Fox Run Farm

Mac stood staring at the brood of chickens, his face devoid of expression. The birds were neatly grouped in a v formation, with one large black hen standing in front. Behind them, facing the opposite direction, was a rooster. The cockerel sat solemn and silent, surrounded by patches of his own red feathers.

One might think the rooster would be representing the flock. After all, that's the way it normally is, right? Whether it be in children's books, cartoons, or real life. In most places, roosters ordinarily "rule the roost," so to speak. Well, this farm wasn't like most places, and it sure as shit wasn't ordinary.

"Betty," said Mac to the large black hen. "Would you care to elaborate on what happened?"

The hen took a step forward, her head jerking and bobbing erratically. "Mr. Mackay," began the chicken.

"It's just Mac," he interrupted.

"Very well," she replied. "Mac." The large bird strutted in front of the smaller white and brown hens. "There's nothing the matter any longer. It's all been sorted out," said Betty. With her statement came a cascade of giggling from the other chickens. The rooster, with larges patches of bald spots all over his body, remained silent.

Mac pointed to the rooster. "Why does Dexter look like he squared off with badger?"

Dexter looked almost as rough as when Mac first met him. The rooster had come to the farm after local law enforcement shut down a cockfighting ring. Dex was the only bird that made it out of the operation alive. That left scars you could see and some that you couldn't

To put it bluntly, Dexter, the rooster, looked like he just had his ass handed to him. Mac was starting to piece it together but wanted to hear everyone out all the same. He nodded towards the pouting rooster. "Did you and Dex get in a fight?" he asked Betty.

"Fight is a strong word," answered the hen. The laughter grew louder as Betty continued. "He got his drumsticks beat, his nuggets toasted, his wings fried!" At this point, the other hens were rolling on the ground in fits of laughter.

Dex stood up and turned in defense of himself, strutting angrily past the hysterical hens. "I beg of you, Dominus," said the rooster in a deep voice. "Hear my version of the events before you pass judgment upon me."

"Dex," Mac replied quietly. "I told you not to call me Dominus."

"Are you not my owner?" questioned the rooster.

"I-..." Mac paused, thinking hard on the question. According to the rest of the world, he owned every animal on the farm. But as it was established earlier, his farm was by no means like the rest of the world. Mac had always figured once they started acting like people, he couldn't very well treat the animals like he owned them. That would essentially be slavery. Wouldn't it?

"You know what, Dex? said Mac. "I don't know what the word is for my relationship with you or any other barnyard animal in this place, but one thing I am not is your Dominus."

Dex pointedly gave Betty a wide berth as he drew closer. "Will master suffice?"

"No!" snapped Mac. Not master, not dominus, or any of that old world 'my liege' shit. You're not a weird gladiator chicken anymore, so stop talking like fucking Spartacus!" he said, pointing at the rooster.

Mac calmed his voice and continued. "Look, Dex. I own this land, and you live on it. I don't see myself as anyone's owner or master. You, Betty, the hens, you're all more like my family. So please, talk to me like a friend, like-... like a brother."

The rooster paused, dramatically staring off into the distance. "The only brother's I've ever had, I was forced to slay in glorious combat."

"Mmhm," said Mac dryly. "Then I suppose it's quite fortunate that we don't engage in bloodsport on this farm."

"Speak for yourself, honey," said Betty, causing all the chickens to cheer and laugh louder.

"Very well, Mac," Dex said testily. "This dark feathered harlot dishonorably blindsided me, and then the rest of these traitorous bitches swarmed me." The rooster bowed his head. "Had you not come when you did, the attack would have claimed my life."

Betty snorted at Dex's words, and the hens' laughing quickly turned into jeering. "That's bullshit," said Betty, calmly swaggering forward. Dex startled as she strutted past. The rooster seemed to be terrified of the large hen.

"Dexus Maximus over here has been treating every lady in this coop like sex slaves." The hen pointed an accusatory beak at Dex. "He's aggressive and even becomes violent if any of us decide we don't feel like mating."

The rooster stamped his foot in the dirt then kicked the particles behind him. "I am doing my job as the male and leader of this flock—Tis' my sworn duty. For my dominu-... uh, Mac."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "What's your sworn duty, Dexter?"

"Why, to do what's in my nature, of course! It's my sworn duty to mate with every one of these bitches, even if that means taking the whores at times they think are inconv-"

Dex never got the chance to finish his sentence. Before Mac could even lift a finger to stop it, Betty was in full charge, yelling all the while. "Yaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!" the chicken bellowed to the raucous encouragement of the other hens.

Dexter had a split second to respond, but retirement from the arena had left his reflexes slow. The giant hen slammed her body into his, and the rooster went beak over tailfeathers multiple times.

"Yeah! Who's the bitch now, Chantecler?" hollered Betty, doing a rope-a-dope in the dirt. "Get up and let me show you my original recipe for an extra crispy ass-whuppin'!"

Mac had stopped questioning the rules of this place. He was already going insane, so why speed up the process trying to make sense of it. Still, he wondered where the hen had learned such scathing smack talk. Mac stepped forward to break up the fight. "Betty, back off!"

Betty spun towards Mac, lowering her head. "What?! Are you taking his side?" she hissed. The other hens snapped their heads in his direction, a few of them narrowing their eyes suspiciously. They seem more like humans every day, he thought.

Mac held up his hands defensively. "No, Betty. I'm not taking anyone's side." He lowered his hands and stepped cautiously in between the two birds. "I try really fucking hard to avoid farm politics and only intervene when I absolutely have to." He lowered himself down to a knee to get on the hens level.

