Hemingway Chicken

"Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
—As told by Ernest Hemingway

"Close to the northernmost limit of the Alaska Highway there is the dried and frozen carcass of a chicken. No one has explained what the chicken was seeking at that altitude.”

Chandler Chicken

“Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
As told by Raymond Chandler

Los Angeles. My office. Philip Marlowe, private detective. People confuse me with the playwright. But he's dead, and I'm not. Though business hasn't been good lately.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, mid-August. I had no idea what day it was. I wore a wristwatch, but didn’t have a calendar. If this case paid off, maybe I’d buy one. Colonel Sanders was dead. I got the news like anybody else, and then got the call. An hour earlier, which would’ve made it three o’clock in the afternoon. I still had no idea what day it was.
I remember the call like it was only an hour ago.
Women’s voice. Southern accent. Like butter, if butter instantly triggered the gallant reflex. Which I suppose it did, in the right hands.
“I’d like to discuss a case. Are you free this afternoon, Mr. Marlowe?”
“It depends on your definition of freedom. There’s some disagreement on that point.”
“Are you free to come see me?”
“You come here. Bring a calendar.”
We set a time. She showed up on time.
My secretary buzzed her in. And there she stood in the doorway. Like a metaphor poured inside a simile that didn’t quite fit.
I stood up.
“Have a seat, Ms. Sanders. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You know my name.”
“I know a lot of things. It’s my job.”
Thank God for Caller-ID.
She sat; I sat. You know the drill.
The dame slid a packet of crime scene photos across my desk. I opened it, and got a good look. Colonel Sanders, naked in an alley, dead as a sack of doornails. He was holding a bucket of chicken. Not entirely empty. They’d cut off his little colonel, breaded and fried it. Extra crispy.
“What do you see, Mr. Marlowe?”
“A deceased white male, approximately 90 years old. White hair, white goatee. No distinctive tattoos. Signs of violent trauma. Lacerations and bruising on lower abdomen and upper legs. Missing genitalia.”
“Look closer, Mr. Marlowe.”
There were chicken tracks all over. Big ones.
“Well, that narrows down the suspects to giant chickens.”
“Which one, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Well, that’s hard to say, Ms. Sanders. Every chicken in the world had a beef with your … I’m sorry. What was your relation to the deceased? Father? Lover?”
“Yes.”
She pulled out an elegant cigarette case. Silver, reflecting her pretty blue eyes. She removed a cigarette, as I figured she would, being a detective and all. I lit it for her. She took it like her due. She sat for a minute, her pretty faced wreathed in pretty blue smoke. She was thinking. Or maybe she had a migraine. Then she finally spoke.
“Pardon me for stating the obvious, but I want to get the bastard who did this, Mr. Marlowe. Money is no object.”
“That’s great, Ms. Sanders. I have no objection to money. You got any leads?”
“Ask him.”
She pointed out the window. Like a good boy, I turned to look. That’s when I saw him, through the slits in the Venetian blinds. A giant chicken, crossing La Brea Boulevard.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“He’s crossing the road. Why the hell is he doing that?”
“You tell me, Mr. Marlowe. It’s ‘your job,’ right? Do your job.”
She stood up. Then tossed something thick and heavy on my desk. It landed with a thud.
“Here’s your goddamn calendar, Mr. Marlowe.”
The chicken in question got to the other side. An hour later, I got him in the backroom. Then I grilled him, in the metaphorical sense. He had an airtight alibi, in the literal sense. At the time of the murder, they put him in a diving bell over at UCLA research. “The scientists will all vouch for me,” he pleaded. “Just call them!” I called. They vouched for chicken.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
“Sure … as soon as you answer my question.”
“I’ve answered your questions!”
“I’ve got one more.”
I stood up. I knocked over my chair and threw stuff around. I wasn’t really angry. With punks like this, you have to look intimidating sometimes. It’s an act, and I’m good at it. I took improv with UCB last summer.
“Why’d you cross the road?”
“Road? What …?”
“Stop stalling chicken! La Brea Boulevard, 4:15 p.m. yesterday. I saw you with my own eyes! You crossed! Why?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“I want a house on the beach. Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.”
I slapped him. Hard.
“Can the doubletalk, chicken.”
I slapped him again. Harder.
“I want a real answer, this time! Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side! To get to the other side!”
I slapped him harderer.
The chicken blubbered like a weak sister. Or a chicken. He stuck to his lousy story. I finally let him go.
Two days later, they found him. In a breadpan, kicking out dough. Reflex action. The chicken was dead. And I had no more leads.

