Dad’s chickens were white.
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While living with Great-Aunt Mary, Dad filled her empty chicken coop with chickens. David and I fought over gathering the eggs. Finding eggs is a challenge, since hens like hiding them. I wanted to let a few hatch, but Dad said they weren’t fertile and would rot.

I snatched three eggs and incubated them for a few weeks under a clump of hay outside the coop. Dad turned out to be right.

Who turned the lights out?
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The chickens continued living happily in their coop until one beautiful sunny fall day when Dad chopped their heads off.

He set a wooden block beside Aunt Mary’s garage, and one-by-one, laid each chicken’s neck across it. David helped hold them still. I watched in horror as the hatchet came down. And the red on the hatchet wasn’t paint.

The scenario got worse. Their headless zombie bodies jumped up and ran. One torso smacked into the side of the garage. Dad and David laughed as it bounced off the wall, got up, and plowed into it again.

“Murderers,” I screamed.

“Get on out of here,” Dad said. “Go into the garage with your mother and Aunt Mary.

I presume my banishment came because I wouldn’t stop screaming, or begging him to stop the beheading. I retreated with a parting shout of murderers.

I walked into the garage and found dead chickens swinging by their legs from the ceiling, like bare-naked trapeze artists. Mom and Aunt Mary dunked the headless bodies into hot water before stringing them up. Half-heartedly and under duress, I helped pull pinfeathers off.

It’s not my fault you taste so good!
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Despite their gruesome demise, our baked-chicken supper that night tasted mighty yummy and extremely fresh.

Revenge of The Chicken Spirits

The chicken population never forgot Dad’s head chopping or childhood chicken-submarines (The Pranksters). They bided their time and lay low for over forty years. And then they took their revenge out on me.

Fast forward: Our local grocery store was fairly deserted due to ongoing renovations. A large woman leaned with her butt against the chicken cooler, beckoning me toward her and the possessed chicken torsos.

Possessed chicken body.
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She immediately stiffened up and leaned backwards, ready to plop on top of the fresh chicken. I heroically pulled to keep her out of the cooler, so she wouldn’t worsen an already embarrassing situation.

She slumped against my right shoulder with all her weight, reached over and put a death-grip on my left wrist, and drooled on the floor.

“Help,” I yelled.

A bakery worker coming out with a load of buns heard me and ran to dial 911. The woman went into a grand mal seizure and began kicking me, until we both dropped to the floor. I admit I was conscious of the drool and avoided it.

She continued thrashing violently, then suddenly went limp, making a guttural sound. The bakery lady squatted down and cautiously peaked into the woman’s face.

“She’s asleep,” voiced the bakery report. “The sound is snoring.”

A bit too late, the paramedics and other grocery workers arrived to take over the woman’s care.

Your hero’s doctor report: I suffered a tiny bone out of place in my wrist, a bruised body, and various strained muscles. The important thing is I kept the lady out of the chicken cooler.

Vengeful chickens weren’t done with me yet.

Watch out! You could be next!
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Three weeks later, I returned to another store in the same grocery chain, and foolishly leaned over the chicken cooler. (Note to self: Stay away from Price Chopper chicken). A large sign hung overhead, advertising a chicken sale. One end swung down, hitting the top of my head like a tomahawk with a homing signal. I saw stars, got a large bump, and had a headache the remainder of the day.

Your hero’s second doctor report: The blow compacted my neck like an accordion; weeks of physical therapy needed. I was being stalked by Price Chopper zombie-chickens. Years of mental therapy needed, but not taken.

I cried fowl.

Lesson Learned: The innocent are sometimes forced to pay for the sins of their fathers. Thanks a lot Dad.