Currently, I was sitting in the kitchen staring at my breakfast. The stew was gone.
Correction: There was no stew in the first place. What remained in my bowl was a lonely flake of cabbage. A suspicious chunk that might have been a potato once.
I poked it with my spoon. It poked back.
"…Timothy," I croaked in a weak voice, "was this stew or a failed potion?"
Timothy stood by the window, polishing his monocle with the detached grace of a man surviving solely on bitterness and stubborn dignity. "Milord, it was all we had left."
Bento, my beloved traitor dog, licked my bowl clean anyway. Then, to complete the insult, he turned and began munching on a sock.
"That sock's been missing since last week," I muttered.
He wagged his tail proudly at my remark.
I slumped in my chair. The fireplace let out a miserable wheeze.
Outside, chickens clucked like landlords. The villagers were hungry. The pantry was barren. The cabbage field had been pecked to oblivion. And I was still somehow the baron.
"I can't do this," I muttered. "This is not the retirement I dreamed of."
Timothy made a noncommittal sound. "It's the retirement you purchased, milord. With debt. And absolutely no due diligence."
Bento let out a low whine and flopped onto his side.
My stomach growled, loudly and rudely demanding food. I clutched it like I'd been stabbed with invisible forks.
"I can't take this anymore," I declared. "We need food. Real food. And I just remembered the greatest food from my past life."
Timothy narrowed his eyes. "No more talk of electric rice boxes and air fryers, milord…"
"No," I said with eyes gleaming. "Fried chicken."
The room fell still.
Even Bento raised his head.
"Golden. Crispy. Juicy. Seasoned," I whispered. "Fried in oil until it sings."
Timothy stared. "Chicken that sings?"
"POP! sizzle... crackle... hiss. Like this," I clarified.
He blinked.
"It was glorious," I continued. "There were places, the sacred shrines, where people waited in line just to taste it. It solved hangovers. Wars. Marriages."
"That sounds… suspicious, Milord," Timothy said.
"Not when you taste it."
***
So we made a list of ingredients:
1) Chicken (check, too many)
2) Flour (nope)
3) Oil (probably)
4) Salt (long gone)
5) Spices (let's pretend)
6) Courage (running low)
I grinned. "We'll improvise. We'll test. And we'll begin with the most important step."
Timothy frowned. "Which is?"
I pointed outside.
"The chicken."
Operation: Catch the Clucker
We stepped into the yard with the confidence of men who hadn't eaten in twelve hours and had watched exactly one cooking show, ever.
Bento, sensing a hunt, trotted beside us with the swagger of a wolf. A very fluffy, domesticated wolf who still ate socks.
"Pick one," I whispered. "Must be big, Slow, and arrogant."
Timothy pointed at a particularly round chicken perched on top of a rain barrel, staring into the distance like it was pondering the stock market.
"That one," he said. "He looks… deliciously self-important."
The chicken met our eyes.
It knew.
The chase began.
It leapt from the barrel with the elegance of a gymnast and the rage of a politician. Feathers flew. I dove left. Timothy stumbled right. Bento barked once, then retreated behind a bush.
"Get him!" I yelled after five seconds. "He's heading for the coop!"
"I thought chickens couldn't fly!" Timothy wheezed.
"They can when they fear death!"
The bird zigzagged like it was evading snipers, flapping across laundry lines and rebounding off goats. One villager screamed, "The prophecy!" and ducked.
It was chaos.
Eventually, after a series of bad decisions and one surprisingly tactical roll from Timothy, we caught it.
"I HAVE HIM!" Timothy shouted, lifting the squirming sack like a trophy.
The chicken, of course, screamed back repeatedly.
"What now?" Timothy asked, panting with hair sticking out like he'd been struck by lightning.
I stepped forward. "We do what must be done."
"Are you going to…?"
"I shall perform the sacred rite."
I knelt beside the sack.
Bento whimpered. Or farted. It was hard to tell anymore.
Timothy handed me… a ladle. It was the closest thing to a weapon we had.
"Right," I said, clearing my throat. "I suppose this will do."
I raised the ladle high.
The wind howled. Somewhere on the other side of the country, thunder rumbled.
The chicken inside the sack fell silent.
"…Too dramatic?" I asked my partners in crime.
Timothy shrugged. "A little. But I respect the commitment."
I took a breath. "Forgive me, noble bird. Your sacrifice shall not be in vain. You shall feed the starving, unite the people, and possibly bring flavor back to this land."
I brought the ladle down.
There was a squawk. A puff of feathers. A moment of silence.
And then—
POOF!
The sack deflated like a balloon.
Timothy peeked in.
"…Milord?"
"Yes?"
"You missed."
"What?"
The chicken was gone. A single note lay inside the sack, scratched in chicken-foot writing. It said:
"Nice try. -General Cluckles"
I blinked. "Was… was this a decoy chicken?"
Timothy looked to the roof.
The original chicken was perched there, now wearing my missing sock as a cape.
It saluted us with one wing.
"Right," I said, rubbing my temples. "New plan. Less noble. More practical."
I turned and pointed to a smaller chicken, waddling innocently near the garden.
"That one."
Before anyone could protest, Bento pounced like a sock-motivated missile and snatched it in his mouth.
It squawked once in betrayal. Then silence.
Bento gently dropped it at my feet with his tail wagging. I knelt, gave it a moment of respectful silence, then stood.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, holding up the now-limp bird like a battle trophy. "We have food."
Timothy exhaled. "Should I pluck it?"
"I'll do the plucking. You find oil."
"We don't have oil."
"Then prepare… something that burns."
Timothy sighed. "I'll see if I can convince the blacksmith's apprentice to lend us whatever he uses to polish axes."
"And I'll name the chicken," I said solemnly. "His sacrifice shall be remembered."
Bento barked.
I nodded. "His name shall be... Lunch."