CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories by J. Posthumus (read after txt) 📕

you’ve got to get through the cows, horses, sheep and that fat pig, Jubbah Atehut, in the southwest corner.”

“The bug is right,” Qin Gon Juin honked. “They might not be as tough as Hartvar, but they’ve got the numbers.”

“Pishaw,” Brooster dismissed. “At the first sign of trouble, Jubbah will sink to the bottom of that mud pit so fast you’d think something in the ground swallowed him whole. Furkin Halfwit? That old draft horse will bolt away and take the rest of the nags with him. And I doubt, I say, I doubt Fat Ebbto and his flock will stop grazing on the grass long enough to notice anything. When’s the last time you saw him looking in any other direction than down?”

“What about Moopero Trots and his herd?” Ace asked.

“Those cows?” Brooster scoffed. “That bunch of black and white bovines are more of a menace to themselves than us. Remember that cow chip fight last summer? Not a one of them hit anything they shot at. Why, I doubt that bunch could hit the broad side of a barn from two feet away.”

The fowls exchanged glances. A few muttered asides to one another. They’d seen how easily Brooster had dispatched Hartvar. Could he do the same to the rest of the evil empire? As Brooster laid out his plan of attack, their confidence grew. By the time he finished, they were ready to follow him wherever he wanted to lead them.

Yet there was one last detail.

“What about the Dark Lord?” Durass asked.

“Once we’ve stampeded his minions, he’ll come running out to see what all the hubbub is about,” Brooster explained. “That’s when he walks right into our trap. All we need to close it up tight is to find someone fast enough to drop our final surprise on him. He can’t have enough time to see it coming and react.”

“I don’t think we have anyone that fast,” Aria pointed out.

“I am,” a Peregrine Falcon called out as it swooped in from above. “The name’s Las Hoon, and you won’t find anything faster than me.”

“You’re kind of scruffy-looking,” Aria scoffed. “What’s makes you think you’re so fast?”

“Scruffy-looking? Now see here, princess. You’re looking at the only falcon to make the Esskel Run in less than twelve parsecs.”

No one said a word.

“What?” the falcon demanded when the silence grew too long.

“What’s a parsec, son?” Brooster asked.

“It’s a…” Las paused. “Well, you see, a parsec is… Oh, for crying out loud, I’m faster than anything you’ve ever seen around this dump. Trust me.”

“You’d better be, son.” Brooster looked skeptical. “Because when the Dark Lord steps outside we’re only gonna have a second to drop all those eggs we’re fixin’ to steal back right on his pointy little head. Now, y’all gather around, so we can go over everything one more time. I don’t want any foul-ups. Otherwise, we’re all gonna be cooked gooses.”

“Hey,” Qin Gon Juin protested.

“Sorry, son, no offense intended. Now, gather around, folks, let’s make sure we got this figured out right.”

The sun rose above the barnyard like usual.

What was unusual was the absence of any crowing to herald in the new day. The quiet made everyone late getting up, at least among the four-legged and Old Farmer MacDonald.

Moopero Trots struggled to get his herd organized. As usual, no matter how hard he tried to aim them toward the entrance to the feeding trough, they wound up missing it. He never saw the flock of chickens hopping down from the roof of the barn. The attacking fowl landed right on target, talons digging with all their might painfully into Moopero’s, and every other cow’s back.

Mooing in terror, and vainly trying to shake off the attacking chickens, the herd stampeded for the far fence where Furkin Halfwit and the other plow horses were grazing their breakfast. No sooner had they registered the stampede than another threat materialized. Qin Gon Juin and the geese were closing in at full honk. Eyes flared wide in terror as Halfwit and his companions bolted again for the fence line, clearing it easily in a single leap as they ran away. The cows slammed through the fence as if it were tissue paper. Seconds later, they raced out of sight.

Dealing with the flock of sheep had fallen to the turkeys and ducks. But one single roaring gobble from Ace had sent the sheep scurrying after the horses and cows. Ace shrugged an apology to his fellow ducks who groused about missing out on the fun.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Jubbah chuckled as he took one look at what was happening and sank below the mud in his pigpen, exactly as Brooster had expected.

Probably hearing the growing chaos, MacDonald stormed out the back door. He was barefoot, only had his jeans and a T-shirt on and his suspenders dangled at the sides of his legs.

“What is going on out here?” he thundered, pausing on the top step.

Las swooped into action, racing toward a dangling rope directly over the Dark Lord’s head. Grasping it in his beak, he increased his speed, towing the rope behind him until it pulled taut and loosened the knot. The knot held closed a bag full of chicken, goose, duck and turkey eggs—and a small rock that Durass had mistaken for a goose egg—directly above the Dark Lord’s head.

The eggs all tumbled out, bombarding the Dark Lord. The rock made a satisfying thump when it made contact, and the barrage knocked the Dark Lord down the steps.

“Yeow!” he clutched at his left ankle when he reached the bottom. He tried to get back to his feet, but the injury and the slippery goo of cracked eggs on the steps above and the ground around him kept sending him painfully back to the ground. He looked around and saw every fowl closing in on him with angry looks upon their faces.

Every bird capable of flight took to the air and began dive-bombing runs on the Dark Lord, raining large white goblets of goo upon