Sneak Peak; Karmageddon Chicken-style

Karmajuana In The Chicken Coop

ABB +93 (93 days After The Big Bangs)

“Let me ask you this. What’s your passion? Because I don’t feel you are passionate about this job.”

Curt Camfield cursed under his breath. The chicken gizzards, guts or whatever you called the inside of a chicken was piling up in the pail beside him. Three months ago, before the bombs hit, he had been a simple financial officer, living a comfortable life in a mid-level bank in a mid-level town in mid-level mediocrity. 

Chester Cloverfield, the semi-geriatric man currently standing across from him on the slaughtering table was waiting for his answer. In one hand he held the carcass of another headless, featherless chicken, the other a butcher knife. He held it more for effect than for efficiency as all he did was bring the headless chickens to Curt from the killing room.

Chester reminded Curt of his former district manager, who asked him the same question four months earlier, one month before the shit really hit the fan, six days before the financial markets collapsed and all the money in all the vaults was efficiently taken away by armed, mindless men in armored semi-sentient cars.

His former manager ordered Curt to calmly reassure those who cared too much about their money that their deposit was insured by the federal government, even if it wasn’t there. That was the last he ever heard from the district manager.

As Curt dutifully repeated those words to clients he never met, he had felt a gnawing unease in that part of the brain he assumed was his intuition. Soon someone in the growing mob would stop being vocal and start being physical. Especially when one of them voiced the suspicion Curt shared; there was no more federalized Bank of Canada, much less a working government able to guarantee their deposits. His promise was worth no more than the paper it wasn’t written on.

At that life-evaluating moment, as he looked over many of his employer’s most valued and valuable clients, he reconsidered that same question. What was his passion? Was he truly that passionate about this job he was willing to risk his life over someone else’s money? Wasn’t that his superior’s job, the guy who disappeared three days earlier, with a simple ‘Gone fishing’ email, leaving Curt the one with the most seniority in the branch? Was he passionate enough about this job he was willing to defend the honor and empty words and coffers of his employer?

Hell, no.

So he led the justified nervous mob into the back and pointed to the vault’s open door. They surged in, victims of cinematic shortcuts, envisioning shelves stacked with dollar bills. He relied that they would be so anxious to get their life savings they'd forget they needed Curt for more than directions to the vault. As the last pushed their way in and the first realized they had no combinations to the vault’s many empty safes, Curt was out the door faster than the stock market crash. He ran to his car, thankful that in the banking industry one only made clients, not friends. None of his clients knew where he lived. Still he raced home, told his wife and kids to get their shit in the RV and headed north as quickly as possible.

They drove two days before the back roads and gas ran out. The caravan they inadvertently joined on the highway led them here to Bluenose City, one of the many small city-enclaves survivors had established. It was here, Curt and his family found themselves new-age pioneers, living a simple, non-currency based life. Now it was all about survival and showing your worth to the whole, not to the stock market.

But still it was the same crap. 

Chester Cloverfield was an original resident of Bluenose City, third generation. His grandparents settled here back when it was too far away from anything to be even marked for prosperity on a map. It was simply a small hamlet carved into the mountain which bore its name. The City moniker came after the bombs as the refugees arrived and felt safe enough to stop moving on. 

Chester thought he liked the isolation and solidarity of raising chickens. It took until the refugee influx to realize he enjoyed being a head rooster even more. As the community grew, he tapped into a buried urge to be a respected leader of the masses and it certainly helped his political aspirations that he owned the biggest chicken coop in the area.

He once confided to his flock weeks ago that he always dreamed of a moment such as this since he inherited the chicken farm. There was a decades-long stigma to the family farm due to the infamous, yet rarely discussed, Great Easter Chicken Massacre of ’08. But Chester felt he could break the Cloverfield Egg Farm curse with hard work, dedication to the people and by not dabbling in God’s creations, whispered to be the reason behind the massacre.   

It had all been worth it. Of course, it took an entire economic/social breakdown but he now controlled a main source of protein and eggs, for the betterment of the present and future of the entire Bluenose population. And to make matters worse to people like Curt Camfield, Chester was a socialist. He made people work for their food, in a very literal sense of the word. And this week, Curt was on chicken disemboweling duty, in return he would earn two dozen eggs and six quarter chicken chits to be used or bartered with at the Bluenose Co-op.  

“What’s my passion?” Curt repeated, holding up a handful of something that once resided in a chicken, “I can safely say it isn’t this.”

“Fair enough,” said Chester, “chicken guts aren’t for everyone. But how do you feel about contributing to the best interests of an entire community? Don’t look at it as blood and guts but as the new gold. And for that you need passion. Hard, unselfish work will get you everything you want. Look at me.”

