Agoraphobia

Day 59 (Rooster)

One day, I was helping Uncle Peter feed the hogs. The air was still and sultry, the horizon dusky. It was a hot July day; mild spring weather had long since disappeared.

I wiped my sweaty brow and glanced at the harsh, late-summer sun. "When will Fall be here?" I wined to Uncle Peter.

"Soon enough."

"That's not soon enough."

While Uncle Peter was on the other side of the hog pen, one of our roosters started to act hostile toward me. It was orange and brown with a black tail. Its bobbling head was adorned with a bright red comb and wattle. The rooster crowed, pawing at the dirt. It fluffed its wings out in an aggressive "come at me, bro" posture.

My first instinct was to run, but I was worried that would set a bad precedent. I decided the situation called for bravado. I stood at my full height and squared my shoulders. "I'm not afraid of you," I sneered. "Nor will—"

With phenomenal speed, the rooster pounced on my head. Its talons raked my hair as I screamed hysterically. Uncle Peter saw this, but had to circumvent the hog pen to reach me. Meanwhile, the rooster was pecking my face. I pulled him off and threw him. The rooster spun around, fluffed out his wings, and jumped on me again. By then, Uncle Peter had closed the distance. He grabbed the rooster and threw it. The rotten thing flopped up and headed right back towards me. Uncle Peter kicked it hard. It tumbled away, but came right back. This time, Uncle Peter held nothing back. He kicked the beast so hard, it went spiraling through the air like a football. The rooster hit the side of Peter's truck with a resonating bang and dropped to the ground.

The rooster was stunned, laying on its side and breathing hard. Uncle Peter didn't wait for it to recover. He marched over and planted his heel on the bird's head. The rooster struggled as Uncle Peter shifted his full weight onto that foot and repeatedly twisted his heel back and forth. By the time Uncle Peter lifted his foot, the rooster's head had become a gory, flat mess. Although the rooster was practically headless, its body lived on. The "zombie" rooster righted itself, took several steps toward me, then fell over. It convulsed for a minute before going still.

Before the apocalypse, I'd have totally freaked at a situation like that. But my experiences being what they were, it was just another day in the life of Samber Valentoni.

Uncle Peter checked me for cuts and scratches. I had none. Only my long, red hair suffered any serious damage.

Satisfied I was fine, Uncle Peter snatched up the dead rooster and took it to the garage where Great-Uncle Ellis butchered it. Later, it was cooked by Nichole and served at dinner. I didn't have any.

[How many roosters do you think you could take on in a fight? What would be your limit and why?]

[Also please remember to vote for this chapter.]