Read Online Cutthroat Chicken by Elizabeth A. Reeves - Free Book Online Page A

hosted or seen where chicken has been cooked improperly?”
    The words stunned her listeners. Mouths dropped and gaped.
    “Twelve shows hosting a constant barrage of raw chicken, inedible chicken, wasted meat… Does any of that sound like grounds for revenge?”
    Abe Braun and Chef Aire-Craft leaned away from the fierceness of her expression and the reasonable sounding words.
    “Fred isn’t being unreasonable, at least, not in his eyes,” Goldie Locke said, her eyes earnest. “He understands that chickens are eaten. He’s eaten a few himself. He’s OK with that entire industry. What he can’t cope with is all the waste. How many chickens must die just to end up in a garbage can at the end of the day? And why is it that no chef seems to be able to cook chicken properly? How many shows and competitions end with raw chicken at the end of every poultry round?”
    Someone made a sound of protest.
    Goldie Locke sighed. “I said I can understand his frustration. I didn’t say that I agreed with it. This horror though,” she shook her head with an expression of naked repugnance. “This is beyond horrifying. He must be making an example of this show. He wants to make sure everyone understands and will never cook chicken improperly again.”
    Abe Braun opened his mouth, but no words came out. He had nothing he could say. He didn’t know how to react to something as unscripted as this. Chickens with thoughts, chickens with feelings, chickens with revenge in their hearts… these were new thoughts. Abe Braun didn’t do new thoughts. He did quips, puns, and educated soliloquy.
    Had the waste ever crossed his mind?
    Likely not.
    That was such a human failing. He was shocked at himself. He was stunned that he could almost see eye-to-eye with this killer. That he could… empathize with such a creature.
    Of all the day’s horrors, perhaps that was the most frightening.

Chapter Eleven
     
    The Viewer’s victory was imminent.
    His heart very nearly thumped with an excitement that was almost akin to joy as he stared down at his creation. He could practically taste a surge of pride rise through his bosom.
    Of course, neither his heart, nor his emotions permitted such a thing. He had to be content with nearly feeling his triumph. It had been many long years since his heart had even attempted beating. Excitement and adrenaline were a thing of his past.
    Victory, regardless, was his.
    Fred wanted to crow out his victory. He wanted to pump his wings and belt out with a fury that the whole world would hear. The world would tremble at the sound.
    If only he could have held his breath, those agonizing moments, waiting for the fruition of all of his greatest desires. Anticipation just wasn’t the same without hypo and hyper ventilation. Sadly, breathing was another thing that he found to be completely unnecessary. He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to breathe, if he desired to try.
    Humans didn’t appreciate their ability to emote. They were ridiculously expressive creatures, with their mobile mouths and eyebrows.
    Chickens sadly lacked eyebrows and their emotive superpowers.
    How could he, Fred the Zombie Chicken, hope to express his excitement?
    Crowing was his only option.
    It was time for Fred to celebrate.
    Yes! His plan was working!
    Before him lay his masterpiece. His own wonder of the world. It was beautiful to him, this grand accomplishment, this crime against Mother Nature. He clucked over it as if it were his own chick. He was a proud papa, that’s for sure.
    It was almost ready.
    It wasn’t alive!
    It was undead.
    Fred wished he had the vocal chords to cackle wickedly. Even a silkie rooster could get tired of crowing.
    What a shame there was no audience. There should have been someone to see and admire Fred’s greatness. He wished he could see those expressions of awed horror.
    Well, soon enough.
    My sweet. My fair zombie.
    Fingers shifted, cracking the battered exterior of its flesh. Some fell to the hard floor,