Sunday
Nov012009
Kevin's Chicken
Sunday, November 1, 2009 at 2:35PM
The fan was totally still. The room was spinning. Or he was. Didn’t matter so much the trifling details, Kevin knew the bed was sweaty, sticky and moving as if an earthquake had opened up half of Los Angeles. The half he currently set his body down in definitely had the earth move.
The chicken squawked. He knew the bird would chirp. Can’t trust a chicken with a comb. Why he wasn’t called a rooster was beyond his realm. From a marketing perspective, chicken seemed such an innocuous title. Sure a rooster was a chicken. A hen is a chicken. However, hens do not exhibit behavior possessed in this rooster.
The chicken called it clucking. Anything else would be obscene, but those from the age of 12 on knew clucking was merely a fortunate rhyme. The chicken clucked women from 18 to 85. The eighteen year-olds would run, the eighty-five year olds would hit him on the beak with a purse, bag of nuts or the occasional full domestic beer. No female ever donated a craft beer or import to the beak.
Hit the umpires, the chicken's best shtick. Most of them would send it off the field, whereupon the chicken would sit next to one of the girls who enjoyed a good cluck. Over the years, run-ins with umpires who enjoyed the bump and grind a bit more than to the chicken’s preference had occurred. One in particular followed the bird back to the coop. A couple haymakers from the chicken’s date that night, a two-time all-american softball catcher, straightened everything out.
After years on the circuit, the chicken knew good and well 80 percent of women snuck up on to rub the comb through their hair falling between the ages of 28-40 would go along with the game. Crazy chicken eyes moving in all sorts of directions, an ever-present smile on the beak told everyone clucking was good. Oh so good.
You fuck.
No shit.
Didn’t intend for it to be a verb. Noun, you fuck. You really pulled one last night. Jesus.
Another feather in my cap.
Kevin rolled over to a glass of water. The glass told him everything he needed to know about his prior evening. The double highball was ¾ empty, watered brown liquid thickening on the bottom. Smudged, it had greasy fingerprints on the outside with a faint declaration of glossy lipstick hugging the rim.
Is that fried chicken grease?
How could I possibly ever give that up? I love chicken.
It’s a cluck.
Oh, it’s a cluck all right. All night.
Still praying when I get up I’m not bleeding.
Want me to check?
Bathroom has two walls of mirrors.
I was going to say, nice coop.
The bathroom door, solid as to possibly be used as a panic room or safety spot in case of fire, tornado or sexual perversion gone awry, hit the latch with authority. Kevin never heard the last comment. His pores were begging for a shower loudly enough he tuned out all noise around him.
Shower gel. Perfect. Back to the other shower head in this double shower deep stall with tropical fauna covering the window to the world on the west side of the stall, Kevin closed his eyes. The water from the rain drizzle shower head, rolled off his eyelids, hugged his cheek and rolled down both sides, pooling at his feet.
He turned to grab the shampoo. This suite had full-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner. As it should with the price he paid. Eyes closed to avoid the shower gel torturing him with its sting, Kevin reached.
Snatched it on the first attempt. Pulling it up, he heard a thunk. Distinct, but not enough. Probably the conditioner. Kevin peeled his eyelids off his pupils. The conditioner sat on the ledge. Kevin backed into the shower stream adjusters on the wall. Reaching out like Spiderman trying to scale a wall on his back so he could see his enemies, he slid down to the tile.
Foam collected at the mouth. The mouth collected dryness, holding back a swollen tongue. Eyelids lollygagged over the whites.
Chicken!!
Chicken beeked into the bathroom. Kevin grabbed it by a wing, dragging him into the shower stall.
What are we going to do now?!
Holy chickenshit!!
Dammit! “This just in – radio executive kills Loop girl in sexual tryst with San Diego chicken.” Jesus fuck!
You know I’m not the real San Diego chicken. I lease, with an option to buy.
Now you tell me. Fuck. Is that coke on her mouth?
I’m no birdbrain, but it seems to me we have an OD here, plain and simple. Let’s get out of here.
What?
The room, Karl.
Kevin.
Flopping into the brown divan, the chicken’s massive claws held his super large head in his hands. Kevin shut the door to the bathroom and paced.
Shouldn’t we drag her out of there?
Jesus no. She OD’d. Moving her would make it look suspicious.
Suspicious?! Like something odd happened?!
Kevin stopped pacing in front of the chicken. He looked straight into its beady little eyes.
