Hard to say, really.
In any event, Dave wrote this. I edited it a little bit just to bring out my boy's natural talent.
So here you go, A Little Bit of Fear (part 2, Electric Chick-A-Loo)
I am a perfectly rational person.
The most brilliant minds the galaxy has ever known spent eons gathering absolutely unfathomable amounts of knowledge to do things which were once considered impossible. Generation after generation of humans tirelessly sculpting their minds, becoming intellectual behemoths, accomplishing feats that were nothing short of miracles. Thousands of years of progress leading to the crowning achievement of
mankind. Faster-than-lightspeed space travel. A handful of scientists were called the saviors of the human race. They were the first scientists to drown in pussy.
Life on Earth had changed. There were too many people. We started sending the excess, the chaff, the low born not pretty enough to be fit to serve, off into the black. We found planets that could sustain life. Others that could be made to. Some were for living, others to gather resources for the job creators back home. The sheer logistics of it are staggering. Thousands and thousands of years, an entire planet’s collective income, countless lives lost, and an unbelievably lucky shot in the dark to beat God at his own game.
All that incredible progress and luck? Somehow we managed to cock all that up pretty much immediately. This planet, Desolation, couldn't be terraformed for shit and Earth basically said fuck it almost from the start. Let em eat cake, but also let em die. How long would it take for it to fall apart? Could the planet be mined dry before it happened? Somebody get me the risk reward analysis and figure out what our investment risk is on this one.
I think about it all the time. Its incredible.
But right now I'm just irritated that my part in that incredible story ends with me about to die while holding a terribly annoyed chicken and staring down an ornery horse.
Look, normally I don't steal from people, especially my neighbors. For lack of a better word, we're all shit farmers. We all grow what we can and trade amongst each other, help out with manual labor when somebody is sick or injured, all that shit. We all live within a few miles of each other, all of us have been here for our entire lives, and chances are we're all going to die here. I actually have a sweet gig making and selling Scal to my neighbors and the occasional traveler. I grow the corn myself, my neighbor grows the grain, and I get the sugar from a guy a few miles east of Unionside.
The sugar guy is partially why I'm currently hiding in a tiny barn, clutching a six pound feathery ball of hate. The sugar man hasn't shown up in a while. The other reason would be the cloven-hooved douchebag staring at me from across the dusty isle of the barn. The chicken was in my arms because I couldn't remember the last meal I'd eaten. The reason why I couldn't remember is because the stupid horse that was looking at me, while I'm struggling to retain my wits and dignity, covered in dirt and feathers.
He was looking at me with an expression of... something... on his face. What the fuck was that expression? The word was right on the tip of my tongue. Son of a bitch, that was going to drive me nuts. Anyway, the reason I'm holding THAT chicken, being silently judged by THAT horse, hiding from certain death in THIS barn is because all of these things belonged to Gene Congdon. His asshole horse keeps wandering over to my place and munching all my damn corn. Not eating it. Just chewing it up, and blehhh, spitting it out, like he has a hot date coming up soon and he’s watching his carb intake or some shit. I've asked Gene to handle this situation like two dozen times, and he's always a total dick about it and doesn't do jack.
My corn is demolished, my profits are nil. I can't afford to eat, so I'm taking a goddamn chicken. A chicken. Don't judge me.
Gene lives about a mile from me. I rarely go to his place unless it's to bring back his asshole horse. I knew he had solar panels. Everybody has solar panels. You know what Gene has that nobody else does? Motion-triggered flood lights. He apparently paid extra for the model with comedic timing. They caught me with an armful of poultry, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on my face to match my cartoonish 'sneaky tip-toe' pose. I swear even the chicken looked surprised as shit.
Somewhere, a butterfly flapped it's stupid butterfly wings earlier. Gene was a regular customer of mine. He sleeps like death when he gets some of the good ol' family Scal in him. When he doesn't? He's awake, sick, and irritated. That flood light kicked on and it wasn't more than a few seconds before the unmistakable sound of an
incendiary round whizzed by terrifyingly close to my face. The military was largely privatized almost a decade ago, so the corporations all but gave away outdated-but-still-unbelievably scary armaments when the switch happened. Fortunately, dickhead Gene went wide with the shot and gave me a window of time to heroically flee in terror.
My heart is pounding. I'm covered in dirt, feathers, and shame. Gene is screaming at his son and curiously-hot-for-his-income-and-personality wife to find who is on the
property. I didn't bring a weapon. I'm hungry, not a dick. I will not panic. I am logical. Breath. I'm sweating profusely. I'm hungry and weak. Limbs are shaking from malnutrition and fear. Fear is good. For, like....reasons and shit. God, I'm hungry. I look at the chicken.
"Motherfucker, you are gonna GET it." I hiss at it.
"Bwaaaaak" it retorts, snarkily.
"Fuck you, nuggets!"
I feel my impotent rage may be a misuse of energy. Okay. Breath. Look around. What can I use? The tiny barn initially seems ill-equipped for ass-kickery. My hopes are briefly lifted at the sight of a pitchfork leaning near the door until I remember that the bullets in Gene's gun make you catch fire from the inside-out. I quickly rule that out. I'm rapidly losing hope. There isn't much else in the pitiful little barn. A couple haggard saddles and assorted horse tack, a riding ion-propulsion lawn mower that hasn't worked since Gene traded a bale of moldy hay for it, a canister half filled with fuel for said mower, a toolbox with nothing menacing inside it, and a plastic shovel used for cleaning horse stalls.
