We were riding high.
The Henhouse was booming. Villagers sang songs about thighs and wings.
Bento had developed a habit of nodding solemnly before every meal like a priest blessing the table. Timothy wore a clean apron that said "Crunch is Law."
Everything was golden.
Except for the chickens.
They had… noticed.
And they weren't happy.
It began subtly.
A trail of feathers leading from the pantry to the roof. A bottle of pepper mysteriously smashed on the floor. Bento's dog bowl had gone missing entirely.
I dismissed it as chaos.
Until I saw the first warning.
Carved. Yes, carved into the wood of our chicken coop door was a single phrase:
"WE Shall Avenge."
Timothy read it aloud, then blinked. "This… this is a threat."
Bento barked twice. Then started digging a trench in the yard.
"I think they're organizing," Timothy said.
I tried to laugh it off. "You think the chickens are forming a rebellion?"
A chicken pecked my boot.
I screamed.
Later that afternoon, a chicken was spotted on the church bell tower.
It had jet black feathers. A scar on its beak. One eye glowing with war crimes. A red bandana was tied around its neck.
It was the same one from the roof yesterday.
The villagers called it General Cluckles.
He didn't cluck. He didn't move. He just watched.
And then…
He rang the bell.
With his beak.
Four times.
DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!
It was a message. A declaration of war.
Timothy wiped sweat from his brow as he looked at me. "This… this means something."
"It means we're screwed," I muttered.
That night, a disaster we had no clue about struck.
The entire spice shelf had been overturned.
Every pouch of Cluckle Dust was gone. It wasn't stolen but burned to charcoal.
I found a trail of tiny three-legged footprints leading out the window near the crime scene. A chicken had scribbled in flour on the floor:
"FEED US TO THEM AND WE FEED YOU NOTHING."
Timothy was silent for a full minute.
Finally, he let out a small sound, "We're being extorted. By poultry."
Bento stood by the door, growling at a single feather drifting in the wind.
We fortified the manor. Locked the coop. Armed ourselves with ladles and rolling pins.
This wasn't about cooking anymore.
It was war.
***
At sunrise, Timothy stumbled into the kitchen.
He was bleeding from a peck wound.
"They came… at dawn," he muttered, holding a bloodied cloth to his hand. "Five of them. Ambush from the pantry."
He dropped a feather onto the table. It had a tiny red "X" burned into the tip.
I stared at him.
"They branded it?" I asked.
He nodded grimly. "They branded it."
I turned to Bento. "Deploy countermeasures."
He barked once and dragged out a small chalkboard labeled 'CHICKEN WATCH SCHEDULE.' It included:
2 AM: Perimeter sweep
4 AM: Coop Surveillance
5 AM: Biscuit Break
6 AM: Threat Assessment via Barking
We were officially under siege.
By midday, the fryer wouldn't heat up. The oil had been swapped with… bathwater.
We found three chickens lounging in it like it was a hot spring. One wore cucumber slices over its eyes.
Another clucked mockingly at Bento.
He lost it.
The chase that followed it involved two overturned barrels, one broken fence, and a flaming ladle.
Meanwhile, a mysterious scroll was nailed to our door.
It read:
"END THE FRYING. RETURN THE FEATHERS. OR WE TAKE THE HERBS."— C.L.U.C.K. (Coalition of Liberated Underground Chicken Kingdom)
Timothy frowned. "They have an acronym. That's bad."
That night, the wind howled louder than ever.
I couldn't sleep. The manor creaked with uneasy tension. Somewhere, a spoon clattered and made a screeching sound.
I stepped out to check the fryer and froze.
The entire town square was covered in feathers.
There were hundreds, no, thousands of them. All arranged to form a giant symbol:
A broken wing.
Bento whined behind me.
Timothy joined me, his robe fluttering in the wind.
"This is more than sabotage," I whispered.
He nodded grimly. "This is prophecy."
***
The next day, we finally caught one.
A small white hen named Picklefoot. Known for egg theft and parkour.
She refused to speak.
We offered her corn. She ate it with contempt.
We offered immunity. She pooped on the scroll.
Timothy rubbed his temple. "They've trained in counterintelligence."
Eventually, she escaped by hiding in a soup pot and launching herself out the window.
Bento barked in slow, helpless applause.
To fight the problem, we tried a local giveaway event for villagers.
Three picnic tables were set with a dozen freshly fried chicken legs, and a hand-painted sign that said "Today Only: First Bites Free!"
The goal? Win hearts and quiet the clucks.
We had just set up everything for making fried chicken when…
BOOM!
The fryer exploded.
Again.
We later discovered an egg had been hard-boiled in the oil barrel and filled with ground dragon chili and vinegar. It caused a pressure burst.
Chicken rained from the sky. Bento dove under a bench. Timothy shouted, "Feathered terrorism!"
Villagers screamed as someone shouted, "They've gone too far!" while clutching a roasted drumstick.
We stood in the ashes, covered in batter, grease, and failure.
I looked up… and saw General Cluckles again.
He was perched on the highest tree branch. He flared his wings, clucked once, and then vanished.
That night, I lay in bed as Timothy applied a grease paste to my forehead.
Bento whimpered in his sleep. Probably dreaming of war.
The scroll of our recipe lay on the bedside table. It was half-burned but still sacred.
I stared at it.
"I won't give up," I whispered.
Timothy sighed. "You already did. Twice."
"Well, I'm un-quitting."
Outside, the wind carried a low, ominous sound…
Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.
The war wasn't over.
It had just begun.