“I was making it fine in the old world, to be honest. And I know you inherited this chicken farm from your father, who inherited it from his father. So I guess I put the question back to you; what is your passion? Because it can’t be here, in your father’s shadow. Every man grows up either wanting to be their father or better their father. And to be honest, as much as I’ve seen you bringing a lot of decapitated chickens in here, I have yet to see you actually putting your hand up one of their asses and pulling out any gold nuggets.”

Chester’s face fell. As did the chicken but at least the chicken made an expected thump on the table. Chester’s face simply whispered of hurt feelings which immediately made Curt feel like an asshole. He knew what the guy was doing; he did it to his kids and wife as well on a daily basis. Chester was simply urging him to keep dreaming, to not give up on life. 

“So what happened back in ‘O-eight?” Curt asked, changing the subject. He picked up the dead chicken and thrust a hand inside, blocking out the thoughts of what he felt inside the chicken carcass.

“The Massacre?” asked Chester. “Not too many people round here like talking about that.”

“I noticed,” said Curt, “sounds like it was a big deal.”

“Massacres usually are,” admonished Chester, “that’s why it’s called a massacre. You’re not too bright for a big city boy, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say big city, more small to medium city,” answered Curt, ignoring the insult  and avoiding thinking of what he was holding while glancing into the near overflowing gut pail beside him.

Chester sat on a disemboweling stool on the other side of Curt’s workbench. He picked at some dried blood, guts and feather remnants which had embedded themselves into the bench over the years.

He took a deep breath before starting his story.  

“My pappy had dreams. He was a bit of a back shed scientist,” he started, “when he wasn’t out here tending to the chickens he was in his work shed, tinkering. That was his passion. One day he read that book Frankenstein and got it into his head he could create the perfect chicken. So he started cross-breeding. Did you know when Frankenstein was written, cross-breeding was all the rage back then? It was like, the royal hobby among the elite. That’s where the Westminster Dog Show came from; from royals wanting to show their latest creations, to show their god-like ability to create new life. Anyways, Dad got the idea he would do the same for chickens.”

Curt said nothing, grateful for the break. He peeled off his gloves, grabbed his water bottle and watched Chester pick at the table. 

“So he created this chicken/ostrich thing,” continued Chester, “Truthfully it was awful to look at but not to Pappy. Like, serious nightmares kind of thing. But he was ecstatic. And this chicken thing could lay eggs like nobody’s business, the size of softballs, yolk as sweet as a lover’s kiss. So Pappy finally takes it down to the 4-H club, and there the shit really hit the fan. Old Tom Armstrong starts it, yelling at him that he’s messing with God, sacrilege and the like. And none of the other farmers cared for the idea of a chicken which could lay a dozen eggs in one shell and had two vaginas.”

“Bad for business,” added Curt, who then tried to visualize a chicken with two vaginas and decided against it.

Chester nodded. “So he thinks a way to win over the locals is to donate some of his new eggs to the church’s annual Easter Egg hunt, a sort of ‘apology defense for messing in Creationism’ thing. He goes down there and donates these beautifully painted giant eggs my mom and sis did up. He even brings down the chicken-ostrich thing to show the locals there is nothing to fear. Offers free rides on it to the little ones.”

“Perfectly logical. What kid wouldn’t want to ride a giant monster chicken?”

“Then Old Tom came and shot my pappy. The chicken-thing goes berserk, kills Old Tom and a couple of other men. Seven people in all.”

“Wow, that’s awful.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t all bad - Tom and his friends were real racist bastards. Three were government inspectors, up for a surprise inspection. But still the damage was done. Pappy was dead. His chicken ran into the woods and disappeared.”    

“Wait,” said Curt, brow creasing. “So are you saying out there is a giant mutant chicken in these mountains?”

“Well it was many years ago. It’s hopefully dead by now.”

“And nobody has seen it since?” asked Curt, fascinated. He couldn’t wait to tell this story to Courtney.

“Oh sure, lots of people. But you know how it goes - someone says they saw a giant monster chicken and people just make that little circley motion on the side of their head and start walking the other way. But until her dying day, Mom always left a large pile of grain out near Pappy’s shed. She made me swear that I would continue to put out the grain when she passed.”

“And did you?”

“Hell, no.” Chester scoffed and thumped the workbench with the butcher knife. “Why would I want a monster chicken around the place? Anyways, enough talk. We got work to do. I’ll go get you another chicken. Regular-size.”

He slipped off his stool and went back into the killing room.

Curt finished his water. He put the cup back on the window sill with the others. In his mind thoughts of the Giant Monster Chicken of Bluenose Mountain sprouted the seeds of a new passion.

Actual picture of the Giant Monster Chicken of Bluenose Mountain
in writer's living room