It was a bright morning. The sun was shining, and the sky
was a glorious shade of blue. Little puffy white clouds drifted above,
spreading joy and cheer on this summer morning.
However, for George WashChicken and PatChick Henry, this day
was not a day of beauty. It was to be a day of glory, of fighting, of honor.
Today, they would establish the chicken nation, and get away from the horrid
oppression of the humans.
“Hey, PatChick,” George WashChicken said, looking at his
reflection in the mirror. “Are we sure we want to go with the tricorn hat? I
think it makes me look fat. Couldn’t we have gone with the fedora? I thought I
looked rather succulent in that.”
PatChick Henry sighed. “We can’t go with the fedora. We are
rebels, starting a revolution against the humans! We are not little hipster
chickens, running around, doing stuff before it’s ‘cool’.”
“Why are we doing this again?” Ben FrankChicken asked
PatChick.
“Because,” PatChick said, his voice beginning to betray his
impatience. “We need to show the humans that they aren’t in charge. We have
rights, too. Do you like living every day in the threat that we could be eaten?
Our eggs are stolen every day, and if our wives stop producing eggs, they get
taken and killed! We deserve recompense! Recognition! This injustice needs to
end!”
“Couldn’t we just as easily make an endearing YouTube video
and a Facebook page and gain thousands of followers and love over the
Internet?” Ben asked.
“It’s not the same,” PatChick said. “This day, today, is a
day significant to the American humans. It’s the day they celebrate their
independence. It’s also the day we shall celebrate ours, and take over the
humans.”
“That sounded really significant,” George said, strutting
toward them. “You better watch out, or some human English teacher is going to
use you to torture English students.”
“Let the puny human children get tortured,” PatChick said.
“This day, chickens shall rule.”
“Well, not if we don’t get started,” George pointed out.
“It’s like already 11 am.”
“Ooh- lunchtime,” Ben said.
“No lunch breaks!” PatChick interrupted. “We have a mission
to accomplish.”
Together the three chickens strutted toward the nearest
gathering of humans, conveniently nearby. It appeared that they were all
related, as they shared the same facial features and hair color.
“Look, mom, a chicken!” a little boy cried out.
“Don’t touch that, Jeremy,” a woman, presumably the mother,
warned the boy. “It’s a feral chicken. It probably has all sorts of diseases
and other nasty things.”
“Mmmm,” a mature male voice said. “Chicken. Good eatin’.”
“You’re not serious,” another voice called out.
“I don’t see why not,” an older boy walked towards the
chickens. “We have all this other stuff to barbeque, but no chicken.”
“I am PatChick Henry!” the rooster crowed as a crowd
gathered around him. “I am here to take over you puny humans, and establish the
free country for chickens!” He paused as he noticed Ben and George weren’t
beside him. To be more specific, Ben and George were currently running around,
headless. Little children chased their bodies, laughing at the sight. PatChick
ruffled his wings indignantly, suddenly angered. These humans had taken his
friends and just killed them. Now they were dead. He backed away from the
now-ominous crowd.
“Give me liberty or give me death, you foul demonic fiends!”
.
.
.
A few hours later, a crowd gathered around the grill, where freshly
cooked chicken was almost done cooking. The smell was intoxicating.
“Happy Independence Day, Dad,” Jeremy said as he got a
drumstick.
“You too, son,” the dad said.
“This is good chicken,” the mom said.
“That’s cuz this is ‘merica,” the dad replied.
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