I've always been pretty optimistic. I haven't eaten in forever; if I die, I'll look fucking great at the funeral. Shit, if one of Gene's crazy Satan bullets gets me, it'll probably just be my brother carrying an ashtray to the front of the church/local auto parts store. The thought provides a decent distraction while a burny-shooty death closes in. The shouts are getting angrier, they're getting closer, the chicken doesn't care, and the horse is still staring at me with that fucking face. I suddenly feel that my greatest regret in life is dying without identifying what the look on that stupid horse's face is.
I'm just too tired. My stomach is screaming. My limbs are screaming. The Congdon family is screaming, and getting really damn close. The chicken seems fine. I look up and make eye contact with that horrible equine.
"Huh."
Slowly, deliberately, I pick myself up. One arm reaches above me and hoists myself up, the other arm cradling what was once supposed to be my dinner but has more or less become my security blanket with a beak. I'm leaning against the opposite wall from that asshole horse. I'm sweating even though the air feels fantastic tonight. I take another look at what was so obviously my escape. I'm such a silly goose. I should've seen it as soon as I ran into this barn with that stupid horse. Serendipity, nothing less. I open his stall door, gently take him by the halter, and smile to myself.
I am a perfectly rational human be-
"FLUMMOXED! You stupid fucking horse, you're FLUMMOXED!"
* * *
Gene and his family had quickly made a sweep of their modest property looking for the trespasser. You know, me. He had noticed the smell just a moment before chaos came screaming directly at him through the gates of my own Hell. They were closing in on the barn, their suspicions confirmed when they heard a man shout triumphantly from within, immediately before his horse burst from the doors, having been presumably set ablaze by the stranger. Gene and his kin were so taken aback by the spectacle that they failed to notice the the sound of "hehehehehehehehe" trailing off into the night, leaving naught but a few feathers as evidence behind him.
* * *
It was nearly sunrise when I collapsed into my favorite chair on the front porch. My half empty (or FULL, amiright?!) jar of Scal was right where I left it. I take a little victory sip, even though I hadn't eaten in ages and knew it was probably a bad idea. I didn't care. I won. I finish the half jar and decide to open another. Fuck it. Fire has been a fun theme tonight, let’s be flammable.
I giggled to myself.
I look down at the the chicken, still clutched firmly to my bosom. It was looking right at me. I felt like this was a very intentional, very unnerving sort of eye-contact.
My feeling of victory slightly faded as I look into it's eyes.
It let out a low, "Bwaaaa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aaak."
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"I mean.... yeah.... I guess I could've just ridden it out of there."
"Bwak."
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I never did eat that chicken.
* * *
I awoke in the mid afternoon, either very hung over, or slightly dead. Probably dead. I assume this is what dead feels like. I am either very good or fucking terrible
at making Scal. Either way, I'm my own biggest fan.
I drag myself off the couch and sit on the front porch in my usual chair. I rarely have company, I'm not sure what the other chair is for. Right now a large chicken is perched on top of it, with unusually judgemental eyes not typically found in meal birds. Quickly, the night comes back to me. "Heh." The quarter-chuckle I allow myself feels like a punch to the head.
"Bak?"
I contemplate Chikens question.
"HHHHRRRRRRRRWWWWUUUUUUGHHHHHHNnnnnnnnn......pwuh *GASP* pwuh...*gasp*....ptuh....."
I casually vomit onto my deck. Uncertain if my choice of words makes my point, I let my red face and bulging, red, watery eyes do the talking for the next two minutes.
Chiken just tilts its head in the flightless avian equivalent of silent judgment.
I agree. It IS weird that Sugar Mike hasn't showed up in so long. I decide to take a trip to check up on him, make sure he's okay. I'm actually not positive if his name is really Mike, but I don't know how to grow that shit, so off I go. It's a long trip on foot, but none of my neighbors have a vehicle, and the only one with a horse is a dick. Plus, you know... mucho fuego. No bueno.
I pack a bag, gather up my rifle, and get get ready to leave on the long trip ahead of me. I stand on the edge of porch, puke all over my boots one last time, and go back to sleep for the rest of the day.
I'll leave when I feel better.
Fuck Sugar Mike.
* * *
I woke up still spinning a little. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Jesus, I'm gonna die before I get to my driveway. I can't focus my eyes. I'm stumbling. I keep forgetting where I'm going. Sugar Mike. That's right.
If I don't fuckin' starve first.
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Tried to catch a squirrell. Unsuccessful. Cried a little bit. Tears salty.
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Salt makes you dehydrated. Hungry and thirsty now.
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So much walking.
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I fucking hate squirrells so much.
Why don't I know how to spell squirrells in my head?
Why are there squirrells on this planet?
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Thought I was hallucinating for a minute, but Chiken is definitely following me. Not sure what to make of it. Very weak. Feathery death not expected.
But also not ruled out.
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Lost track of Chiken for about an hour. Found Chiken in road. Dead squirrell at its feet. Is this real life?
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Feeling pretty good. Coming up on Unionside, finally. Haven't been here in months, gonna grab some non-squirrell food and some tobacco, rest for a bit and then
continuing to S.M's.
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Hahahahahahahaha Just saw the greatest shit ever. A dude in a busted helmet just screamed "YOU FILL MY COCK WITH HATRED, LITTLE HERO!" at some guy with a gun.
What happened after, slightly less amusing.
* * *
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