Parriwimple leans forward, eyes wide, hands gesturing with all the gravity of a ghost story.
“So… there was this chicken, right? Belonged to Mr. Kolyan—uh, Ireena’s pa. Meanest bird I ever met. Big red comb, one eye, beak like a dagger. They called him Old Murderbeak.”
He nods solemnly.
“Every mornin’ I’d bring feed to the yard, and that chicken would wait for me. Like it knew. Soon as I stepped close—BAM!—pecked me right on the shin. Drew blood, too. Every. Single. Time.”
There’s a pause as Parriwimple pantomimes the attack—awkward, deadpan, and oddly precise. The campfire pops; someone stifles a laugh.
“So one day, I says to myself, ‘Alright, Parriwimple, today’s the day you outsmart that bird.’ I wore armor. Uncle Billy’s old shop apron—leather, thick as stew. Even tied a pot lid to my leg.”
He shakes his head.
“Didn’t help. The beast flew at my face! Claws like knives! I swung the feed sack, missed, spun around—bam!—stepped right in the pig trough. Whole thing tipped over. Mud everywhere. And the chicken just strutted off, proud as a duke.”
Parriwimple pauses, brow furrowed in thought.
“Couple days later, I heard the neighbors cooked him. Said he kept twitchin’ on the spit for hours. Didn’t stop ’til someone said a prayer over him.”
He shrugs.
“Guess he finally found peace. Or maybe he’s waitin’ for me on the other side.”
He grins sheepishly, looking around the fire.
“Anyway, that’s the story of how I lost a fight to a chicken.”