Through the thin hexagonal wire surrounding the target a tiny pair of binoculars peers into the darkness. As wings communicate positions, claws shuffle silently through the heavy mud to vantage points. The moon illuminates the fluffy ivory bodies scattering with a beautiful choreography. Loretta tunes the eyepiece and shadowy figures come in to focus through the abyss.
Aretha silently sidles up next to Loretta in the loose dirt adjusting her loaded bandoleer between her delicious breasts.
“If you take the shot here, and we come from the north, we can flush ’em out.”
“What about the water?” Loretta lowers the binoculars.
“It’s too deep. They’ll run along the bank. We’ll probably shut them down before they get there.”
Aretha unclips the walkie talkie from her belt and places it to her beak. “Enemy sighted a quarter cluck off the canal. Backup requested halfa cluck south. Over.”
The radio crackles back a response, “Copy. Additional troops moving to half cluck south. Over”
The midnight air turns to stillness.
Beneath the harsh weathered lights of the barn sit a crowd of roosters. Bright and proud with their scarlet headpieces glimmering beneath the fluorescent glow. A cacophonous sound of feathers shifting anxiously fills the space. Perched high above the group a magnificent beast of a bird decorated in fiery colors oversees the proceedings. His head droops ever so slightly under the weight of a petite golden crown encrusted with semiprecious stones. He pounds a golden scepter into the ground to settle the audience. Before he addresses them in his lackadaisical southern drawl, he removes a well chewed cigar from his beak.
“Lookee ‘ere nah gentlemen. In order to keep this uh, sweet lil’ down home patriarchy we done built ‘ere, we need to keep these ladies out the men’s business. I say, I say, now boys, if these chickens start messing about, well then, I say, there gon’ be some problems.”
A massive body composed of numerous shades of umber and sienna shoots to its feet in the middle of the crowd. “How in the hell you propose we gunna do that?”, the bird shouts with the ferocity and incredulous tone of a defense attorney.
“Well now, I say, I say, you gon’ have to calm yo’self down first, Richard. We can’t be making no decisions without clear heads now, y’hear?” Richard begrudgingly returns to his seat. “To respond to Richard’s query, I say, now I’d like to introduce y’all to General Bacher.”
From the shadows creaks a well-worn wheelchair operated with difficulty by a grayed and grizzled rooster, finely dressed in military garb with an abundance of medals and awards dangling from his chest. The ragged wings of war crank the wheels of the chair towards the front of the assembly. The general parks before the crowd and a young chick runs forward to place a microphone near the elderly war hero. He clears his throat.
“We needn’t do much to hold our control. The mechanisms that we have in place now simply need to be adhered to with unwavering resolve. As long as the women are kept eating and laying eggs business can continue as usual. We shall continue to dull their minds with house work and popular country music and soap operas.” He takes a healthy pause. “And with such tactics they will continue to be pacified and unable to rebel. It has worked thus far, and it will undoubtedly continue to work in the same manner.”
The room bursts into manic clucking and the muffled applause of feathered limbs.
Several months ago, there was a feeling bubbling up around the coop that the chickens were unhappy and becoming disheartened by what was going on. Their place had been marginalized to petty homemakers and sex slaves and egg whores, and overall morale had tapered off to unacceptable levels. The rebellion rose slowly, kept secret and underground to protect it during its fragile state of development. They had felt oppressed. Sheltered, underrepresented. Mistreated. It was time for change.
Loretta and Aretha were at the forefront of the movement and had spent many hours working on a plot to overthrow the governing body that oversaw the coop. The two chickens began printing leaflets. They started conversations with the women laying eggs in the nesting areas, and during meal periods. They held clandestine meetings in bunkers where they would espouse their ideas of bringing forth a new matriarchy to overrun the outdated sexist mode of government that had strangled all the life from their society.
The night before the scheduled attack, Aretha had laid out an aerial map on a makeshift table of boxes under a lone dangling incandescent bulb of the area where the roosters were meeting. The militants had gathered around the map to diagram their positions. The attack was expertly coordinated because it could not be anything but.
That night, as the other platoon moves south to block the exit route, the rest of the plan goes into action. Loretta opens up the suitcase next to her and begins screwing together the parts of the sniper rifle.
“We’ll move into position, and when the shot goes off we’ll rush them in the confusion.” Aretha solidifies the intent.
“Let’s make it happen,” Loretta says as she dials in the scope.
As the general finishes his powerful oratory, a bullet tears through his torso, allowing the blood from his lungs the floor. Simultaneously a throng of chickens rush the group with small caliber pistols and knives in wing. Feathers rise high in the air in the scuffle like a comedic pillow fight, shrieks of lost masculinity carry over to the next county. Some roosters escape down the banks of the canal yet others meet their fate at the end of a pocket knife. Aretha charges toward the king as he attempts an escape to a secret bunker and places three rounds into the base of his skull. He collapses into a pile of KFC and gold and rhinestones on the straw covered ground.
The rest who fled the scene got butchered by the platoon dug in south of the coop. It was a bloodbath.
The roosters that weren’t killed or castrated ended up surrendering. And after the chickens took over, the roosters who were left were relegated to an area of confinement. They were bound and gagged and only brought out for the sexual pleasure of the women. As exactly the manner that any society worth a damn should operate.