“Step aside, Istenhegyi. It is time.”
“Wait! Wait!” I said. “But you already tithed. The Isaac kid. Why do you need another?”
The monster snake chicken reared back its head as if it suddenly noticed me and hissed. Golden globs of spit rained down on me. They stung as they hit my skin. She shushed it and brushed down its feathers.
“I needed two tributes this month. My son started up a new law firm in New York. To ensure his success, I needed Isaac. And then my granddaughter went into labor. Those bastard doctors in Chicago butchered her.” She stroked the monster snake chicken. “She would’ve died and left the baby motherless if my love hadn’t interceded. Now move aside. It is time for my love to take his tribute.”
Two favors. Two tributes. My brain sizzled with an idea. But could I do it?
Do you really have a choice, kiddo?
I stood my ground. “Is it him you need? Him, specifically?”
“What do you mean?”
I looked back at Bear. He was awake. A part of me hating him for that.
“Bear, I’m so suh-suh…” my brain fizzed out and all I could do is stutter.
I put the muzzle up to his head.
He nodded and winked with his one good eye.
“Happy Birthday, Jake.”
There was a horrible explosion and I felt my arm go numb.
Harleaux screamed. “What have you done?” She reached out for me with her manicured claws. I grabbed her and held her tight. “What have you done!?!?!”
The flock tightened around their King as its eyes began to glow a honey yellow gold. There was a low, hungry cawing generating from the floor. The Loa raised its head to full staff and waved it back and forth as golden slobber dripped off its beak.
“Time for the tribute, honey.”
I pushed her toward the flock. She fell to her knees.
I ran and didn’t look back as the screaming started.
***
“This is no way to spend a birthday.”
My leg is bleeding from where some bastard chicken clawed me. The hellish noise outside the shed is grating on my nerves. The smell drives them crazy. It is all beaks and spurs, punching against the pathetic excuse of a door in a frenzied pandemonium. The collapsing door pushes me against the crate, breaking the jars inside. The smell of grain alcohol scorches my nostrils as it splashes down my back. CHRIST! IT BURNS! I grit my teeth against the fiery streaks of pain as the moonshine floods into the scratches and gouges in my skin. Of course. Why not? I’m already covered in mud, shit and the blood of my best friend. What’s a little moonshine?
“Go home and roost, damn you!” I yell as I kick at the door. The frame shudders and threatens to splinter. It makes them caw even louder.
It’s useless. Not just my screams at frenzied chickens determined as all hell to get at me, but all of it is useless. My coming down here, play acting like a private eye, trying to save Bear…useless, completely stupidly useless.
I kick the door again and listen to the ruckus crank up to another notch. It doesn’t help anything, I know, but kicking is more macho than crying.
It is so unfair. All Bear wanted was to live the lives of all those stupid heroes he read in his favorite pulp magazines. Impossible men tackling and winning against impossible odds. Tough guys in fedoras who always got the girl. Is that too much to ask?
I feel the rage boil deep inside my gut. Bear didn’t deserve this. He was just doing his job. I didn’t deserve this. It’s my birthday, damn it! In a perfect world, we would be roaring drunk, with beautiful girls in our laps, and sitting down to a nice dinner of fried chicken and-
An idea forms in my brain. A smile a bit too big for sanity’s sake breaks across my face. I pat my pocket and trace the hard rectangle case. The smell of moonshine cinches my plan. “You and me, Bear. We’re burning this damn town down.”
***
I kick open the door. In my hand, I hold a bottle of moonshine. A tuft of my ripped shirt pokes out of the top like a stained feather.
I flick my lighter and set the cloth on fire. The horde of chickens goes silent. Maybe the fire is what holds their attention but I think it is the sight of me, shirtless, covered in blood and shit, with the wide, toothy smile of a man pushed one step too damn far.
I lob the first fireball straight into the throng. They scatter in all directions.
I take a step outside the shack, holding high two more flaming bottles of moonshine. “WHO IS READY FOR ANOTHER?!?!”
The chickens stop, their heads flop to the side. One of the cockier chickens steps forward.
“Bwaaack?”
”WE HAVE A WINNER!” I yell and throw one of the bottles at it. The bottle smashes against its head.
With an eardrum shattering death shriek, it runs blindly, bashing into other chickens and catching them alight. I toss the second bottle at another one and it finishes the job for me. In no time, the whole damn dirty dozen are cooked ducks. Well, chickens. Whatever.
Now for phase two of Plan Big Chicken Dinner.
