Sunday, July 31, 2011


By John Elrod II

Faced with the immediacy of your mortality, your mind scrambles, and you begin clucking maniacally. Sinclair struggles to process just what’s going on.

“Hey, what kind of jive are you trying to pull over?” he inquires, while taking a step back.

While continuing to cluck, you get your wits back about you and decide to use his confusion to your advantage. You stand from your crouched position and proceed to flap your arms while prancing around the room. Funnily enough, this isn’t much removed from your earlier dancing technique. The puzzled look on Sinclair’s face persists.

“Now, you quit this baloney, right now, you hear? You’re no hoofer, and you never will be!” Sinclair’s aggravation is only getting worse. You push the envelope further.

“Come on, Clive, don’t be such a bluenose. Your mother was into it.” This seems to strike a nerve.

“Horsefeathers! Leave my mother out of this. I’ll bump you off; I’m serious.” Sinclair’s sincerity seems scarce. Perhaps he isn’t the killer you’ve thought him to be.

From behind him comes a startled “Clive—” Sinclair pivots and pulls the trigger before thinking. He actually has shot his mother now. The fun, if it can be described as such, stands still for what feels like several tocks of the old ticker. Clive hot-foots it to his mother’s side, but it’s no use; he’s killed her.

He turns his attention back to you, “This is your doing!”

You lay an egg.

“Whoa, now, Clive, cool your hot box, pal.” You play the only card you have. “Look, I think she’s still alive!”

With his attention turned back to her, you scram out of there, with gunshots ringing out in your dust. In your haste, you make the tactical mistake of fleeing down a dead-end hallway. As you try to think of your next move, Sinclair catches up to you, cornering you near a window.

“What do you think you’re going to do now, copper? We’re six stories up, and you know chickens can’t fly.” His eyes are crazed over.

What does he know? Just a few days ago, you were a cop who regularly worked with the Globetrotters. Earlier today, you took on a job as a fetishized mascot, and you danced provocatively with an old woman whom you seriously planned on showering with. Honestly, your actions have gone against the logical at every turn. Why should this be the time you act rationally? He says chickens can’t fly? Well, there’s only one irrational reply that you could possibly provide him with.

“Nerts to that!” You yell, rushing the window and leaping through it. “This chicken can fly!”

You quickly realize the flaw in your thought process: you are, indeed, not actually a chicken, and you are now going to plummet to your untimely demise. Your final thought can only turn to the legacy you will have left behind.

The newsies are going to have a field day with this. QUITE THE FOUL UP: BALLED UP COPPER FALLS FLAT, the headline will read.


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