Detective Hernandez here. Now Chicken, is this your full name – San Diego Chicken? No? Oh. It’s not your name at all? Hmm. How did you find yourself in a hotel suite with Kevin the executive over there and a dead Loop girl? NO, NOT SUSPICIOUS AT ALL!
Kevin dropped himself onto the bed. A dog-audible “squish” met his back.
What the hell…?
Ah Jesus! Is this blood?
The chicken hopped off the divan and waddled over.
Uh, yeah.
Is that a lot?
More than a nosebleed, less than a severed limb.
Kevin gave the chicken a quizzical eye. The chicken rose his wings up.
It’s best not to ask.
Okay. We cannot call the cops. Agreed?
Yes.
So what…?
Think for second. Wrap my birdbrain around… yes. You leave.
Fine. But…?
Go get some cash. I am going to need to buy some tools.
You’re going to bury…?
I’ll need more than a shovel.
Ah Jesus!
You could have knocked over Kevin with a feather. A thousand feathers collectively shoved Kevin back down on the bed.
Get yourself together here!
Why don’t I just buy what you need?
Oh, that makes a ton of sense. You’re going to walk up here, through a hotel lobby, carrying a circular saw, reciprocating saw, umm a mallet…
And a shovel.
You wouldn’t bring the shovel up here… Kelvin.
Kevin.
Fine. I am not going to bury her in the suite. Now, snap out of it, run to the bank.
There’s an ATM in the lobby.
You can’t get two grand out of an ATM.
Two grand!
I missed my flight. And no, chickens cannot fly… for distance. Come to think of it, three grand would be better.
What?
Kevin. I am doing all the dirty work here. All of it. Least thing you can do is allow me the indulgence of a first class seat. Fly.
Not one to run with the established national chains, Kevin liked local flavor. However, those branches were far more spread out. It took Kevin over an hour to find his bank and get back. Opening the door, Kevin found a broiling chicken.
Jesus!! Where’s your bank? Shanghai?
Sorry. No branches in the area.
Alright. Alright. It’s fine. I thought you fucked me over!
Don’t grill me right now. I’m on edge.
You are?! You are?! Fine.
And her?
She got up and left.
Kevin took the slap from the right wing like a man. Stunned enough to allow the chicken to continue, Kevin didn’t retaliate.
What the fuck do you think? She still in there. She’s still an OD. Happy?
No!
Ok. Kerwin…
Kevin.
Yeah. The money?
He handed over the 100s. Or tried.
On the table. I can’t exactly grab them.
You could take the costume off.
Not taking it off was part of the deal. Remember? Two-timing her? Me on the…
Ah Jesus. Yeah. Yeah. That’s enough.
You’re a kinky bastard. Wow. Your imagination even put my comb on alert.
What next?
You leave. I shop. And work. OK?
Are you sure?
You walk out. You’re done with this cracked mess. I’ll make the omelet.
I just puked in my mouth.
Better there than on the floor. I have enough to clean up as it is. Go. Now.
Kevin wasted no time. The door to the suite wasn’t fully closed before Kevin was already in the elevator. The valet, already told by Kevin he’d be right back, calmly handed him the keys to his Land Rover.
The curtains, a soft chemise made only for the upper suites, fluttered open. His wing parting the material, the chicken watched as the Land Rover sailed down Michigan Avenue.
The head came off first. She tossed her hair around before taking out the voice modulator. Wings popped off, Jasmine neatly packed away the modulator into her over-sized purse she had left on the desk. She grabbed the money and smiled. No need to count it.
The suit made her pretty sweaty. It stank, she stank.
Got to get this to the dry cleaner. Good lord.
Jasmine walked over to the window. Opening it the crack it would open, she stood in front of it for a quick air bath. The breeze coming off the lake felt good on her naked body.
I need a shower.
The bathroom door clicked open. No movement. There was the Loop girl, in the same corner, nearly in the same pose. Jasmine reached in and turned on the shower head on the opposite side.
You can stop the rude awakening now.
I need to shower.
I'll bet. Fuck that took forever. You’re lucky I breathe so well through my nose.
Honey, you’re lucky I’m so fucking smart.
This fake tongue taste horrible. I almost gagged.
You always almost gag. Good acting.
Didn’t major in drama for nothing, baby.
Three grand.
Decent take. On to Cleveland… or Kansas City.
