“Moon, Vol. 35: No. 619, page….”
Page your beak! State the day, month and year, you stupid brat!
Yes sir, Thursday, October 3, 1964. p. 12, title, “The Pains of Animals in the Pen – An association of Animal Rights Activists, under the leadership of Mastusk, yesterday decried the anguish most animals suffer at the hands of careless, hopeless, and useless farmers who….”
Ne-ext. Mastusk or Tuskmas, he is human after all.
“Voice of Alp, Vol. 5: No. 8. Tuesday, March 10, 1964. P. 55, title, “Chicken Invaders – Shoot ‘em To Save the World – A new glue-to-the-joystick game is out….”
Chickens. It’s a game my Lord
Shaarap! A joy sick game where we are hunted and killed for fun?
Sir your mouth, neeeeeeeeext!!!
“The Epoch, Vol….
Straight to the content
“Age of Revolution – Thesis, Antithesis and Synthesis are necessary steps to any revolution. A group of Experts on Humanities have recently diagnosed that revolutions also occur via the Hegelian triad where the lesser or lower class react out of no further option than to fight for alienated rights. They however, disclosed that….”
The Epoch closed.
I said shut up!
What year was that?
In what year are we?
But I heard you read, “have recently diagnosed that revolutions also occur….” Whatever, all we need NOW is REVOLUTION. We have to revolt our slavery, the savagery, and the thuggery we have seen all our born days. Therefore, if you want FREEDOM from Humans and Dooms, shout it out – shout it out! Shout it out!
Suddenly the peaceful morning air was rife with ripples of, “MEN ARE MEAN, HUMANS ARE DEAD, WE WANT TO BE, IT’S THE AGE OF GLORY…
Chunks & Chucks Poultry Ensemble is the largest in town as far as poultry products are concerned. Birds are sold live and dead to hotels and eateries, eggs to confectionary, companies and bakeries; feathers to upholsteries and some funky decorators. The droppings are largely stuffed in bags and sold to other farmers. Moreover, the overpopulating number of the birds have fortunately led to inflexible compartments and of course, occasional outburst of the birds running helter-skelter. So, uproars and brouhahas are not news here, but today’s alarmed the procurators to run in to check.
Old papers archived at a corner littered everywhere like leaves flown by wild winds. The chickens were all quaking as if invisible snakes were amidst them. Mr. Roderick searched every nooks and crannies but found none. Could it be that they were hungry? But, they had been served appropriately. So he flickered some feeds into the overhung feeding troughs and left.
Night came. The old jagged lamps were lit at strategic positions to vaguely give light to the entire pen. Patches of shadows loomed from every end. Like a pack of jackals, hunches of the inmates lunged forward and clustered around the supposedly Lord of the jungle. The sonority of his voice broke the early night’s serenity, inciting revolution and hyping its immanence and relevance!
“Kick the lamps and spill the oil. We need solar or windmills to pump in water and generate electricity. We are in the 21st century and ought to be treated like that. MEN ARE MEAN, AND WE NEED A REVOLUTION! We would go on hunger strike to register our discontentment; by this we hedge against our productivity and their sterility. We need….”
At this, trajectories of everything went high in the sky. Before one could say Oh and Star, one fanatic had swung a lamp into the hay-loft and fire erupted. Dark smokes boiled within the hays and threw up, scattering spears of flames like rockets.
Run for your life, run, run, fly!
Mr. Roderick was awoken by the shrill cries and he stopped in his dreams. He scampered off colliding with another crew he couldn’t decipher who it was in that dark night. They were both accompanied by a waif curly dog that found home with the one-eyed Alex, the old gateman that called himself Alex Ander the Great. He was running along as a slug while the little tailed fellow ran fore and aft making sure he was coming.
They broke in and struggled against fires and smokes. Some chickens lay burnt, some choking while others scurry blindly drunk and drowned in the stuffed pen. They chased the birds in the open and quenched the furious fire with great difficulty.
Could it be that the dog was just having fun warding back a throng of birds heading off the main entrance gate? Above is exquisitely grafted, “THE ANIMAL REPUBLIC” on the rim with dried leaves of creepy plants that spelt we‘ve-seen-better-days, hanging loosely on the characters. Here, was actually an Animal Republic before mismanagement reduced it only to a mere poultry. The blood streaming down the beady nose of the dog was no fun to say but woes. However, the poor animal could not stop all, thus some escaped; the intermittent shrieks that followed moreover, was suggestive they had been guests to prowling hungry foxes behind the fore walls.
In the morning, the pen was extended.
‘Kuko was last seen live last night. He had been the brain behind every mishaps in the poultry, things that would ordinarily be thought as coincidences or accidents. He has sown this seed of revolution, yet the evolution will go on without him. They at once elected his aide – Nnekwu, a female chicken with domineering records of meanness and shrewdness.
“We are filtering this generation off all riffs and raffs. Fortunately, all the aged and those affected by the fire outbreak are to be ostracized to give room to logistics. We will stop at nothing in ensuring that our dreams of glory come true.”
All hail thee!
I recount with joy, the words of ‘Kuko, though coward he was, “We would go on hunger strike to register our discontentment; by this we hedge against our productivity and their sterility.” He ought to be here, but since he‘s not, we will move on. However, we will go extra miles to sterilize our males to check our population. …
The females giggled, some murmured unidentifiable words.
“As for eggs, all egg laying birds should drop one in two or three days. Anything apart from this, comes from the evil one and we‘re so done with the evil ones; men. Yes, MEN ARE EVIL and eggs all day is what they want!
