Bok Bok Muthabagawk!

Chapter 1

The water shut off with the clanking of pipes—yet another thing to fix but never enough time to fix it. Chuck stood at the edge of the metal basin, wiping his hands dry, his apron still blotched with blood and covered with scattered bits of feathers, bone, and meat. Tossing his rag into the draining water, he grabbed a pair of gloves and began his daily ritual of cleansing the butcher shop. It was another day, no different than any other for the World’s Number One Butcher. Chop, scrub, clean. Six days a week. Monotonous. But he did it well and so he kept at it.

The pipes stopped, replaced by the low drum of a pressure washer as he sprayed the future fertilizer into a trough. “Never waste what could be used”, his pa would say, though his pa would also call his engineering degree a waste. “Why become a butcher?” he always asked. Admittedly, it was a question Chuck asked himself far too frequently. He knew the answer of course. Jenna. The answer was always Jenna.

The pressure washer sputtered to a stop and Chuck changed it out for a mop, pushing puddles into old, rusted drains. Chuck’s mind drifted back to the past. Why leave a cushy, high-paid office job? Jenna. Why move halfway across the country in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere? Jenna. Why take over an old man’s butcher shop? Jenna. Always her behind the wheel—he tensed at the thoughts, more smacking the mop at the ground now than pushing it, sending drops of pink-hued water across the room—and she’d gone from his life, nearly as quickly as she’d come.

He shoved the last of the water into the nearly overflowing drain—another thing to fix—and tossed his apron into a bin of bloodied cloth before washing his hands one final time. He stood a moment, admiring the spotless room then returned to the storefront to close for the day.

Trophies and other accolades lined the walls of the store in morbid celebration of the macabre. He cringed at the sight, but customers were enthralled by the useless hunks of faux-gold, and so they stayed. Somehow they symbolized the height of butchery, as if a plaque announcing to the world his magnificent achievement of slaughtering over one hundred chickens within the hour using only his hands and a paring knife proved his superiority as a meatman. As ridiculous as it was, Chuck had to admit sales did skyrocket with every new award. It was Jenna’s idea of course.

The bell hanging over the front door rang and freed him from his thoughts. He turned to see a familiar sight. A man, one foot halfway in the grave, one liver-spotted hand struggling to keep a splintered cane steadied, and the fingers of his other wrapped around the necks of several birds like shackles of bone.

“Ah, Mr. Sullivan, how wonderful to see you. Unfortunately, I’ve already cleaned up for”—the old man dropped the chickens onto the counter with soft thuds—“the day…”

The man reached into his pocket, fishing out several crumpled bills and some loose change. Each shake of his hand released some coins and sent them clattering across the wood top, a few rolling off the edge and dropping to the floor before rolling once again underneath the counter where Chuck would have to find some stick to fish them out.

“What’s that, son?” he asked, entirely too loud.

“I’ve closed for the day—”

“Chickens today! Martha’s making pot pie.”

Chuck sighed and scooped up the money, placing the coins into neat stacks and flattening each bill. The old man was short a few dozen dollars as always, but Chuck considered it a service to the community, taking care of the elderly, and said nothing.

Mr. Sullivan stared back with his usual smile, oblivious to the inconvenience. It had been seven years since the old man first entered the shop, and he had come weekly since with a few chickens from his homestead, on some days a rabbit, a hog on those special ones. He had tried dragging in a coyote one time, claiming he fought the thing off with his bare hands. The tire marks told another story. He walked in just after Chuck finished cleaning the day’s mess, like clockwork, as if he did it intentionally.

Chuck knew there was no intent. It was because Mr. Sullivan refused to drive his new Ford F-350 and came by foot instead, muttering something about farmwork being too dirty for such a beautiful piece of American engineering. It was more likely he just couldn’t drive on account of being half blind. The old man was an enigma, much like most of rural life for city-boy Chuck.

He finished counting the money, something he did to humor Mr. Sullivan, and closed the register. When Chuck looked up, the old man stood in front of the awards display, staring at the only accolade Chuck was actually proud of. It was a copy of his arrest warrant twenty years prior for assault and battery against his father… in defense of his mother. His father told an entirely different story to the sheriff, but once his mother corroborated the truth, charges were dropped. Pa always said Chuck needed to toughen up. He called him a sissy near every hour. Turns out men like him don’t like it when others follow their advice.

The copy sat framed in the display. Folk were never put off by it, in fact, it had the opposite effect. It was a phenomenal conversation starter and the questions that followed were more enjoyable to answer than ones about generic award number twenty-seven.

