Pucker Factor Ten


          So, I’m sitting in the back of a huge flatbed truck all stuffed in, rolling down the road, and we’re all there, I mean all my best buddies:  Me, Manny, Charlie, Mo—the lot.  There’s dozens of us and it’s fucking’ packed, I mean beak to ass packed, and none of us really know exactly where it is that this crazed driver is taking us, but we’ve heard rumours and it’s not sounding good.  The fuckin’ truck is hot and I can barely lift a wing to get any air flowing through my feathers, but there’s no roof on this thing, so that’s just enough to send some breeze through what little space there is.

            What we’ve heard is that they’re taking us to a place where some limb-chopping of some sort goes on, but we really can’t be sure.  Some say they lop the head right off, but I’m betting they’ll go for something like a wing or breast, ‘cause why would they want my knobby, little head when my best features are my plumage and heaving chest?  ‘Course they couldn’t rightly lop off my chest, could they?  I mean, what the fuck?  We’re all more than a little curious and frightened at the same time, but you know, we’re all together—all the old guys—and we’re goin’ down together ‘til the end.

            ‘Hey, Sid,’ yells Manny.  ‘I love ya’ you old fuckin’ chicken you.  I’m glad to be goin’ down with ya’, man.’

            So I say back, ‘Damn straight you ole hen banger,’ and we crack our beaks together and grab a view of Trudy, the hen on the other end of the truck just sitting there all scared and wanting to hide under some warm, firm feathers, but thing is, no one ever really liked her much, she being some clucky, uppity bitch all the time—well, not bitch like some dog, ‘cause she is, ya know, a chicken and all—but always shunning the good cocks like ourselves, and now there she sits waiting on some impending doom with no one to lean on.  Sad, really.  And I’d go up to her and bob my head a little and strut my tail feathers if I could, but as I said, I can just hardly move.  Besides, I’m here with my best fuckin’ mates on the planet.  I got somebody to hang with during my final hours.  I’m talkin’ good, clean-livin’ chickens.  True fellas.

            So, we’re rollin’ down the road, not a care in the world, ‘cause see, we’ve given up on any chances of surviving this coop on wheels and have surrendered ourselves to fate.  But then fuck me if the sweaty cunt of a driver doesn’t pull this madman stunt trying to beat the red light by barrelling around a car that’s already stopped before turning a hard right, and just as I’m about to tell Mo what a fuckin’ great parma he’s gonna’ make I’m flying out the top of the goddam truck—well, not flying, I mean my wings have been clipped for ages, see—and I’m twisting and falling and catch a glimpse of all the guys below looking at me with their beady eyes and beaks agape as if to say, ‘Sid, you crazy bastard, where the fuck you goin’, man?  I though we were all goin’ down together!’  But I’ve got no control and can only manage to let loose a small cluck—aside from some loose bowels—that sticks halfway down my throat.

            Before I know it, I’ve landed on the hard fuckin’ tarmac right in the middle of the lane with my legs and feet piled up under me like broken match sticks.  I’m just sittin’ there stunned by the headlights of the cars waiting at the light, and I try to get up or crawl or do anything to get my sorry ass to the side of the road and just then a stupid fuckin’ childhood riddle passes through my tiny mind.  The truck with all my pals is well on down the road and off to face their maiming without me, and all I can think of is that now I’m no different from that lonely hen, Trudy.  I’m all alone about to face a one-ton vehicle in the face.

            But, fuck me if the woman in the car didn’t see me and is in obvious terror of my situation.  I can see her pointing at me with her other hand over her mouth.  She’s a hot little number too with short, dark hair and big eyes and she’s with some skin-job guy, head shaved, and he doesn’t seem to give a flyin’ fuck about me, the pathetic bastard.

            So the light turns green, and here we go.  What’s this chick gonna’ do?  I’ve already named her Trudy, and she’s gonna’ save me and we’ll both end our loneliness, and I’ll never say another bad thing about her again.  The car approaches—a Commodore from the looks of the grill.  Got me a real bogan that will either step on the gas for kicks or get out and snap my neck thinking of saving me a slow, agonizing death.  Thing is, I’m not anywhere near dying.  I’m gonna’ win.  I’m gonna’ show that rat-bastard truck driver he did me a favour by tossing me. Still, I miss my friends and wish I could’ve had a proper goodbye. But you never know, another changing yellow light and gutsy manoeuvrer could send Manny or Mo flying and then we could join up and be free-range chickens on our own terms.

            The Commodore is now five meters from my quivering wattle and completely stopped in the middle of the intersection with this saucy human chick still pointing and wondering what to do about my ass.  She’s holding up traffic, buying me time, but I can’t move a muscle, see, I’m fucked.  But I can see she’s wigged out and trying to make a call on her mobile, not wanting to get out of the car into the street.  I don’t blame her, I mean, I’ve never been the sharpest chicken in the coop, what with a ball sack hanging from my chin and my thin legs, and now I’m must look like absolute hell, feathers all ruffled and limbs awry.  Fuck, what bad timing.  So she finally decides to drive away, and I respect her for it, but what I don’t respect is that her skin-job boyfriend can’t get out and help me.  She deserves better than some weak cunt who can’t help out a fucked up fowl.  Had she and I met under different circumstances—well, no use goin’ there.

            So off they drive, and right behind them is this big, fucking red-neck rig that’s chugging straight for me, and now is when by blood curdles and the notion of death becomes a reality.  All I can do is close my eyes and hope for a quick annihilation.  The rumbling gets louder, and now I can hear the ABBA tune, Take a Chance On Me blasting out this fuck-wit’s window and see his big, dumb-ass grin and greasy baseball cap.

            Farewell brothers, I think, and drop my knobby head to the ground.  It’s been a bloody good life, chums.  The grumbling and vibration increases while my thoughts spin as fast as that fucker’s wheels.

            Then, what the fuck, it’s over me and I’m not budging, and it’s passing me and I’m not hit, and I’m being tossed and tumbled like I’m in a some washing machine or desert. I open my eyes to see what the bloody fuck has happened and catch the city lights spinning and the river like the sky and glistening, and then my head hits the curb and my wing catches a tree and my ass lands hard on the grass.  I’m trying to gain back my equilibrium ‘cause I’m dizzy as all fuck, but I’m safe off the side of the road and I’m fuckin’ alive, man!  I let out a victorious ‘BICAW!’ as if to tell that backward-assed country fuck he lost and I’m sitting here alive—fucked up all to hell with broken legs and bloody feathers—but alive and wanting him to know that in his unskilled attempt to crush me, he actually saved my life.  And to both Trudys I hail blessings.  We’ll always be together—except for the chicken Trudy ‘cause she’s off to be slain—but never really know what it was that we shared or how to deal with each other’s unknown fates.

            ‘Yeah, to all you bastards who tried to bring ole’ Sid down,’ I yelled.  ‘Not a one of ya’ could kill this tough chicken!’