Chapter 2: Just Your Average Day at the Farm WIP
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Work in progress draft of A Beast Tamers Crazy Chicken by Leimrat. Originally posted on Leimrat.blogspot.com. Please do not repost.
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“Manipulation successful.”
Tess pumped her fist. Kicking her feet off the dashboard, she tucked her phone away and shifted the van into gear, pulling out onto the road.
From the back seat, Grant barked out more orders. “Good job, Tess. Now take us to the informant’s residence—I’ve got some questions for that man.”
*SSKKKRRRRRT!*
---
“Huh?”
The screech of tires yanked me back from fawning over Cluckers. I caught sight of the van peeling away outside and remembered—
“Oh yeah! The welcome package!”
I cracked open the front door, keeping a hand on Cluckers just in case. Dale hates it when she escapes. Says it’s like she’s magnetically attracted to his washing line.
I eyed Cluckers perched on my shoulder. She was ‘innocently’ looking around—definitely planning an escape route.
Casually glancing toward Dale’s house down the road, I spotted the same van pulling up there too.
“I didn’t know he played Task Dungeon?” I muttered, picking up the squashed package and ignoring the bill marked urgent. “Better not be something breakable.”
I walked around to the right side of the house, making sure to close the door while prying at the taped lid with my thumb.
I opened the gate to the back field and took in the view.
...
“I wish I could buy that land and cut it down. Getting rid of those wild beasts would be a dream. Poor Essie sh*ts herself every time a branch falls—even from all the way across the field.”
Opposite the field was the woods, which wrapped around the left side, too. On the right, in front of the gate, sat the old barn.
I really had to get that roof fixed…
and the wall panels…
and the stables…
there were cracks in the foundations, too...
I needed a new barn.
I reflexively remembered a conversation with Dad about how he’d helped his dad build it way back when Grandpa passed the farm down.
“No, I gotta get it all fixed. I—”
“Ouch!”
Cluckers pecked me on the head, snapping me out of my mood.
She’s been doing that every time I start thinking about the expenses lately. Maybe she is psychic.
“MOOOoooo!”
“See what you’ve done now!? You’ve startled Essie! I can’t even open a stupid box without something going wrong.”
I dashed over to her pen—the one separate from the other cows—easily identified by its velvet curtains and hardwood door. She liked her privacy.
Setting the welcome package aside, I cracked the door open and peeled back the curtain.
Essie was terrified of open spaces. Very skittish. She didn’t mix well with the younger meat cows that came and went like a revolving door. They came from—well—the big scary outside.
“Hey, old girl! Who wants their breakfast? Is it you? Do you want your breakfast, little Miss Scaredy-Cow?” I cooed, trying to calm her down.
“MOoOOo!!”
Eyes wide, she panicked at the sight of a demon entering her private domicile! With a wide stance, she backed up into her beanbag corner, snorting and grunting heavily.
—Yes, ‘beanbag corner’. Don’t ask.
She couldn’t talk, but her whole vibe screamed:
‘Y-you’ve got something on your shoulder!!
Do you see what’s on your shoulder?!’
“Oh! Right. Cluckers, have you fed the rest of the nut house?”
She tilted her head and dramatically avoided eye contact, facing away from me like a guilty toddler.
Oh no.
“Whatever. I don’t care. Today you get a pass. Just go check in on them. I’m sure they’re up to something. Half of them are your daughters, after all.”
‘What has she done now?’
Essie couldn’t eat around company, and I needed to get everything done before I could mess with the new game mode.
“Better make this quick, then.”
Picking Cluckers up with both hands, I gently (but reluctantly) tossed her out of Essie’s stable. A decision I was sure to regret.
“Hey! Hey! Come on, girl, it’s fine! The demon spawn is gone! See?”
I twirled, letting Essie inspect me from the comfort of her panic corner.
Sighing, I slowly approached her and managed a few head pats before she knocked me over and bolted to the other side of the stable. She checked the door like she was making sure it was locked. I swear she’d draw the curtains herself if she had hands.
I groaned, stretching my shoulder.
“All right, girl. It’s milk time.”