Faulkner Chicken

"Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?"
As told by William Faulkner

The asphalt steamed in the sun’s unblinking glare with a misty evaporation of the rain from before, a mist tainted with the smell of oil from untold leaking cars and trucks, soaked in (like the rain) from the numbing repetitions of Man’s vain journeys, as the Chicken on its own enigmatic journey approached the two-lane blacktop bobbing its head as chickens do, its motion reflected in the few remaining shards of glass in the spiderweb shattered window of the rust triumphant ramshackle abandon of a Gulf station, its faded orange sign no longer orange, its ICE machine speaking a lying promise of cool relief from the relentless heat of the all-surrounding New Mexico emptiness, yet indifferent to this evidence of human futility, the Chicken approached the unforgiving road, ignoring the heat steam mist rising up from the cracked alligator skin of the blacktop, ignoring the flickering mirage oasis visible far distant in the road’s converging perspective lines, (mute testament to the road’s futile pursuit of the horizon, ever unreachable), ignoring also the flies blowing around a dead thing in the road's shoulder, the Chicken without ceremony crossed. Why?

The Chicken who was a talking chicken gave an answer that was no answer. For no reason he clucked. Because no road is ever crossed. And no road is truly a road, for all roads take you nowhere. The road only reveals to chickens their own folly and despair, and crossing is an illusion of philosophers and barnyard poultry.

The Deep End

The Deep End

Jeff’s cousin went off the deep end. Cute expression, huh? Like a kid falling into a pool. Ahh, that dumbass kid fell into the deep end! Tweet! Here comes the lifeguard! But Kyle didn’t rate a lifeguard. And there’s nothing cute about his plunge. His deep end is a sick, bloody, ugly, whirlpool. Its swirling waters sucked him in. Just dragged him down, bit by bit. Little things at first. He’d …

Impatient waitress. Again. Looks like Molly Ringwald.

“You ready to order?”

New order.

“I’ll stick with coffee for now. I’m meeting somebody.”

“Partner?”

“Cousin.”

“Partner.” Kyle would hate that.

“Antifa?”

She jerks her head to the street. Where the Antifa marchers had just passed. Some kind of respect in her eyes; she thinks Kyle’s fighting the fascists. But Jeff shakes his head no. Respect fades, turns into disgust. She even steps back.

“This ‘cousin’ of yours. He wouldn’t happen to be one of those alt-right assholes?”

“Nah. Triathlete. Totally non-political.”

Total bullshit. But he’d get kicked out if he gave her a “yes” answer.

“Kyle got into Charlottesville last night, gave me a call. We set up a lunch—on the same day everybody’s marching and fixing to kill each other. What are the odds?”

Obvious lie. Lies are always too damn specific. But it’s the best he can do on short notice. 

She shrugs, freshens up his coffee, vanishes. Snake tattoo on her arm. Kyle would hate that, too.

Because he was one of those alt-right assholes. But let’s not sugarcoat it.

Kyle was a straight-up Nazi.

Little things at first.

They were more or less the same age. Jeff and Kyle grew up together in Charlottesville, Virginia. Then Kyle’s parents moved to Illinois. Few years later, Kyle got a scholarship to engineering school, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. (Same place HAL the killer computer from 2001 achieved sentience.) Jeff studied English at the University of Virginia. (Same place Thomas Jefferson laid the groundwork for American democracy and kept Sally Hemmings on a leash.) No free ride, but it was in-state tuition. And Jeff’s parents could afford it. 

With each summer break, the cousins alternated between assorted family trips in Virginia or Illinois. Jeff and Kyle would get high together, like they’d done for years. Kyle’d start riffing, like a wannabe standup comic. Then these twisted cultural observations started popping up. They’d be watching TV, some sitcom. Some chick would bust a guy’s balls. He’d rear back. 

—You notice that? 

—Notice what?

—They’re tearing down men. They want to replace men! That’s the Hollywood Jew agenda.Elliot Rodger had the right idea.

—Who the fuck is Elliot Rodger?

—Google it, man.

Jeff makes a mental note to look up Elliot Rodger. Then the delayed reaction hit. To Kyle’s Jew-bashing words.  

—Hey … Am I hallucinating … or did you actually just say “Hollywood Jew agenda” …?

—Fuck yeah, cuz. So what? Take that PC stick out of your ass. Where’s your sense of humor? I’m being ironic, man. 

No, he wasn’t.