The door crept open for the feeds routine. Nothing was unusual for to whine is for the horses and to chuckle is for the chickens. They are wont to do that! The other guy that ran into Mr. Roderick last night was Monsieur Orwell or MO for short. MO used to come in barefooted till one day, a chicken almost chopped away one of his toes. The littlest one! He slapped it over with a prolonged ouch as another made to fight him, raising the feathers on it neck and trunk. Little indeed, did they know of the looming revolution in vogue. Here, the revolution is come!
“All beaks up!” shrieked Nnekwu as the attendants left. Birds who had hurriedly picked some mouthful of feeds struggled to swallow silently. “Austerity is the first step. Secondly, sterility, on the part of both the males and females, and finally hostility towards the evil ones! We need FREEDOM and we will be FREED from DOOM.”
All hail our….
Keep quite, quite and quite!
She gathered the feeds and made the critters to stand in queues. Water was first served, and as a chicken raised beak to swallow traditionally, a morsel of feed is doled out into its famished throat. And that was for the day and of course nightlong. The remnants were gathered and stored away. Those who complained would have preferred starving for three days voluntarily, to the harrowing experience they got through. Inexplicably, neither a grace nor a trace of leftovers was found in the preceding dawn!
More rules every morning. Today’s was the Pride of a Female Bird. “Stay away from the cocks and seek more intimacy within. Puncture any extra egg and refresh your body by drinking the egg white and yolk. Hate humans without reservation even to the pain of death till our dreams are materialized”
Days passed unnoticed, till one day, some workers came from the Ministry of Animals Health & Welfare Centre. They disinfected the poultry, administered some birds’ drugs and cut the beaks of those suspected to be eggivores. This day too, the fattest bird was given to Comrade Olwhiskey, the leader of the team as a token of gratitude, as well as an envelope for the service rendered. All stood hypnotized as they watched an epoch close behind the heels of the men that just left.
Grave silence hunted!
“…but we are not giving up the dreams of our heroes past.”
Who crowned this clown?
“Bind him up” and running its right wing briskly across his neck, spoke “KILL HIM!”
Bruno had been a silent rebel amongst rebels. He hated the footprints of his predecessors and thought them cowards of the highest order. Otherwise words should have ceased long ago. Consequently, all were forbidden to mention or refer either in full or passing, to their charisma. In fact, it was treason to do so. However, the reverence of Bruno was an entrance to influence and affluence!
He immediately set up a militia, Intelligence he called Brutality.
Five members of this revolutionary group were slain instantly for failing to decode the acronym A.B.B.A as taught few minutes before their demise. He detested forgetfulness, indolence and redundancy. More still, he hated the sights and sounds of chicks and would match to death any that chuckle by. The layers could lay as much eggs, anywhere, anytime, so long as they squashed and squandered without any tail tales. This would take care of repression and depression characteristic of the immediate past regime. The aged and disabled, he ostracized at the end of the poultry with little or no care.
“They obstruct views and vitiate visions for which mission is impossible!”
There, they languished in anguish and wished they were neither old nor deformed. Most of them fought with their lives during the fire outbreak to save. What heroism to battle fires, with wings and feathers that are inflammable! They did but would not go unscathed, and instead of a stately recognition and awards, here they lay miserable.
Soon enough, the farmers who thought they were weak and incompetent when they noticed them, relocated them to a separate apartment. Good!
Bruno intimidated everyone, trusted no one but was afraid of one thing: FEAR! His ears were always up, and eyes unsleeping. Day and night same always. He felt threatened by everything, even his shadows to the extent of paranoia. He found that his fear intermingled and roamed within the militia and sought subtle ways of annihilating them. With the prohibition on talking, he was satisfied they could not easily come to terms.
The next day, he ordered the execution of three members of the intelligence for Cock ‘o Roach activities at night. No one ever heard that one before, but it was enough sign to the rest. “This is a Noah Era” he always said, “Who is not fit in, is hit out!”
Unsuspecting, Bruno was unbelievably attacked by an unidentified masked band! That midnight, the lanterns like lightnings, flashed their last at once. He read the signs, armed himself and fought his invisible assailants till dawn. The farmers knew chickens stampede often, sometimes when poaching rats pay clandestine visits to the poultry. So, they did not border.
The poultry looked deserted as if the chickens were on retreat. The cold early winter morning oozed through the whistling pines. The farmers went in routinely but out with some dead fowls. Their forced bald heads and plucked feathers scattered everywhere betrayed an occasional bickering amidst birds. Moreover, the health workers responded promptly. Rest of the wounded were transferred to where the old and disabled were.
This was the beginning of an end!
Whirlwinds of ecstasy and freedom swirled unrestrainedly. No Bruno and the law, no all the rest. No ethics, as everyone was the measure of all things. A state of nature having been installed as the seeds of discord sprouted from all angles. Leaders rose and fell while none would want to be governed. Voices and vices here and there. Chicken Invasion is inevitable and like disenchanted asteroids bound to fall upon men!
That day, on a 15th day of March of same year, the wire-gauzed door of the poultry was unanimously pulled down. It was not the first time of it occurrence, the farmers thought; but they never knew it was the invaders! They were attacked severely like a swarm of holocaust on vegetation; blood squirting from their bodies.
On this edge, the chickens chanted glorious songs towards the exit. Smokes scudded behind them as the rescuing farmers made to save the birds. With a grin, a figure stood at the gate with a lean rugged gun. It was Alex Ander the Great! Beside him stood his dog Alex Little, the name he gave it after it’s valiant impact at the fire outbreak. The waif waggled in fear but heartened by its dauntless master.
Slowly he lifted the gun placing it on his left arm; shut his left blinded eye as if it were alive and pulled the thin trigger. He let it loose as they charged with crimson spitefulness close by and feathers spluttered and scattered in a most gory details!
Freedom un-staked is freedom at stake!