Roger turned onto the side street, the gas can he carried bouncing against his leg as he walked. He was pretty sure that the main road was on the other side of the hill in front of him, but the street looked shorter and the hill looked lower when he was in his car.
The sun was less hot then too.
And so he walked, gas can bouncing and his poor choice of shoes flip—flopping down this sleepy country road.
As Roger approached the top, he noticed something peeking over the hill from the other side: a small brown and red head with a pair of black, far-apart eyes. Roger kept walking, the head turning left and right, paying Roger no mind.
By now, he could see the fluffy, feathery body from which the head sprung.
“Afternoon, Miss Chicken,” Roger said, bending down, hands on his knees like a third-base coach.
The chicken did not reply, head still turning, body frozen.
“All right. Well, I’m going to go,” Roger told the chicken, and continued flip-flopping down the street.
At the bottom of the hill, Roger checked behind himself and saw the chicken, still in the same place, turning its head, left and right.
He took one more step before he heard it.
SQUAWK!
The chicken erupted like a car alarm, fluttering and squawking.
Roger had just enough time to think huh, before dozens and dozens of chickens emerged surrounding him.
He never saw which one pecked his Achilles tendon.