The chicken squawked. He knew the bird would chirp. Can’t trust a chicken with a comb. Why he wasn’t called a rooster was beyond his realm. From a marketing perspective, chicken seemed such an innocuous title. Sure a rooster was a chicken. A hen is a chicken. However, hens do not exhibit behavior possessed in this rooster.
The chicken called it clucking. Anything else would be obscene, but those from the age of 12 on knew clucking was merely a fortunate rhyme. The chicken clucked women from 18 to 85. The eighteen year-olds would run, the eighty-five year olds would hit him on the beak with a purse, bag of nuts or the occasional full domestic beer. No female ever donated a craft beer or import to the beak.
Hit the umpires, the chicken's best shtick. Most of them would send it off the field, whereupon the chicken would sit next to one of the girls who enjoyed a good cluck. Over the years, run-ins with umpires who enjoyed the bump and grind a bit more than to the chicken’s preference had occurred. One in particular followed the bird back to the coop. A couple haymakers from the chicken’s date that night, a two-time all-american softball catcher, straightened everything out.
After years on the circuit, the chicken knew good and well 80 percent of women snuck up on to rub the comb through their hair falling between the ages of 28-40 would go along with the game. Crazy chicken eyes moving in all sorts of directions, an ever-present smile on the beak told everyone clucking was good. Oh so good.
You fuck.
No shit.
Didn’t intend for it to be a verb. Noun, you fuck. You really pulled one last night. Jesus.
Another feather in my cap.
Kevin rolled over to a glass of water. The glass told him everything he needed to know about his prior evening. The double highball was ¾ empty, watered brown liquid thickening on the bottom. Smudged, it had greasy fingerprints on the outside with a faint declaration of glossy lipstick hugging the rim.
Is that fried chicken grease?
How could I possibly ever give that up? I love chicken.
It’s a cluck.
Oh, it’s a cluck all right. All night.
Still praying when I get up I’m not bleeding.
Want me to check?
Bathroom has two walls of mirrors.
I was going to say, nice coop.
The bathroom door, solid as to possibly be used as a panic room or safety spot in case of fire, tornado or sexual perversion gone awry, hit the latch with authority. Kevin never heard the last comment. His pores were begging for a shower loudly enough he tuned out all noise around him.
Shower gel. Perfect. Back to the other shower head in this double shower deep stall with tropical fauna covering the window to the world on the west side of the stall, Kevin closed his eyes. The water from the rain drizzle shower head, rolled off his eyelids, hugged his cheek and rolled down both sides, pooling at his feet.
He turned to grab the shampoo. This suite had full-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner. As it should with the price he paid. Eyes closed to avoid the shower gel torturing him with its sting, Kevin reached.
Snatched it on the first attempt. Pulling it up, he heard a thunk. Distinct, but not enough. Probably the conditioner. Kevin peeled his eyelids off his pupils. The conditioner sat on the ledge. Kevin backed into the shower stream adjusters on the wall. Reaching out like Spiderman trying to scale a wall on his back so he could see his enemies, he slid down to the tile.
Foam collected at the mouth. The mouth collected dryness, holding back a swollen tongue. Eyelids lollygagged over the whites.
Chicken!!
Chicken beeked into the bathroom. Kevin grabbed it by a wing, dragging him into the shower stall.
What are we going to do now?!
Holy chickenshit!!
Dammit! “This just in – radio executive kills Loop girl in sexual tryst with San Diego chicken.” Jesus fuck!
You know I’m not the real San Diego chicken. I lease, with an option to buy.
Now you tell me. Fuck. Is that coke on her mouth?
I’m no birdbrain, but it seems to me we have an OD here, plain and simple. Let’s get out of here.
What?
The room, Karl.
Kevin.
Flopping into the brown divan, the chicken’s massive claws held his super large head in his hands. Kevin shut the door to the bathroom and paced.
Shouldn’t we drag her out of there?
Jesus no. She OD’d. Moving her would make it look suspicious.
Suspicious?! Like something odd happened?!
Kevin stopped pacing in front of the chicken. He looked straight into its beady little eyes.
Detective Hernandez here. Now Chicken, is this your full name – San Diego Chicken? No? Oh. It’s not your name at all? Hmm. How did you find yourself in a hotel suite with Kevin the executive over there and a dead Loop girl? NO, NOT SUSPICIOUS AT ALL!
Kevin dropped himself onto the bed. A dog-audible “squish” met his back.
What the hell…?
Ah Jesus! Is this blood?
The chicken hopped off the divan and waddled over.
Uh, yeah.
Is that a lot?
More than a nosebleed, less than a severed limb.