"I do not condone the way Dexter treats you and the other ladies, and I believe I am partly to blame for his horrible behavior."

The hen's all gasped. "How could you be responsible for that cock's terrible treatment of us?" demanded Betty. Mac hesitated, thinking carefully on his next words, and just as he was about to speak them, something moved in the corner of his eye.

It was Mac's dog, Mikey, running over to see what the commotion was. Mikey sprinted up to Mac and protectively circled him while aggressively barking. Mac had never seen the dog like this, with his ears pinned back, baring his teeth. "Mikey, Chillout," said Mac, scratching the dog's neck each time he circled past. "Everything is ok."

Mikey stopped behind Mac to protect his backside from the rooster. "It doesn't look ok," said the dog, a low growl still emitting from his throat. "Everything looks very not ok, and— well, I'm not ok with things being not ok... I think?"

Mac calmly turned around and grabbed Mikey's collar, scratching the dog behind the ears as he did so. "Buddy, if I'm confused by what you're saying, then I know you're confused too. I swear to you that I'm perfectly fine."

Mikey plopped his hindquarters on the ground, craning his neck around to look at Mac with his body still facing the rooster. "Then why do all the chickens look so angry?" Mikey wasn't the most intelligent animal on the farm, but he was quite observant of body language. These creatures may have behaved like people, but their animalistic instincts never waned, and that was just one more thought atop a confusing pile of them, a heap of bizarre shit that sat squarely in the center of his life, dominating every aspect of it.

Mac had lived on this farm for a year now, and he was still unsure of his place in it. On paper and according to the rest of the world, he was the rightful owner of 343 Fox Run Rd, Wardsboro, Vermont. He paid the bank for the foreclosed property. In return for his payment, the bank gave him a piece of paper saying Arthur G. Mackay had lawfully purchased the aforementioned property, and therefore, it was his.

But there was the rub. The papers, deeds, banks, and overall legality of the purchase didn't mean a thing. Especially not while Mac was actively trying to mediate a dispute between a clutch of angry oppressed hens and a sexually aggressive rooster.

"You were saying?" said Betty, exasperated.

Mac held up an index finger. "Betty, I need one minute, ok?"

"You can't just drop a bomb like that on us and then leave us hanging." spat the chicken.

"I swear that I will take care of this problem, but it kind of ties into the overarching issue of this place. If you give me a few moments, I'll be able to kill two bir-," Mac stopped midsentence, having forgotten who he was speaking to. "I'll be able to take care of two problems at the same time, Betty."

Mac slowly got back up to a knee. "In the meantime, I'm removing Dexter from the coop." Betty and the other hens cheered their approval.

"Treachery!" roared Dexter. "I was simply doing what's in my nature!"

"That's the thing, Dex. There is nothing natural about this place, and that's what all of us here need to discuss." Mac turned to the dog, still faithfully protecting him from the non-existent threat. "Mikey, Can I get a favor from you?" asked Mac.

"Vanilla," Mikey instantly replied. "No! Bacon!" he quickly corrected.

Mac sighed. "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey!" he said, snapping his fingers in time with his words. "Eyes and ears, buddy." The canine finally turned all the way around. "I said favor. I need a favor from you," said Mac

"Oh," replied Mikey, lowering his head bashfully.

Mac leaned in close to make sure he kept the dog's undivided attention. "I need you to gather all the animals from the fields and tell them to meet me behind the house. I'll make sure all the gates and pens are open."

"Ok! Gather all the animals!" Mikey repeated, his nubby tail wagging quickly. He took off like a bullet only to come to a skidding halt a few feet away, sending up a cloud of dust. "Uhm, Mac? What about Larry? You told me not to go near him."

"I'll get Larry. You get everyone else."

Mac watched Mikey race off as he walked towards Larry's pen. He only intended to make a half-hearted effort with llama because he knew how the conversation would ultimately end. Mac stopped at the shed where he stored both the chicken and llama feed. Mac opened the door, poked his head inside, and reached for the rolled-up umbrella leaning against the shed wall.

Even with the velcro strips holding the umbrella shut, Mac could see the stains on the polyester fabric. Like any other llama, when Larry didn't like something, he spat on it. Specifically, in Larry's case, he consistently spat on the man because he viewed him as a "race traitor." Mac, however, continued to give Larry the benefit of the doubt due to the circumstances of his upbringing.

The llama was, after all, born on a white nationalist compound and knew nothing beyond hateful rhetoric, armor-piercing rounds, and high-grade explosives. Anyone that disagreed with Larry's racist beliefs got the spit. Considering that Mac was strongly opposed to the llama's bigoted viewpoints, he got spit on all the time. It took him nearly a month to develop countermeasures to oppose Larry's disgusting natural defenses, but Mac felt that his system had become a reliable one.

Mac stopped at a small wooden box placed just outside of the llama enclosure. The box wasn't pretty or even well made, for that matter, but it served its purpose. Mac had haphazardly nailed it together and placed it next to Larry's pen to store the rest of his "spit defenses." He lifted the lid, reached in, and pulled out the rest of his equipment. Mac donned the soft plastic goggles, still caked with flecks of green bile, and placed them over his eyes. He took out the black bandana from the box's bottom and wrapped it around his face like a stagecoach robber.

Mac turned towards the pen and saw Larry approaching him at full gallop. The llama's jaw moved furiously in a circular motion, no doubt working up ammo from one of the animal's three stomach compartments. Gross thought Mac as he deployed his rainbow pattern spit shield. "Alright, Larry," he said with a sigh. "Let's do this."