The cluckening

No one ever expected the apocalypse to start at McFeather Farms. Certainly not Farmer Bill, whose biggest worry up to now had been whether his prized zucchini would win the blue ribbon at the county fair. But something was off this season. The sky had been an unsettling shade of green for three days, the cows were mooing in Latin, and the scarecrow kept turning its head slightly every time Bill walked past.

And then there was the chicken coop.

Bill had raised chickens for 32 years, and never had he seen one give him side-eye like that. Especially not Cluckles—the biggest, puffiest, sassiest hen in the flock. He had originally named her “Fluffy,” but after she pecked a fox to death and cackled at the funeral, the name just didn’t seem appropriate anymore.

Lately, Cluckles had become… organized. The other chickens followed her in formation. They clucked in unison. Last Tuesday, Bill found what looked suspiciously like a ritual circle in the straw, complete with tiny bones and a single black feather stuck into a hard-boiled egg.

“I must be losin’ it,” Bill mumbled as he tossed a scoop of feed into the coop, watching the chickens scatter like cult members late for a sacrifice.

Then one night, he woke to a rhythmic tapping. Not from the window, no. From inside the walls.

Tap. Tap. Cluck.

Bill grabbed his flashlight and crept down the stairs, muttering, “Just raccoons. Probably raccoons. Maybe very… organized raccoons.”

The kitchen door creaked open by itself.

There, illuminated in a beam of light, was Cluckles. Standing upright. Wearing a tiny cape made of stitched-together corn husks. Her eyes glowed red.

“Cluck,” she said.

Bill screamed like a man who knew deep in his soul: the chicken had declared war.

He fainted. When he woke up the next day, he thought all of this must have been a nightmare.
Two days passed with no unusual activity except for cluckles being a menace pecking the cows again.

until...It was a dark and stormy night, and the farm was eerily quiet, save for the occasional sound of a distant crow. The chickens, usually full of their usual feathery chaos, were unnervingly still. That is, except for one. A large, menacing chicken named Cluckles.

Cluckles wasn’t your ordinary farmyard fowl. He had an eye that glowed red whenever he was plotting something sinister. His feathers were unnaturally sleek, almost like he’d been dipped in some kind of foul-smelling oil. And every time he clucked, it sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Farmer Bill, the unwitting victim of this poultry horror, was in the kitchen preparing his nightly meal, humming a happy tune. He had no idea that his life was about to be turned upside down by the feathered fiend.

Cluckles stalked into the kitchen, his sharp beak gleaming in the dim light. Farmer Bill turned around and smiled, “Hey there, Cluckles! You need some more corn?”

Cluckles didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed menacingly. He gave a low, rumbling cluck and hopped up onto the counter, knocking over a bowl of mashed potatoes in the process.

Farmer Bill, unfazed, chuckled, “Cluckles, you always were a bit of a troublemaker, huh?”

But this time, Cluckles wasn’t just being mischievous. He had a plan. With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged forward, pecking at Bill’s shoe. And that was just the beginning. The chicken had learned some dark magic from the ancient farmer’s almanac he'd found buried beneath the haystack, and now he was on a rampage.

The next thing Bill knew, he was bound in chicken wire, with Cluckles pacing around him like some kind of deranged poultry mastermind. The other chickens were watching from the shadows, clearly in on the plot. They clucked and clattered, almost like they were… laughing.

Farmer Bill struggled against the wire, trying to free himself. “Okay, okay! I get it! You want the last slice of pie!”

Cluckles tilted his head, a grotesque smile on his beak. “You think this is about pie, Bill?” he clucked, his voice oddly deep. “This is about power.”

The evil chicken hopped up onto a chair and flapped his wings dramatically. “You’ve been treating us like mere pets! But now… NOW, I will be the King of this farm!”

Just then, Bill, desperate to escape, managed to knock a bowl of mashed potatoes toward the chicken. The poultry overlord was so engrossed in his speech that he didn’t notice the bowl of mashed potatoes splattering all over his feathers.

Cluckles froze. His beak quivered. Then, as if on cue, he exploded into an exaggerated, squawking fit of rage. “YOU DARE THROW STARCH AT ME?!”

Farmer Bill, in the chaos, managed to grab a broom, and with a few quick swings, he knocked Cluckles off the table. The chicken flailed dramatically in the air, hitting a stack of eggs, causing an avalanche of cracking shells. As Cluckles crashed to the floor, Bill couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, it looks like you’re all scrambled now!” Bill said, triumphantly.

Cluckles, now covered in eggs, let out one final screech, his evil plans foiled. “I’ll be back, Bill! One day… I’ll come back…”

Bill just shook his head, setting the broom aside. “Sure, buddy. Sure you will. Now, how about we finally have some peace and quiet?”

The farm fell silent once more… but somewhere, in the depths of the barn, the faintest cluck echoed, a reminder that the chicken’s dark reign was not over.