The sky was overcast, and the wind held tension.
And in the heart of the manor kitchen, I stood with flour on my cheek, a knife in one hand, and a bottle of Cluck-B-Gone in the other.
"This is it," I muttered.
Behind me, Bento sat silently, wearing his soup pot helmet. He didn't bark. He didn't wag.
He knew.
Even Timothy, stoic as ever, looked uncomfortable. His gloves were off, and his sleeves were rolled.
He was sharpening a meat cleaver with the quiet intensity of a man suppressing questions.
"This… this is mass poultryicide, milord."
I didn't flinch. "It's population control."
Timothy blinked. "That's what tyrants say."
"I'm not a tyrant," I replied, pouring a suspicious black powder into the batter. "I'm a visionary with a spice budget."
We had tried diplomacy. We had tried deals.
We gave chickens food, respect, and even tax exemptions.
And what did they give us?
Exploding coops.
Spice raids.
A chicken had mugged the village healer with a toothbrush yesterday.
This had to end.
Timothy pulled out the bottle again. "What… is Cluck-B-Gone exactly?"
I read the label: 'Guaranteed to thin poultry populations. Not for humans. Not for pets. Not for gods. Made with herbs from the Dead Groves and mild poison.'
"Are we sure this is legal?"
"Does it smell illegal?" I asked as I opened the lid. A plume of death-flavored spice hit us.
Timothy staggered. "It smells like it's from hell."
"Exactly. We mix it, and then we bait them. And then…"
I drew a line across my neck with a carrot stick.
The plan was simple:
Cook the best fried chicken in history.
Infuse it with Cluck-B-Gone and present it as a peace offering.
Let the rebellion eat itself to death.
Poetic. vicious. and delicious if I must say so.
We coated the final batch in the glowing batter. The powder sparkled like angry glitter. The oil hissed like it knew it was being weaponized.
SSSSSHHHH-CRACKLE-POP!!
As the first piece of doom-chicken hit the cauldron, the air shimmered. The manor's windows rattled. A chicken outside fainted just smelling it.
Bento took a step back.
Timothy crossed himself like a true Christian with a parsley leaf.
I raised the platter with reverence. "Let's feed the enemy."
***
We set the table in the village square.
It was a golden pyramid of fried chicken. A sacrificial altar of spice.
And behind it: me, Harold the Reckless, holding tongs like they were Excalibur.
Soon, the chickens arrived. Not one, not two, but hundreds of them.
General Cluckles strutted forward, wearing a cape stitched from my old socks.
Tap! Tap!
He stopped ten feet from the feast and clucked.
I stepped forward.
"No more games," I said. "No more raids. No more beak-to-face combat. I offer… peace. Through poultry."
I waved a wing at him.
The scent hit the crowd like a punch to the soul. Even the chickens paused.
Cluckles flared his feathers. He tried to resist the heavenly smell. But then I waved a drumstick.
This worked as he strutted up to the platter and picked up a drumstick.
And bit.
CRRRRRRRUNCH.
Silence.
Then—
SQUAAAAWK—
Cluckles flailed as his feathers waved, trying to hold onto thin air.
His eyes rolled, and his legs twitched.
Thud!
Dead.
Just like that, he was gone.
"DEAR GOD!" screamed Timothy as he looked at the view.
"Dear Profit," I whispered.
One by one, the rebel chickens ran up to avenge him, only to devour the cooked fried wings.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Feathered bodies littered the battlefield like a tragic yet oddly delicious opera.
Within minutes, the rebellion…
Was fried.
***
We buried Cluckles in a tiny coffin made of mashed potatoes.
Then we cooked the rest.
Timothy and I fried for hours.
Buckets, platters, and towers of crispy, guiltless glory.
The villagers came in large masses.
The air filled with music, oil, and ethically murky delight.
Bento wore a paper crown and danced on a table.
Children bit into wings, unaware they were eating yesterday's warlords.
The cabbage soup pot was set on fire in ceremonial glee.
I stood at the center, apron bloodied with sauce, holding up a wing like a war banner.
"We are free!" I shouted. "And we are full!"
Later that night, Timothy approached me under the stars.
"The poison… You used it knowingly?"
I nodded.
He sighed. "You killed them."
I turned to him, serious for once. "They were going to kill us. Or worse, tax us in feathers."
"Fair point."
"Do you think I'm a monster?" I asked.
"No," Timothy said, sipping his broth. "I think you're a terrible person with excellent seasoning instincts."
I raised my cup. "To moral ambiguity and crispy thighs."
He clinked it.
"To Cluckminster. Where the chickens are dead, and the dreams are deep-fried."