Saturday, July 30, 2011


By Rashelle Workman

You’re on your knees in a chicken suit with a gun pointed at your head. In this type of situation, there’s only one thing to do. 

Breathe heavily. 

You’ve seen the Lamaze techniques work for childbirth; maybe it’ll get you out of this situation as well. Plus, if you act like you’re trying to squeeze a chicken egg out your body, Clive might freak and leave. 
“Ooooh. Ooooh. Eeen,” you begin.

“What the hell are you doing?” By the sound of his voice, you can tell he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shoot.
You look into his anger-filled eyes and continue—louder. “Ooooh. Oooooooh. Eeeeeen.” All the deep breathing is starting to make you dizzy. The room smells of mentholatum and Pepto Bismol: A terrible combination, but there’s no way you can stop now. 

Instead you grab your stomach and hunch over, the big beak of the chicken suit smacking the floor, rattling your insides. A shock of pain zings through your body. 

A contraction, you wonder. 

“Stop that, you crazy . . . chicken!” By the quiver of his lips, you know he’s on the verge of serious laughter. 

This may work, you think.

You shake your head. “Oh. Ah. Ohhhhhhh.” Another sharp pain starts at your belly button and ripples along both sides of your stomach toward your back. “Owwwwww,” you yell. 

“I mean it—” Clive begins, but breaks off with laughter. 

You shake your head again. “No, man! I think I’m actually going to pop a chicken egg right out of me. For. Real!” You try to pull the large chicken head off, but it’s stuck. Panting, you let out another cry.
“You do realize you aren’t really a chicken, right?” The guy asks in between guffaws. 
It just felt right. You start to peck at the floor, trying to pick up the dust bunnies with your sharp beak. “Bu. Bu. Bu. Bacaw!”

The pain inside hurts so badly, it’s mind-numbing. There’s a burning, ripping and tearing . . . 

Plop. A large brown chicken egg lands on the floor behind you.

You look up. Clive’s got to be impressed with the remarkable feat you’ve achieved.

But the look on his face is anything but impressed. Horror’s a more suitable word. 

“Bacaw . . .” you try.

Clive steps back, gun shaking and: POW! The gun goes off, smoke swirling from the end. 

Sticky red trickles into your eyes. As the room, Clive and the giggling old lady get fuzzy and your world goes black, you think, But who’ll take care of my chick?