Kevin gave the chicken a quizzical eye. The chicken rose his wings up.
It’s best not to ask.
Okay. We cannot call the cops. Agreed?
Yes.
So what…?
Think for second. Wrap my birdbrain around… yes. You leave.
Fine. But…?
Go get some cash. I am going to need to buy some tools.
You’re going to bury…?
I’ll need more than a shovel.
Ah Jesus!
You could have knocked over Kevin with a feather. A thousand feathers collectively shoved Kevin back down on the bed.
Get yourself together here!
Why don’t I just buy what you need?
Oh, that makes a ton of sense. You’re going to walk up here, through a hotel lobby, carrying a circular saw, reciprocating saw, umm a mallet…
And a shovel.
You wouldn’t bring the shovel up here… Kelvin.
Kevin.
Fine. I am not going to bury her in the suite. Now, snap out of it, run to the bank.
There’s an ATM in the lobby.
You can’t get two grand out of an ATM.
Two grand!
I missed my flight. And no, chickens cannot fly… for distance. Come to think of it, three grand would be better.
What?
Kevin. I am doing all the dirty work here. All of it. Least thing you can do is allow me the indulgence of a first class seat. Fly.
Not one to run with the established national chains, Kevin liked local flavor. However, those branches were far more spread out. It took Kevin over an hour to find his bank and get back. Opening the door, Kevin found a broiling chicken.
Jesus!! Where’s your bank? Shanghai?
Sorry. No branches in the area.
Alright. Alright. It’s fine. I thought you fucked me over!
Don’t grill me right now. I’m on edge.
You are?! You are?! Fine.
And her?
She got up and left.
Kevin took the slap from the right wing like a man. Stunned enough to allow the chicken to continue, Kevin didn’t retaliate.
What the fuck do you think? She still in there. She’s still an OD. Happy?
No!
Ok. Kerwin…
Kevin.
Yeah. The money?
He handed over the 100s. Or tried.
On the table. I can’t exactly grab them.
You could take the costume off.
Not taking it off was part of the deal. Remember? Two-timing her? Me on the…
Ah Jesus. Yeah. Yeah. That’s enough.
You’re a kinky bastard. Wow. Your imagination even put my comb on alert.
What next?
You leave. I shop. And work. OK?
Are you sure?
You walk out. You’re done with this cracked mess. I’ll make the omelet.
I just puked in my mouth.
Better there than on the floor. I have enough to clean up as it is. Go. Now.
Kevin wasted no time. The door to the suite wasn’t fully closed before Kevin was already in the elevator. The valet, already told by Kevin he’d be right back, calmly handed him the keys to his Land Rover.
The curtains, a soft chemise made only for the upper suites, fluttered open. His wing parting the material, the chicken watched as the Land Rover sailed down Michigan Avenue.
The head came off first. She tossed her hair around before taking out the voice modulator. Wings popped off, Jasmine neatly packed away the modulator into her over-sized purse she had left on the desk. She grabbed the money and smiled. No need to count it.
The suit made her pretty sweaty. It stank, she stank.
Got to get this to the dry cleaner. Good lord.
Jasmine walked over to the window. Opening it the crack it would open, she stood in front of it for a quick air bath. The breeze coming off the lake felt good on her naked body.
I need a shower.
The bathroom door clicked open. No movement. There was the Loop girl, in the same corner, nearly in the same pose. Jasmine reached in and turned on the shower head on the opposite side.
You can stop the rude awakening now.
I need to shower.
I'll bet. Fuck that took forever. You’re lucky I breathe so well through my nose.
Honey, you’re lucky I’m so fucking smart.
This fake tongue taste horrible. I almost gagged.
You always almost gag. Good acting.
Didn’t major in drama for nothing, baby.
Three grand.
Decent take. On to Cleveland… or Kansas City.
in ATM, Michigan Avenue, OD, baseball, broiling chicken, chemise, cluck, clucking, comb, coop, fake tongue, haymakers, highball, mallet, omelet, radio executive, reciprocating saw, san diego chicken, severed limb, sexual perversion, shovel, shower gel, shower head, stories, two-timing, umpire, voice modulator
ATM, Michigan Avenue, OD, baseball, broiling chicken, chemise, cluck, clucking, comb, coop, fake tongue, haymakers, highball, mallet, omelet, radio executive, reciprocating saw, san diego chicken, severed limb, sexual perversion, shovel, shower gel, shower head, stories, two-timing, umpire, voice modulator
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