I walked to her dresser—yes, she had a dresser, again, don’t ask—and pulled out her bag of high-quality grains from the cupboard under the mirror. I filled a giant pail with it, mixed with hay.
The “good stuff” cost so much I couldn’t afford to get another milk cow. She’d get jealous of Essie for sure—or worse...
Essie strutted over, eyeing the door cautiously, and sniffed her food like it was a glass of wine. Then she stared at me expectantly.
Shaking my head, I returned to the dresser and closed the cupboard. I pressed a big button on the side, and classical music began to play.
—Don’t. Ask.
*Ding!*
“Task Complete: Feed and Milk Essie. +200 EXP”
Once the fussy girl was done, I picked up the pail of milk and carried it to the stable opposite.
“Now, there’s the proper way to store milk.
Then there’s the way Dad taught me:
Filter it, slap a lid on it, shove it in the cold pantry, and don’t tell the health inspector.”
With that all done, I said goodbye to Essie, who was gently dancing—lost in the music, barely noticing me leave.
Right. Time to find the little mother Cluckers.
She was way too chill earlier when I asked about the other chickens. That meant one thing: they’d escaped.
Which meant I would have to turn on the searchlight, open the drawbridge, check the moat… check the second moat… fix the steel-rebar-reinforced concrete—if there was extensive damage again.
And I had to be careful around the barbed wire. I tore myself to hell last time crossing the spike-pit field.
“You can really tell which ones are her kids.”
At least I didn’t need to rearm the egg motion sensors. She’d stopped laying recently, thank the gods. Last time, I watched a dozen eggs hijack an egg carton, roll it across the moat like a boat, and escape. The hostage negotiator didn’t come back after that one.
I reached the building—twice the size of the barn—made of the hardest concrete, decked out with every feature a proper chicken prison needed.
I pulled out the code for the combination lock and passed by the warning signs:
“NO ESCAPE”
“INMATES MAY BE ARMED”
“ABSOLUTELY NO VISITATION”
“I don’t even know why I use this lock anymore. Cluckers cracked the code months ago. I swear she’s been teaching the girls to read.”
With a loud THUD, the vault locks disengaged.
Time for routine inspection.
Spike pits: check.
Barbed wire: check.
Moat #1: not drained—but there were feathers in it.
Moat #2: looked like they’d built a bridge out of old rebar.
Auto-turrets: che—wait. One’s been deactivated.
I finally made it to the coops in the center of the prison.
One… two… three, four.
Yep. Only the pacifists were here.
Might as well grab the eggs.
I unbolted the hatch to the egg deposits.
Then I heard a twig snap behind me.
“Shi—”
*CLANG*
*Thud*
...
...
“ZZzzzz.”
[][][]——[][][]
*KNOCK KNO–KNO–KNOCK KNOCK*
Dale opened his door to find a sweaty, dark-haired man with a clipboard. Behind him stood a grizzled older man combing his mustache, a short blonde woman saluting like he was a general, and a pink-haired girl bouncing on the spot with stars in her eyes.
“Good, you’re here. Is it done?” Dale asked.
Grant tensed. “Ahem, y-yes sir, bu—”
“Okay then. Thanks for the assistance. Goodbye.”
*SLAM*
...
Grant blinked at his team.
Marv shrugged. Tess nodded at the door.
“Um, uh…”
“I’m not wasting this chance to meet one of my heroes!” Lark bolted to the door, diary in hand. She took a huge breath and—
*KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-KNO-*
*SLAM!*
The door burst open. A giant bearded man stood there, built like a bull.
Lark gasped so hard she almost fainted.
“O-MY-GOOOD!! It’s YOU!! The Dale Pork-Belly!”
She launched into rapidfire fangirl mode.
“The Dale Pork-Belly! I’m such a big fan—I watched all your matches from the Sack League to the Big Bags! The Kart League was just a promotional thing for butchers and small businesses, but I watched all your matches there! They were awesome! In your first pro season, I was soooo in love with Emperor Porky and his ‘Roasting Punch’ ability—it was all like POW—KACHAA—BOOOM!!!”