Racism. Like an infection in Kyle’s bones and blood. Dormant at first, then virulent. Breaking out like herpes sores.

Kyle got worse over the summer. 

His riffs became rants.

He’d spew hate in person. Over the phone. Online, too.

After the summer, Kyle followed his blog.

And it was godawful sick stuff. Hate speech, like they say. But there was a weird poetry to it. Like that psychotic Drill Sergeant in Full Metal Jacket.

Summer of 2014, Kyle’s family flew up to Urbana. He almost stayed home. Kyle wants to see you, his parents said. Jeff almost said, I don’t want to see him. But …  

Jeff wanted to be a writer. Scratch that. He wasa writer. Hunter S. Thomson was his idol. 

And it occurred to him that his cousin was a gold mine.

So he got on the plane.

Jeff started secretly recording Kyle, like the wannabe writer he was. He got long stretches on his cleverly concealed digital recorder.

Jew this, incel that. Cunts, dykes, niggers, ZOG, blahbah.

Where’s he get this stuff?

Jeff decided to find out. 

Hey Kyle. You got any friends who think like you do?

Kyle did.

Friends. Like the ones in American History X.

With friends like that, who needs enemas?

Jeff decided to join Kyle at one of his neo-Nazi clambakes. Like Hunter S. Thompson did, researching Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga.He’d hang out with these creeps for the rest of the summer. Then write a best seller …

Illinois Nazis: A Strange and Terrible Saga.

My Cousin, the Illinois Nazi.

The Most Unforgettable Illinois Nazi I Ever Knew 

Jeff went to one meeting. That was enough. 

Kyle introduced him. 

—This is my cousin, the race traitor. His head’s in the wrong place, his blood’s right.

The Illinois Nazis all looked at him at the same time, all smiled the same smile. A collective organism sending a message. Howdy, libtard. You’re a friend of Kyle’s, so you’re getting out of here alive. 

The guest speaker babbled on about FEMA camps, mud people, and black helicopters. Somebody Forrest. A pastor in the Aryan Pentecostal Church, Reformed. Mid-30s, balding, wiry, twitchy. A nasal South Carolina accent with all the charm of a dentist’s drill. Afterwards, there was lousy beer and great barbecue. Chicks in hotpants hanging around like Nazi groupies. They seemed meaner than the guys.

No, sir. On second thought, no, Jeff would not be going underground with the Illinois Nazis. One meeting was enough.

But his deranged cousin was a fountain of good material. Enough for a book? Yes, sir.

Kyle instantly knew what Jeff was up to.

—Why’re you studying me, cuz? You writing a book about me?

—N-no.

—Y-yes. You fucking liar! But that’s cool. Study me all you want. Hell. You can tape record me—like you been doing in secret. Just no video. Don’t put my face online.

—Why not? 

—Cause they’ll dox me, that’s why the hell not.

—Dox? What’s that mean?

—Put my picture up on fucking antifa websites and get me harassed and fired and blacklisted.

Jeff promised there’d be no video. Kyle gave his blessings to audio recordings. He also suggested they stay in touch over Skype. He figured Jeff was checking out his blog, right? He had a word of helpful advice on that score.

—Get an anonymizer.

—What’s an anonymizer?

—It covers your tracks online, dummy.

—Why would I want to do that?

—Because the NSA will get your URL and then you’ll be SOL. That stands for “Shit out of Luck,” cuz.

—I’m an English major. I know what it means, cuz. 

—You don’t wanna know how it feels, cuz. Get a fucking anonymizer.

So he did.

Jeff followed Kyle’s blog, had periodic Skype chats. Kyle shaved his head, got thinner and thinner. Month after month, his face looked more like a skull. 

In the summer of 2015, they had their next family visit. This time, Kyle’s folks flew down to Charlottesville. Kyle’s parents were worried. They should be. Their son had mutated. The science fair nerd who could fix anything was gone. Kyle 2.0 had six-pack abs and unblinking, 200-watt eyeballs. He’d cut his hair down to a buzzcut in true skinhead fashion. 

Jeff had seen this transformation in his periodic Skype conversations. But it was another thing to see him in person. 

Kyle was pumped up and wired. Some kind of speed, he suspected.

Meth, adderal, Peruvian marching power. In combination with steroids, no doubt.

Kyle 1.0 had never been at a loss for words. The new version talked a mile a minute. Mostly jibber-jabber.

—How many pushups can you do?

—None.

—I can do 50, 30 one hands. I can deadlift.

(Grunting sounds)

—Hey! Guess what I’m working on?

