Chet sat down at the kitchen table and stared at his foe.
The chicken sat across from him, a paltry carcass. The legs looked withered, aged beyond tastiness. The breast was thin, as though the chicken had been starved – likely it had. Overall, it didn’t look like much, but Chet wasn’t looking for a pretty bird. He just wanted someone to pay.
A chicken had damaged his car. He was driving down the highway when, from out of a bush, a chicken went flying across the road. Chet hadn’t thought chickens could fly, was surprised at the new knowledge.
The chicken was killed by Chet’s windshield, and left a sizeable crack that only expanded. He still needed to have it replaced, and would when he felt up to it. For now, his sweet ride had a blemish, and this chicken would pay for the one he couldn’t stop in the middle of the highway to collect.
Taking a knife, Chet hacked off the legs. He shoved them, forcefully, up inside the chicken. He then stabbed it several times before placing it in a pot and sliding it into the oven.
Three hours later, he removed the body. He opened the pot and, without ceremony, stabbed a fork into the meat. He bit it, chewed, and swallowed, his mouth burning due to the heat. But the chicken had learned its lesson.
Chickens everywhere learned their lesson.