“This will be the last time I come here,” said Mr. Sullivan, rocking back and forth on his heels, cane tapping the ground to steady him.

“You decide to finally kick the bucket?”

“No… No, Martha said I’m not allowed before her. Said she has to finish crocheting her blanket.” He paused a moment, rubbing his sagging cheeks. “The old crone the next farm over said Martha’s last one was ‘the mark of an amateur.’ Used the Half Double Stitch instead of the Moss Stitch… All the same to me to be honest but Martha’s full of spite so I think I’ll be here a little while longer.”

“Not happy with the service then?”

Mr. Sullivan breathed deep before turning away from the awards, clicking his tongue. “No, you’ve been good to an old man. Don’t think I don’t know that…”

“Then why’s that?”

“You know how it is. Life and death and all that.”

“Thought you weren’t going to die on me?”

“Bah!” he said, swatting away the words that hung between them. “Ignore the ramblings of this old man. I just know this’ll be the last.”

Chuck shrugged then grabbed the chickens. An enigma indeed.

“Have a seat Mr. Sullivan. I won’t be long.”

The cutting room was as spotless as it had been when he left it—mere minutes ago—now with only the faint, lingering scent of chlorine. The old man certainly had impeccable timing. Chuck tried waiting an extra fifteen or thirty minutes before cleaning up years ago, but it seemed only on those days was Mr. Sullivan late, still arriving minutes after finishing.

He once thought the old man watched through the front windows, waiting for him to leave the cutting room, clean and apronless. Chuck patrolled around the building in search of him, never with any luck. On a few occasions, he would stare down the long, curveless roadways, never spotting the man. Nevertheless, he’d show up just the same, like an apparition manifesting itself in a horror film.

Chuck tossed the chickens in a bin and filled a large pot with just enough water to cover a single bird, setting the burner below to high and covering it with an old, dented lid. He pulled the poultry plucker from beneath the stove and prepped the machine.

It was habit now, everything placed exactly where it needed to be—cleaver, shears, pots. After seven years in the shop, he could do it all blindfolded.

The water came to a boil and the dented lid began its usual tantrum, hopping along the rim with each pocket of steam released.

As he reached for the lid, a sharp bang from behind startled him. He jumped at the sound and dropped the lid, which landed hard against his foot and then concrete below, ringing out with increasing frequency as it wobbled around itself.

“Ah, fuck!”

Chuck hopped back, looking for whatever had caused the scare. The glint of steel beneath the butcher bench caught his eye. He knocked the fallen lid aside with his throbbing foot and moved to all fours, searching for the fallen tool, his prized poultry shears.

The cluck of a chicken brought his attention back above. It stared down at him with glazed eyes. “Leave it to the old man to bring in a live one,” he muttered.

Before he could stand, the bird launched itself at him. Surprised, Chuck flung his arm out and caught the chicken with a backhand, slipping on water from the lid as he did so.

The chicken flew to the side, its wings fluttering chaos. It shrieked and began its assault anew, this time kicking itself into a frenzied flight, leading with talons that seemed far too sharp. A Bird. He was fighting a bird! Absolutely absurd.

Chuck rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the attack with only a graze across his cheek. It was fast. Faster than any bird he had chased on the farm.

He hardly reached his feet before the chicken rounded on him, this time pecking at his already injured foot. Chuck pushed himself up with his palms, pulling his foot out of range and kicking at the bird with the other.

It jumped toward him, stabbing at him with its beak and piercing the sole of his boot. He yelped and slipped from the edge of the bench, just before grabbing hold of his cleaver. He hit the ground with a clash, tools raining down from above and his head slamming into the concrete.

The chicken dodged his fallen body and reeled back for another strike.

But Chuck was a man, the world’s apex predator which held dominion over all else, and man was faster than bird… is what Chuck would have believed before the bird stuck him in the face.

He screamed, holding one hand to his eye and flailing the cleaver with the other. He rolled to the side and struck the legs of the burner stove, snapping the one and toppling the pot. It was luck that sent the pot over his body, only sprinkling him with the still boiling water.

The pot landed top-side down over the chicken, bubbling screeches sounding from within. Unfortunately, Chuck’s luck had ended that moment when a wave of water shot out from beneath the pot, scalding his back and bald pate. Luck was rarely long-lived.

