The Rooster Chronicals: Part IV

His eyes were distant, perhaps focusing on some genetically predetermined thoughts on the afterlife he would soon embrace. I had his body draped across my arms loosely; there was no struggle, despite my continued taunting and heckling previously from beyond the gate of his cage.

"I'm going to kill you."

"You are going to die."

"I am going to murder you in cold blood, you stupid motherfucker."

And yet even at the time, despite my sophomoric costume and alcohol-infused sweat, he saw right through my crazed blue eyes and didn't even register my insults. He stared back in awe as if English were nothing but a collection of irregular Neanderthal grunts, never once displaying any sign of weakness. Or fear.

We now approached the chopping block. Me and my sacrifice. I again looked deep into his eyes, this time searching for some excuse, some sign of intelligence, some evidence of a soul. And I found nothing. It's as if the rooster were as immobile and expressionless a piece of grass. Fucking birds.

I bent to one knee as if to propose to a stump of wood and gingerly inserted the head of my cock between the two nails. His eyes finally glared back in apparent shock - alas, but it was too late my friend. Alas. I had not been the judge. I had not been on the jury of his peers. But the executioner must work just like the tax collector or hatter - yeah, even more so - for without men of my type, who would liberate the inflicted witches of Our Faire Townne?

The lovely assistant chosen to accompany me grasped forth upon the scaled, pronged feet of Our Dear Byrd. She pulled tight. I grasped the blade-handle with a tender loving squeeze, likening it to foreplay. Then I clamped on the handle, raised the blade, and prepared to swing.

Suddenly, at the last minute, the phone rang - it was the Governor! There had been a reversal! The rooster let out a squaw of relief!

Alas, that was all an illusion brought about by the blade of the knife striking upon the delicate vertebrae. I swung hard, but not enough, for the neck made a disjointed tear - and roosty was loose! In a mad dash, his defiant head was placed back bettwitx the nails. Whack. Whack. Whack. And finally, Whack.

Five times. Yes, it took five god-damn times to separate the glorious head of Heloise from his body.

I was suddenly covered in a fine, warm red mist and the taste of copper invaded my closed mouth. My eyes stung. I felt the warm rush of release that typically accompanies an orgasm, only this time, it was the morbid rush received when one releases another from this mortal coil. I was now a man.

The Rooster Chronicals: Part II

So now we have established that I don't eat meat. Or, I don't eat meat intentionally. Seriously, it's been so long I can't even rememeber what it tastes like - but it looks like even 'the taste' isn't the reason people eat meat. It has to do more with perceived values. (Thanks, science daily!) Really, try it sometime. I'm all about spreading veggie-ism, but I'm not here to preach - that part comes later. Well, back to the story.

So a while back on Austin-Chat (the mailing list of bored burners living in Austin, and other concerned folk) I got off on a rant about how meat is bad and shit. Well, not that meat was bad, but that the methods modern man goes about to obtain that meat is horrible. (I've tried searching my mail for the thread, but I can't find it. If anyone wants to lead me to it, please do.) Regardless of what I was babbling at the time, the conversation boiled down to "If someone gets me something to kill, I'll kill and eat it."

At the time, we were toying around with the ideas of a cow, or a goat, or something mammalian. A few months pass. Then, a few weeks ago, as fate would have it, a few good friends of mine came up with a way for me to become a man as it were. Here is my understanding of How A Rooster Came To Be. A few friends of mine decided to try their hands at having chickens. The idea was to only get hens, so they got three chicks. These little chicks, which were supposed to be hens, grew up into...two roosters and a hen. So they were 2/3's the wrong gender, much like the world as a whole, according to the internets. One of these roosters, Heloise, was to become famous in the eyes of the entire world wide web solely because he was chosen to deflower my death virginity. Or so the plan was...

Meeting Heloise

Like any good serial killer wannabe, it's important to start small. Although in my mind I would have no problem killing anything, it seemed that Jebus H. LoveChrist decided I needed to start smaller than a whale. So here he is. A rooster is much larger than I thought. Heloise is probably about 10 pounds, give or take a bit, since I'm a weakling and have no real grasp on weight since I'm not Earth-born.

I guess there isn't too much to say about him. He's a rooster. He seemed kinda dumb and not very fearful of a giant man-sized chicken wearing a lab coat and brandishing a fancy-ass Japanese Knife. Apparantly when you plan to kill a rooster or chicken or deer or human, you wanna make sure they haven't eaten in a while, or they will make lots of poop and stinks when you do. Well, I felt pity on the poor thing and let him eat a last meal. I totally informed him what was about to happen as well, and recommended that he screw his hen/wife as much as he wanted in the next few minutes. Surprisingly, all three of them went behind a bush and made some clucking-fucking sounds for a few minutes. Then Heloise appeared, defiant to the end, to meet her maker, or whatever happens to roosters when they depart this world for the next.