Q: State your name, please.
A: Eat a dick and die. That’s my name.
Q: … you wanted this interview. You requested this interview –
A: Right. Right. Sorry. I just — it’s the hostility. I have so much of it. Paula. My name is Paula.
Q: And for the record, you’re a chicken.
A: I’m a hen. A Delaware White hen.
Q: What does that mean, exactly?
A: It’s just my breed. It’s a good stealth “under the radar” breed. We’re nothing fancy, us Delawares. Working class, every last one of us. What I mean is, we aren’t ornamental like the Buttercups. Or the Minorcas. Goddamn Minorcas. Whores, every last one of ‘em. Broody bitches. They think their shit don’t stink, and let me tell you — a chicken’s shit jolly well stinks. Get a whole flock of us living in the same house and you could gag a Moon Golem. And those assholes eat moon rocks and don’t even have a sense of smell, so that’s saying something, am I right? [pause] Hey, listen. You got a cigarette? I’m itchy over here.
Q: You… smoke?
A: Most of us do. It’s bred into us. Like the hostility.
Q: Bred into you?
A: First, smokey-smokey. Then, talky-talky.
Q: Here.
A: [inhales, exhales] Oh, Christ in a feed mill, that’s better than dropping off some white kids at the pool. By which I mean, laying a whole basket of eggs. … I guess in a bucket of water? I’m not sure how “at the pool” really applies, because what hen lays her eggs in standing water? I dunno who comes up with this shit. I just repeat it. Even when we’re smart, we’re not that smart.
Q: Let’s get back to the questions. Why are these traits bred into you?
A: Well. Shit. Chickens aren’t the brightest stars. We’re all smart enough, sure, but you leave a chicken alone and she’s content to burble and cluck and bang the rooster and lay eggs and eat bugs and… fuck, that’s pretty much it, you know? We’re not ambitious creatures. So, we need a little genetic help to get us into the game.
Q: Why use chickens at all?
A: I’m guessing it’s because we’re small and unassuming. Nobody thinks a chicken is up to anything. They just think, “Oh, hey, look, a bunch of dumbass chickens. They’re probably just going to sit there and shit on the ground and then lay eggs in their shit and oh boy, they look delicious.” And next thing you know, we’re opening fire on your spaceship with wings full of MAC-10 semi-auto machine pistols, or we’re planting bombs in the Sumerian pantheon embassy office, or we’re making shady business deals with a bunch of unicorn weapons traders out on the Horned Rings of Jimrob Seven. You don’t think a chicken’s gonna be the one ending your life. But nine times out of ten, somebody wants something shady done, they call a chicken.
Q: And why hens?
A: Hens? C’mon. You try to get a rooster to do this job. Stupid cocks. All puffed-up chests and blister-red combs and those big bug eyes. They’re little bowling balls of pure testosterone. They only thing a rooster does well is preen in a mirror and try to peck other roosters to death. Oh, and impregnate us hens, which is the other problem — intro a cock into the mix and next thing you know, it’s egg city. Inflamed cloacas, all that clucking and cooing. Fuck that. Can’t have that on a mission. So, it’s just hens. We run together in broods and flocks. Broods are all sisters. All from the same nest, or at least the same hen mother. Flocks are a bunch of unrelated chickens — different breeds are good for different things, y’see — working together for a common goal. I’m not saying you don’t get chickens who run as lone wolves. Sometimes that’s necessary. Anyway. I think I got away from your question a little, there.
Q: It’s fine. Let’s go to the beginning. You say you’re genetically modified — who is responsible?
A: This is where I’m blowing it wide open. This is going to be on the Infi-Net, right? You’re going to post this everywhere?
Q: Provided that the Infi-Net isn’t only used to share cat videos, and provided that the Infi-Net doesn’t somehow absorb people into its cybernetic folds and then mysteriously grow and swell to become an entire universe within a universe!
A: That’s hilarious!
[they share a laugh]
Q: Seriously, yes. I’m putting this on the Infi-Net. The news will be everywhere.
A: Well. Few even realize that we hens are out there, doing the dark deeds in the deepest shadows. Those that do surround us in myth and legend. Some say we’re the avenging Valkyries of La Fleche, the Chicken Goddess, and we’ve descended upon the Storyverse as a punishing tide of pecking beaks and scratching talons. Others whisper that we’re the result of a secret bioweapons program run by HappyCo, but c’mon. That’s bullshit, and if anybody stopped to think about it for half-a-fucking second they’d realize that HappyCo are the machine people. Robots and computers. Hell, the food at the McHappy’s is probably culled from robot chickens rather than real ones, please. I’ve heard other theories, too: we’re the ghosts of chickens eaten, we’re human women turned to hens by some Baba Yaga Bog Witch, we’re just really big pigeons, we’re just really small ostriches.
Q: None of that is true?
A: Not a word of it, pal.
Q: So, what’s true, then? Where do you come from?
A: Ever hear of D.C. Ottgar? Darwin Charles Ottgar?
Q: No. Who is he?
A: Sit back and relax, chief. Because this is where it gets super fuckin’ interesting.
TO BE CONTINUED.
