Three times they attacked, each time with progressively mischievous plans. Screeches, quills flying, the possess a scent reminiscent of burned chicken all over the place. With an oily finger I set my lasers to “additional fresh” and launched to block the fowl trespassers. I dropped my half-eaten chicken burger and hopped in my cockpit. I in a split second recognized what must be finished. Attacking intergalactic chickens, out to rebuff mankind for our persecution of their natural brethren. They came all of a sudden, screeching menacingly, their unsettled quills obscuring the sun. ![]() ![]() The recollections still consume profoundly, similar to fiery chicken wings. I recollect the day of the intrusion well.
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