He shot up from the pain, flopping along the floor like a hooked fish to free himself from the still forming scalding pool water. Sounds like a mix of groans and gargled screams bellowed from him. As he turned back to the boiled chicken, movement atop the butcher bench snatched his attention, his remaining eye locked with those of a second chicken flapping down from the bin.

It hit the ground and charged him instantly, faster than the first. He had only a moment to raise his cleaver for a strike of his own.

It was pure instinct, nearly twenty years as a butcher, seven of those on his own chicken farm surrounded by farmers with too many of their own animals to butcher.

He was trained for this.

The cleaver sliced through the bird’s neck as easy as butter, sending the head flying, its beak ajar in apparent disbelief and its eyes seeming to somehow track Chuck as it fell to the ground.

But as all chicken farmers know, a chicken with its head cut off is not yet a dead chicken.

Its body continued the charge, reaching Chuck before he could bring down the cleaver, and caught his other arm in its talons, shredding skin from muscle and muscle from bone.

He tried to scream, but his breath had already been stolen by its predecessors birthed from Chuck’s lungs.

The cleaver crashed down on the dying bird, ending its reign of terror.

He sat there blinking.

A calm hovered over the room, interrupted only by his ragged breaths. Chuck pushed himself to sit against the wall, trying to make sense of the events—and utterly failing to do so.

It was no coincidence. Those were not the primal instincts of a cornered animal moments away from death. It was intentional. Coordinated. And so absolutely ridiculous Chuck would have refused to believe it happened were it not for half his vision gone, burned skin, and a shredded arm. The pain beget reality.

He sat there for what felt like hours, but could have only been seconds. His mind a foggy whirlwind, was incapable of piecing together any logical explanation.

The creaking of the rafters above severed him from thought. His one good eye wandered up as he prayed to himself its source wasn’t what he thought it to be.

But it was not… it was worse.

A rooster, thrice as large as the previous two birds, dropped from the ceiling a few feet away. Within the grasp—it could grasp!—of its wingtips, it held two small rods linked by chain. Nunchaku.

“What the fuck…” he said, enunciating each word despite the panic. His memory failed him. There was no bird that large moments ago.

The bird whipped the weapon around its body to the rhythms of its clucking, whirling the ends through the air like a tornado, before snapping one end between the pit of its wing. It gave an ear piercing shriek. “Bagawk!” And charged.

Chuck tried to stand, knocking the headless chicken off his arm and onto its back where the cleaver remained. Before he was fully upright, the rooster jumped. He raised his arms, but the nunchaku wrapped around and struck him in the jaw.

He collapsed.

He hit the ground with a wet smack, like a hock of meat, knocking the breath clear from his lungs, a sharp spike of pain lancing through his body followed by an intense ache as if a jolt of electricity squeezed every muscle beyond what should have been possible. On his stomach, he raised his shaking head to look at the bastard. It continued to walk—slow, confident.

Chuck pushed himself upward, but his body was weak, his strength draining further every moment. Another wave of pain flashed through him as he fell back to the ground.

“Thop”—he pleaded, tears filling his eyes, teeth knocked free, his tongue swollen, and bloodied spit spraying from his mouth—“pleathe, why? What haff I thdone tho you?” Except try to butcher the damned bird? he thought.

The bird stopped a foot away. Chuck reached for the cleaver, patting desperately at the ground with a minced hand. He grabbed hold of the handle and gave a weak pull. Once again, pain lanced through him. His eyes drifted down his body and saw the cleaver beneath him, embedded deep into his side.

“Oh…”

When he turned his head back to the bird, it was inches from his face, its eyes boring into his own. Its head reeled back slowly and the world plunged into darkness.

A whine rooted itself within his ears, growing in intensity before quieting, dragging the rest of the world into silence, and then growing unbearable again. He lay like that for minutes. Hours? Though reality was, it likely lasted for only the final few moments of his life.

Footsteps sounded nearby, each muffled in his throbbing ears, followed by an old man’s voice.

“He lasted longer than I expected. Our Eternal Lord was right to be concerned.”

A reply came, a low squawking, the sound distorted by his injuries.

A silence stretched on for a while before the man spoke again. “Well… I suppose it’s time to return home.”

The footsteps faded away. Chuck willed himself to move, but his body betrayed him, instead throwing back its pain. Hey lay there still, hoping someone would find him. But no one came, and Chuck’s mind dwindled like the flame of a candle until there was no movement, no thought, and no life.

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[Welcome soul number 109,055,374,989! You are now entering purgatory.]