—What?

—The solution. Heh-heh-heh.

His cousin slyly informed him that he was hatching a plan. The “project” he called it. The “operation.” The “solution.”

—I want to be part of the solution, not the problem.

—What solution? 

—The final solution.

(Kyle hoots)

—I’m just fucking with you, man. There was no final solution! The Holocaust was a myth invented by Jews to create the state of Israel. That’s why they all need to die.

—You’re a sick bastard.

—And you’re a lousy journalist.

—Why?

—No follow-up question. I said I’m working on a final solution. You didn’t ask me what the hell that means. 

—No I didn’t. You said you were just …

—Happy to tell you, cuz.

Kyle’s “final solution” was a work in progress. He went on and on about some mad bomber who blew up an elementary school in the 1930s. But that was just one of many possibilities. 

Bastille Day, 2016. 85 people, dead in the city of Nice. It made a big impression on Kyle.

—These towelheads have the right idea.

—What towelheads?

—The ones in France. Ploughed through those cheese-eating surrender monkeys like a knife through Brie, ha-ha.

—That’s not funny.

—Damn straight, it’s funny. Those Islamofuckers are going to hell, sure. But I admire their methods.

—Killing people with trucks?

—Fucking-A. 

—Why the hell would you admire that?

 —‘Cause I know why they hate us. 

—“Us” as-in the French?

—As-in Western civilization.

—OK. Why?

—Because we’re a decadent society.

—What’s that mean?

—What do you think it means? You’re a fucking English major! You tell me. The root word and all that shit.

(Silence) 

—Hell, I know you know. “Decadence” means decay. A state of decay. What’s the essence of decay? A lack of self-preservation. A lack of cultural identity. If you don’t fight for your own survival what good are you?

—So … let me get this straight. French tolerance for Islamic refugees is evidence of French decadence … and justification for Islamic refugees to kill them?

—That’s a bingo. You got it cuz! What do you think it feels like?

—I don’t want to.

—Well I do. Fuck. You ever hit anything with your car?

—Anything?

—Anything like anybody.

—No. What? 

—I hit a deer once. Thump. It’d be like that with people. 

This talk was a long one. 47.5 minutes. MP3 file …

At the end of it, Kyle laughed his head off.

—Man, your face just turned white! I’m just fucking with you! You think I’m going to rent Ryder and kill hippies, right? You’re ready to call the cops, right?

—N-no.

(Kyle speaking in a stage whisper.)

—I’ll let you in on a little secret, cuz. I’m no fucking Nazi. It’s one big act! (laughs) I’m undercover, get it? I’m writing a book, not you. If you publish a word of what I’ve said, I’ll sue your ass. For the time being, I think we’ve outgrown these little talks, huh? 

That was almost two years ago. Two years of silence followed.

Kyle dropped out of engineering school. Pissed the scholarship away, didn’t show up for his fall 2016 semester.

No more visits. No more Skype chats.

But Jeff had 37 hours of Kyle’s twisted rants. 

333,187 words.

And 666 pages of transcripts. 

Give or take.

But most of it was useless.

—You have a sexual fascination with me.

—Fuck you.

—You wanna fuck me?

—Sorry, I don’t swing that way. Heh. Just fucking with you cuz. 

—I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

—Seinfeld, right? Seinfeld’s a Jew. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Except there is. 

—I can’t tell when you’re …

(Record ends)

—Sex is rape. Chick don’t want you asking permission. She wants you doing her whether she wants it or not. That’s what she wants, OK? That’s not politically correct. But it’s the fucking truth—get it? 

—I get it.

—I think you ain’t getting it. You want to be a cuck? “Please, may I touch your pussy? May I eat your pussy?” Fuck that shit. 

Hour and hours of this horseshit. Hours and hours of typing in the transcripts. It went nowhere. Meanwhile, Jeff had real work to do. Real literature to read, real papers to write, real exams. He put his book on hold. Though he never fully gave it up. 

In early 2017, Kyle cleaned up his act, got a straight job at Home Depot, bought a muscle car. He didn’t kill anybody.

He’s all talk.

Then, like a bad dream, a horde of alt-right neo-Nazis showed up in the streets of Charlottesville. They were evidently upset about the city’s plans to take down that statue of Robert E. Lee. Kyle was upset, too.And that’s why he joined the party.

Jeff knew all this, because Kyle had called. From a payphone or a burner. Jeff didn’t recognize the number. Ignored it, but the calls kept coming. He finally picked up. 

—Who the hell is this?

