhance the chicken until one day after years of tedious, passionate work, he finally got his wish. A Chicken Solution that would make him world renowned. Internationally recognized as the ultimate farmer. Indeed, Hank did receive his wish. Super Chickens... Smart enough to stage a revolution, strong enough to kill.
He called out "Whose there?"
Silence. Not a motion, movement, or sound. Not a breath. "Nobody?"
With some contemplation Hank gathered his wits and brushed it off once again. Eventually he refocused on mixing his Chicken Solution. Hank was rather good at keeping chickens. Every chicken farmer in the industry wanted to learn exactly how he did it. How he was so good. The thought of this made Hank laugh just a little bit. They would never know. He would never tell them. This laughter evolved until Hank was bent over and barely able to catch his breath. Not even his father had realized what was truly going on, how Hank was creating this Super Chickens. Suddenly, the eyes came back. The ensuing silence was penetrated by the slow, tedious, creak of the barn door. Though not a word was spoken, the word Revenge filled the space as if the air itself was speaking in Hanks ear. Gulping, he turned around to pull the light bulb string that dangled from the ceiling and saw just what he feared. There they were. Hundreds of small, victimized, fierce chicken heads appeared in the light. Lining the walls of the pen and emerging from the fog. As Hank was about to learn, they didn't think he was the best at all. They didn't appreciate the solution, they didn't appreciate the solution, and they certainly didn't enjoy the genetic modification. During one final inhalation he contemplated screaming, apologizing, sobbing, laughing in what must have been all at once. What came out instead was one last groan as the mob of chickens attacked this cruel, tyrannical leader who had trained them all to be so very strong and intelligent. Hank did what he did for a reason. As a boy, there was nothing he wanted more than to be famous. He would seclude himself so he could sing the songs he'd hear others sing at the market or in the theatre, dancing joyously, without refrain. When his father caught wind of what happened, he tried to smash his glass bottle of moonshine over his queer sons head. Telling him that if he were to be ever to be famous, it's not going to be for some 'tooty fruitie queer song and dance routine' but for following in the family foot steps and farming chickens. From that moment on, Hank began researching the bird, taking notes on their behavioral patterns, and he came to one conclusion. That chickens are rather weak and not intelligent in the least. Using this theorem Hank starting operating on their brains, using vitamin supplements to create potions that could enhance the chicken until one day after years of tedious, passionate work, he finally got his wish. A Chicken Solution that would make him world renowned. Internationally recognized as the ultimate farmer. Indeed, Hank did receive his wish. Super Chickens... Smart enough to stage a revolution, strong enough to kill.
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