20040101 Roostard

An acquaintance once posted about an evil chicken dubbed Roostard. This creature is huge, mean, and crows broken glass. Every time Roostard is killed, he is immediately reborn elsewhere.

See, Roostard lived next door to me in 1985. He woke me every day between 4-5AM, within a few hours of me falling asleep. I wanted to kill him, but was too nice to do so.

One morning after he woke me from an excellent dream—a rarity at the time—I trembled with rage while getting ready for work. I fired up my motorcycle—an old Yamaha 650 twin—idled down the driveway, then stopped, transfixed. There, across the street in the church parking lot, was Roostard. He had escaped the neighbor's yard, and he was regarding me as if I had kept him waiting—practically tapping his foot.

Something in me snapped. There was no thought, only action. I gunned the engine and chased that chicken around the parking lot on my bike—fully intending to run him over, and over, and over. Failing that, I would just kick him. But he was intelligent and deft. His red comb and wattle were the matador's blanket, and I was the bull. Around and around that lot, each time almost getting him. Each time he stepped aside and countered, trying to pop my front tire or rip open my boot with his wickedly sharp spurs.

After some minutes of this, I paused, out of breath, and shot a look of hate that I hoped would fry him on the spot. He calmly returned my glare, knowing I was no danger on the bike, and that I'd have no hope of catching him on foot, either. "FUUUCKERRRRRR!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I then heaved a sigh and drove to work.

Roostard disappeared a week later.