The Cock Ain’t Gonna Like That

Written on September 10th, 2013 by Adam in Short Stories + Flash Fiction

It was only when the removal van arrived we realised we had sold our house to a truckload of chickens. Note – not a shedload. There were far more than that. There was no indication of where they had come from, there was no lower chain involved in the sale of our house, and the driver of their van was not forthcoming with the info.

It wasn’t so much the conversation that was odd – their diction was perfect, the enunciation without an equal – it was more that there were over two hundred of them and they all spoke simultaneously.

‘Are you leaving the curtains?’ they chorused.

I wasn’t, so I skirted around the question, which wasn’t easy when looking straight down the beak of that many of them.

‘And the kitchen appliances?’ they squawked as one.

‘The solicitor said that you would be leaving the white goods.’

Some of the chickens on the left side of the van had started to become restless, flapping their wings, causing one or two of them to rise into the air slightly. They didn’t miss a beat though, carefully keeping exactly in time with their sisters.

‘Can we come in?’

They weren’t the sorts of chickens who needed an answer, and hit me like a poultry tidal wave. I staggered backwards, desperately fighting the urge to slap them back, instead keeping my hands occupied by scratching every last inch of my feather-tormented body.

‘Yes,’ I wheezed and dragged myself inside after them. Inside I caught a glimpse of the last few of them heading down the hall towards the dining room and the kitchen. Against the advice of my ever-tightening lungs I followed them.

‘Bok-BWARK! This fridge,’ they boomed. ‘How many eggs does it hold?’

I knew deep down inside that I should tell them the truth but I was relying on the fact that none of the little blighters had opposable thumbs.

‘I dunno,’ I panted. ‘I never really counted. A lot, I know that.’

Their little heads bobbed up and down in happy agreement.

Then there was a scratching at the door. It was the cock.


Taken from the collection Dial M For Monkey