—Kyle. Who the hell do you think, cuz? I’m in town. You ready to talk about my final solution?

—Uh … sure.

—Don’t put me on speaker asshole. You’re looking for that tape recorder. I know it.

—I’m not …

‘Don’t bullshit the bullshitter, cuz. I’m undercover, remember? One of the good guys.

—What kind of solution …

—It’s an antifa solution, cuz. Let’s grab lunch, OK? We’ll talk in person. Bring your goddamn tape recorder. You wanna book? I’ll give you your goddamn book. 1:30 p.m., Red Pump Kitchen. Be there or be square.

Click.

Jeff showed up a half-hour early. The appointed time rolled around. Kyle didn’t show up. 15 minutes later, Jeff is ready to give up. Then …

A muscle car flashes by the plate glass window. Just a blur, but Jeff recognizes it.2010 Dodge Challenger. Kyle’s car. His cousin waves from the driver’s side, flashes a toothy smile. Then he’s gone.

A few seconds later, there’s a thud. Then the sound of screaming.

The final solution.

Jeff grabs his notebook.

Drops a twenty on the table.

The Molly Ringwald ringer is wide-eyed. 

“Oh God … what’s happening?”

Craning her head, looking out the window. Actually shaking.

“Do you know what’s …?”

“No.”

Actually, Jeff has a pretty good idea.

Ding. 

Jeff’s out the door, walking downthe street. Away from the Red Pump Kitchen. Past the Impeccable Pig. As fast as he can, without being obvious.

Behind him, something horrible is happening. Screaming. The screaming has a rhythm to it, like unholy music. Some girl is keening oh god, oh god, oh god. Over and over. Some guy is doing the bass line with a guttural howl. 

Jeff can hear the horror. If he turns, he’ll get a good look at it. He doesn’t turn.

He walks past a cute green tennis shoe in pool of red blood. 

Keeps walking.

Back at his apartment, Jeff immediately burns the notebooks, deletes the documents and MP3 files, wipes the backups, optimizes his hard drive, runs several eraser programs to scrub any stubborn file fragments, and degausses his Sony recorder for good measure. After that, he waits for the FBI to call. And then call him in for a grilling session. He knows the question they’ll ask.

—Did you have any prior knowledge of your cousin’s intentions?

—No, sir. I knew he was a racist asshole. But this? I had no idea.

That’s what he’ll say. It’s the truth.

But nobody calls. 

(c) Marty Fugate 2018, all rights reserved

Bizarro World

INT -- DOMED STADIUM, TRUMP RALLY
Bizarro Trump works the adoring crowd.

Bizarro Trump: Me make Bizarro America great again! Bizarro Clinton ugly! Me grab pussy, not her pussy. Me have big penis, small finger!
Bizarro Newscaster: Trump message resonate with Bizarro America working class.
Bizarro Worker: Trump say what him think!
Bizarro Trump: Me build big Wall! Bizarro Americans pick vegetables, eat all tacos. Bizarro Mexicans no come!
Newscaster: But Wall on Canada border.
Bizarro Trump: Fake news!

The Bizarro crowd beats Newscaster to a pulp.

Bizarro Newscaster: (bloodied) Trump win election! What do now?
Bizarro Trump: Me now start next campaign!
Bizarro Newscaster: Me mean like president stuff.
Bizarro Trump: Me do huge president stuff! Now me help working class. Me rob from poor, give to rich! 
Bizarro Worker: Bizarro Jesus love you!
Bizarro Trump: Bizarro Jesus loser! Me like Savior not get crucified.
Bizarro Worker: Praise God!
Bizarro Trump: Praise me! Me fight all bad guys!
Bizarro Newscaster: You mean like Putin?
Bizarro Trump: Fake news!

The Bizarro crowd beats Newscaster to a pulpier pulp.

Bizarro Trump: Me friends with Putin! Little guy in North Korea, too. Me forget name. Canada bad guys! NATO, too. And FBI!
Bizarro Worker: Him patriot!
Bizarro Trump: Me not take guns. Me give guns. Look under seat!

The crowd does. Everyone gets a bigass gun. They cheer with joy.

Bizarro Newscaster: President Trump really bring America together.

The crowd shoots him full of holes.

Bizarro Newscaster: But ... me say ... nice thing.

Bizarro Trump: This Bizarro World, loser. Nice thing bad!

Bizarro Newscaster crumples in a heap. The crowd laughs.

Bizarro Trump: Now kill bad guys! You know who.

The crowd rushes out.