The next morning, something had changed.
The fryer stood cold. The grease was gone. And the barony—my precious, greasy, chaotic barony had gone quiet. It was too quiet.
That morning, I stepped outside expecting the usual chaos: villagers chasing goats, Bento barking at clouds, chickens committing tax fraud.
Instead… I found stillness. No sizzling. No crunching. Just silence and soft feathers fluttering in the wind.
It was the calm before the cluck.
"The oil's missing," Timothy announced, holding an empty barrel like a man who had just lost his life's savings.
"What do you mean missing?" I shouted, flipping the lid. "It's oil! It doesn't sprout wings and fly!"
"Apparently, it does," he deadpanned, turning the barrel upside down. "Also, the backup barrel is full of carrot juice."
Bento sniffed it, sneezed, and fainted from the pain of losing our fuel.
We stared at the orange mess inside the backup barrel.
"I know what this is," I whispered. "Chemical warfare."
"They've poisoned our fuel," Timothy muttered. "Those feathered fiends have crossed the line."
"No," I said grimly. "They've deep-fried the line."
Words about the incident spread fast.
No oil meant no fried chicken. No fried chicken meant no hope. And no hope meant…
"Riots?" I asked, peeking out the window.
"Worse," Timothy muttered. "Singing."
Outside, a group of villagers sat on overturned crates, holding hands and softly singing "Tale of the Crisp That Once Was."
A child sniffled, holding a tiny drumstick bone like a relic. "Papa says it was crunchy. I don't remember crunchy..."
An old man nearby clutched his chest. "I used to taste joy. Now I only taste boiled turnip."
It was haunting. Like a musical number in a tragedy. Or the sad part of a cheese commercial.
I slammed the shutters. "We can't let this go on."
Bento scratched the floor urgently and pointed his paw at the spice cabinet.
I gasped.
"The recipe," I whispered. "Is it still safe?"
We sprinted as fast as we could in slow motion.
Gone.
The sacred scroll, the Recipe of Legends, had vanished.
In its place was a single black feather.
And a note, scribbled in tiny, chaotic ink:
"The secret dies tonight. – C.L.U.C.K."
Timothy gasped like someone had just insulted his mother.
Bento barked like he'd seen the apocalypse.
I dropped to my knees in front of the empty scroll jar.
"This is it," I whispered. "They're going after the legacy now. They've gone from rebellion to… to culinary erasure."
Timothy adjusted his sleeves. "Then we fight back, milord. We must get vengeance."
"But how?" I cried. "They took the recipe!"
"Do you remember it?"
"…Bits of it."
"Do you remember the spice ratios?"
"I remember what it tasted like."
"Then we still have hope."
We bumped fists as Bento barked once and headbutted us both.
***
We tried.
Gods, we tried.
But every time we started recreating the recipe, something went wrong.
We heated a new batch of oil only for it to fizzle out. It was already tainted with soap.
We mixed herbs, only for the final spice blend to explode into pink smoke that smelled like regret and cinnamon.
At one point, Bento simply sat in the center of the kitchen with a sign around his neck that said 'I give up.'
Timothy stared at the pan. "They've cursed our kitchen."
"No," I muttered. "It's worse than a curse. It's psychological warfare. They want us to doubt the crunch."
That night, I didn't sleep...
I hallucinated.
I saw a winged god of poultry descend from the heavens, offering me a golden leg.
"Take this, eat, and reclaim your dignity."
I reached for it only to be slapped by General Cluckles, who cackled, 'MORON!'
I woke up in a cold sweat, tangled in bedsheets and dog hair. Bento was chewing a pillow. Possibly mine. Possibly his. Possibly Timothy's.
I turned to the window and saw dozens of chickens outside.
Standing.
Silent.
Watching.
Their eyes glowed with untold judgment.
***
In the manor's dining room, we assembled the next day.
Me. Timothy. Bento. And a lone cabbage, the only food left untouched by rebellion.
"Gentlemen," I said, pacing like a general with no army. "We've lost the recipe, the fryer's compromised, and the chickens have turned to dark arts."
Timothy sipped his tea with a shaking hand. "We could try boiling the chicken…"
"Don't say boiling in this house!" I snapped. "We are FRYERS, damn it!"
Bento howled in agreement.
The cabbage fell off the table. Even it had given up.
I stared at the soot-stained fryer. The oil stains on the wall. The scorch marks from our last attempt.
And the feather nailed to the ceiling with a toothpick.
And then, with eyes burning with passion, I stood.
"No more fear," I said. "No more sabotage. No more chicken coups."
Timothy raised an eyebrow and nodded gravely.
"I don't care if they stole the recipe. I'll recreate it from memory, even if I have to die deep-frying to do it."
Bento barked once and pushed a tiny ladle toward me.
We had a cause again.
We had nothing left to lose.
And so tomorrow…
Tomorrow we fry.
***
I stood atop the manor roof that night, cloak on my back flapping in the wind, Bento at my side.
Below, chickens glared up from the darkness.
"You hear me?!" I shouted. "We're taking the crunch back!"
One cluck answered me from the treeline.
And then silence.
But I could feel it, the tension and the rage.
Tomorrow would be the deciding battle.
Me versus feathers.
Fate versus fryer.
Winner gets dinner.