I drag six of the cases out of the shack and place them strategically around the barn. I close and bar the door. The wood is dry and old. It won’t take much to bring this place down. Opening up a case, I throw bottles against the outside, splashing moonshine on the walls. There is thumping from inside. Some of the chickens that escaped phase one are slamming against the door trying to escape. Ha! Stupid birds. Now you’re trapped inside with your voodoo priestess bitch and your freak chicken snake god and…and…damn…
My heart sinks as I realize what else is left behind in the barn.
Kisceme.
Dammit.
First, my best friend and now….my car?
DAMMIT!
I flip open my Zippo, pull out my handkerchief, light it, and toss the flaming cloth on the alcohol soaked door. “This is now officially the worst birthday I have ever had.”
***
I watch the fire consume the barn. The heat gives me sunburn.
The walls fall first and the ceiling follows. Everything inside is crushed or burnt. By morning, there will be nothing left of the bodies but ashes and bones. No evidence to support my story. For the best, I suppose. I don’t think the local police have a form for Death by Voodoo. Even in Louisiana.
I wish I had a cigarette. I don’t smoke. It just seems really appropriate. The bloodied hero after defeating his archenemy, lighting up a cigarette as he walked away, alone, into the sunset. It’s exactly the way the pulp stories always ended. I think Bear would have liked that.
While considering my options of finding a cab that would take me back to town half naked, bloodied and covered in shit, a horrible croaking scream rips from the sky. I look up to see Harleaux’s monster snake chicken king shoot up, then crash down to earth a few feet away from me. It caws deeply as it pulls itself up off the ground. It has tripled in size and now stands a foot taller than me as if my blasphemy made it blossom. Cocking its head to the side, it stares at me with hate filled golden eyes and scratches the ground with thick, calloused talons. Yellow pus drips from its fang-filled beak. Fangs? When did it grow teeth? Christ. The venom dripping from its mouth pools on the ground and sizzles, turning the dirt into a black ichor. Holy Mother….when did that happen?!?
“KER-CAWWWWWW!” It bellows as it lurches for me.
“Good chicken,” I say as I reach for the .38 I keep stashed my belt. Bear always warned me against doing that. “More dumbasses lose their balls that way,” he said but when you have to shred your shirt into strips to make firebombs, some safety procedures are sacrificed.
I take a step backwards. “Nice chicken.”
It snarls and spits at me.
Wait. Did a chicken just snarl at me? Can chickens do that without lips?
I am amazed at where my mind goes when faced with certain, grisly death.
Focus, Jake!
A wall in the altar room falls inwards. The chicken thing stumbles an
d shakes its head, spraying the acid. A drop lands on my shoulder and my skin bubbles. I grit my teeth against the pain and use both hands to aim my gun. There is one bullet left. Will this even work? I remember what happened with Harleaux. How effective is a gun against a god?
It ker-caws deeply and lowers its head like a bull getting ready to charge.
“Stop….er, chicken.”
The chicken loa rears back and stares down at me. It slowly lifts up a leg, pulls up its thick talons, and readies to kick. A kick that will surely knock my head off my shoulders if it makes contact.
A wall of the barn slumps inward and the bird shrieks in pain.
Oh-ho! Pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
“Your place of power… as it falls, you fall?” The fire is eating away the walls. Soon, nothing will remain of the place. “That’s it, right? If this place burns to nothing, you are nothing. Is that it? Is that all you got…chicken?”
Shaking its head, it splatters more of the golden acid on the ground. It rears back screaming, “KER-CAWWWW!” and charges at me.
I aim straight for its chest and pulled the trigger.
The bullet rips through its chest, exploding its heart.
That was my last bullet.
It freezes in its tracks, as if confused, not believing what was happening.
I held my breath, praying.
Die, you stupid bird, DIE!
“kkker…kaaa…” It screeches feebly as it plops over in the dirt, dead. I stand there trying to think up something witty. All those pulp heroes had something clever to say as they stood over their archenemies. It was the calling card of the gritty hero.
But I’m not a hero. I’m a guy who had the great fortune of renting a space to Barrington Gunn, Private Investigator, a hero who let me tag along on adventures and make pretend I was his Watson.
But, what would that guy say?
Thinking for half a second, a grin slides over my face.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” I kick dirt in the monster’s face and sneer, “To get its ass kicked. That’s why.”
I bet it would have sounded better with a cigarette.
End
You have just finished reading
Jake Istenhegyi, the Accidental Detective in:
A CHICK, A DICK AND A WITCH WALK INTO A BARN…
by Nikki Nelson-Hicks
This story is part of the Single Shots Signature Series.
Edited by Tommy Hancock
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
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Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Cover Art, Design, and Logos by Jeff Hayes
E-book Design by Russ Anderson
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