She beamed at him, stars in her eyes.
…
“Are you done?” Dale asked flatly.
Lark glanced down at her notebook, her expression faltering slightly. Then her jaw set with purpose as she flipped to a fresh page.
“No! In your second season, when you won the Underdog Trophy by uppercutting your opponent’s beast just before Emperor Porky hit the ground—I fell in love immediately. Then you went on live TV and said the beast deserved it, but the other guy tried to sue! Speaking of suits, in your fourth season, when you beat Buster and Kally back-to-back in the Gauntlet rounds, I couldn’t believe it. It was amazing seeing your beat-up old hog spit-roast those two guys—”
“ENOUGH!” Dale barked, face reddening at the unintentional innuendo.
“Can I have your autograph? And the 20th Anniversary 1st Edition Special Shiny Award Pro Tamer Beast Combo Sticker Pack?” she asked, still riding the high.
“Yes, yes! Fine! Whatever! Is that it? What else do you guys want?” he pleaded, looking past her to the other three in desperation.
Grant, drenched in sweat, cleared his throat. He stared up at the ceiling like he was reading invisible cue cards.
“Yes, hello sir. I am Dr. Grant Yellow, and this is my team. This is Mr. Marvin, this is Mrs. Tessa, and this—this is Lark.” He gestured to each. “We’re from the ERC, here upon your request to visit Mr. Steven’s residence for an inspection—to assess whether he’s a candidate for the ERC Amateur League.”
He smiled weakly. “Nice to meet you. Please don’t question the van.”
Dale glanced at the van parked out front, eyeing the poorly drawn productivity app logo half-peeled off the side.
He gave Grant a flat look that said, “And?”
“Ahem! Yes! I—I have some questions if you don’t mind,” Grant stammered, fumbling in his jacket. “Firstly, could you please cooperate in aiding us with the identification of the avian-type beast known as—uh…”
He pulled a stack of cue cards from his pocket, only for them to scatter across the porch. “I’m sorry!”
Grant whimpered and bent down, but his trembling hands only made the cards slip through his fingers again and again.
From across the road, a voice rang out:
“CLUUUUCKEEEEEEEERS!!!”
Grant perked up. “AH! Yes! Th-that—*sniff*—Cluckers, I believe, was the name!”
He smiled proudly, still kneeling, as though that had been his plan all along.
Dale stared at them—at the clipboard, the mustache, the cue cards, the fangirl, the fake van.
These were the people the ERC had sent?
He sighed. “Well… you’d better come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Lark squealed—ironically—like a pig and sprinted into the house, snapping pictures like a tourist.
“Marv?” Tess said as they followed.
“Yeah?”
“Did you get a clip of all that?”
“Yep. We’ll be rid of ‘em within the week, surely.”
“Great,” she grinned, wearing that same unsettlingly confident smile.
[][][]——[][][]
‘It happened again.’
I sat tied up in my own kitchen, eyes locked on Cluckers and her delinquent children as they demolished my cereal stash. The welcome package lay torn to shreds in the corner.
I grunted, spitting out my gag and pressed the Emergency Dale Alarm hidden in my sleeve.
Cluckers sat smugly, one eye on my cereal, the other glaring straight at me. Her black beak glistened with milk—Essie’s milk. She was parked squarely on top of my Task Dungeon device like she knew exactly what it was worth.
‘So she did notice I got more dings than usual. I knew it was weird she didn’t try to steal it today.’
“Seriously, you absolute mother clucker. What the hell is wrong with you?!”
She made a wet, throaty click—“KKKRRZZZ”—and one of her daughters flapped over from the cupboards holding a dishcloth in her beak… which she shoved into my mouth.
‘I’m not getting that friendliness stat up anytime soon, am I?’
*Ding!*
“Friendliness degraded from F to F–!”
‘Oh no’
*Ding!*
“Emergency Task: Defend from Wild Beast Attack!”
‘OH NO’
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Work in progress draft of A Beast Tamers Crazy Chicken by Leimrat. Originally posted on Leimrat.blogspot.com. Please do not repost.
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