Fox Run Road

Mac stood staring at the brood of chickens, his face devoid of expression. The birds were neatly grouped in a v formation, with one large black hen standing in front. Behind them, facing the opposite direction, was a rooster. The cockerel sat solemn and silent, surrounded by patches of his own red feathers.

One might think the rooster would be representing the flock. After all, that's the way it normally is, right? Whether it be in children's books, cartoons, or real life. In most places, roosters ordinarily "rule the roost," so to speak. Well, this farm wasn't like most places, and it sure as shit wasn't ordinary. 

"Betty," said Mac to the large black hen. "Would you care to elaborate on what happened?"

The hen took a step forward, her head jerking and bobbing erratically. "Mr. Mackay," began the chicken.

"It's just Mac," he interrupted. 

"Very well," she replied. "Mac." The large bird strutted in front of the smaller white and brown hens. "There's nothing the matter any longer. It's all been sorted out," said Betty. With her statement came a cascade of giggling from the other chickens. The rooster, with larges patches of bald spots all over his body, remained silent.

Mac pointed to the rooster. "Why does Dexter look like he squared off with badger?"

Dexter looked almost as rough as when Mac first met him. The rooster had come to the farm after local law enforcement shut down a cockfighting ring. Dex was the only bird that made it out of the operation alive. That left scars you could see and some that you couldn't

To put it bluntly, Dexter, the rooster, looked like he just had his ass handed to him. Mac was starting to piece it together but wanted to hear everyone out all the same. He nodded towards the pouting rooster. "Did you and Dex get in a fight?" he asked Betty.

"Fight is a strong word," answered the hen. The laughter grew louder as Betty continued. "He got his drumsticks beat, his nuggets toasted, his wings fried!" At this point, the other hens were rolling on the ground in fits of laughter.

Dex stood up and turned in defense of himself, strutting angrily past the hysterical hens. "I beg of you, Dominus," said the rooster in a deep voice. "Hear my version of the events before you pass judgment upon me."

"Dex," Mac replied quietly. "I told you not to call me Dominus." 

"Are you not my owner?" questioned the rooster.

"I-..." Mac paused, thinking hard on the question. According to the rest of the world, he owned every animal on the farm. But as it was established earlier, his farm was by no means like the rest of the world. Mac had always figured once they started acting like people, he couldn't very well treat the animals like he owned them. That would essentially be slavery. Wouldn't it?

"You know what, Dex? said Mac. "I don't know what the word is for my relationship with you or any other barnyard animal in this place, but one thing I am not is your Dominus."

Dex pointedly gave Betty a wide berth as he drew closer. "Will master suffice?"

"No!" snapped Mac. Not master, not dominus, or any of that old world 'my liege' shit. You're not a weird gladiator chicken anymore, so stop talking like fucking Spartacus!" he said, pointing at the rooster.

Mac calmed his voice and continued. "Look, Dex. I own this land, and you live on it. I don't see myself as anyone's owner or master. You, Betty, the hens, you're all more like my family. So please, talk to me like a friend, like-... like a brother."

The rooster paused, dramatically staring off into the distance. "The only brother's I've ever had, I was forced to slay in glorious combat."

"Mmhm," said Mac Dryly. "Then I suppose it's quite fortunate that we don't engage in bloodsport on this farm."

"Speak for yourself, honey," said Betty, causing all the chickens to cheer and laugh louder.

"Very well, Mac," Dex said testily. "This dark feathered harlot dishonorably blindsided me, and then the rest of these traitorous bitches swarmed me." The rooster bowed his head. "Had you not come when you did, the attack would have claimed my life."

Betty snorted at Dex's words, and the hens' laughing quickly turned into jeering. "That's bullshit," said Betty, calmly swaggering forward. Dex startled as she strutted past. The rooster seemed to be terrified of the large hen.

"Dexus Maximus over here has been treating every lady in this coop like sex slaves." The hen pointed an accusatory beak at Dex. "He's aggressive and even becomes violent if any of us decide we don't feel like mating."

The rooster stamped his foot in the dirt then kicked the particles behind him. "I am doing my job as the male and leader of this flock—Tis' my sworn duty. For my dominu-... uh, Mac."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "What's your sworn duty, Dexter?"

"Why, to do what's in my nature, of course! It's my sworn duty to mate with every one of these bitches, even if that means taking the whores at times they think are inconv-"

Dex never got the chance to finish his sentence. Before Mac could even lift a finger to stop it, Betty was in full charge, yelling all the while. "Yaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!" the chicken bellowed to the raucous encouragement of the other hens. 

Dexter had a split second to respond, but retirement from the arena had left his reflexes slow. The giant hen slammed her body into his, and the rooster went beak over tailfeathers multiple times.

"Yeah! Who's the bitch now, Chantecler?" hollered Betty, doing a rope-a-dope in the dirt. "Get up and let me show you my original recipe for an extra crispy ass-whuppin'!" 

Mac had stopped questioning the rules of this place. He was already going insane, so why speed up the process trying to make sense of it. Still, he wondered where the hen had learned such scathing smack talk. Mac stepped forward to break up the fight. "Betty, back off!"

Betty spun towards Mac, lowering her head. "What?! Are you taking his side?" she hissed. The other hens snapped their heads in his direction, a few of them narrowing their eyes suspiciously. They seem more like humans every day, he thought.

Mac held up his hands defensively. "No, Betty. I'm not taking anyone's side." He lowered his hands and stepped cautiously in between the two birds. "I try really fucking hard to avoid farm politics and only intervene when I absolutely have to." He lowered himself down to a knee to get on the hens level.

"I do not condone the way Dexter treats you and the other ladies, and I believe I am partly to blame for his horrible behavior." 

The hen's all gasped. "How could you be responsible for that cock's terrible treatment of us?" demanded Betty. Mac hesitated, thinking carefully on his next words, and just as he was about to speak them, something moved in the corner of his eye. 

It was Mac's dog, Mikey, running over to see what the commotion was. That gave him further pause for thought. After all, Mikey wasn't his dog. The canine wasn't his property any more than the rest of the animals in this strange place. That's when it hit Mac that he was long overdue for a conversation with everyone on the farm.

Mikey sprinted up to Mac and protectively circled him while aggressively barking. Mac had never seen the dog like this, with his ears pinned back, baring his teeth. "Mikey, Chillout," said Mac, scratching the dog's neck each time he circled past. "Everything is ok."

Mikey stopped behind Mac to protect his backside from the rooster. "It doesn't look ok," said the dog, a low growl still emitting from his throat. "Everything looks very not ok, and— well, I'm not ok with things being not ok... I think?"

Mac calmly turned around and grabbed Mikey's collar, scratching the dog behind the ears as he did so. "Buddy, if I'm confused by what you're saying, then I know you're confused too. I swear to you that I'm perfectly fine."

Mikey plopped his hindquarters on the ground, craning his neck around to look at Mac with his body still facing the rooster. "Then why do all the chickens look so angry?" Mikey wasn't the most intelligent animal on the farm, but he was quite observant of body language. These creatures may have behaved like people, but their animalistic instincts never waned, and that was just one more thought atop a confusing pile of them, a heap of bizarre shit that sat squarely in the center of his life, dominating every aspect of it.

Mac lived on this farm for a year now, and he was still unsure of his place in it. On paper and according to the rest of the world, he was the rightful owner of 343 Fox Run Rd, Wardsboro, Vermont. He paid the bank for the foreclosed property. In return for his payment, the bank gave him a piece of paper saying Arthur G. Mackay had lawfully purchased the aforementioned property, and therefore, it was his.

But there was the rub. The papers, deeds, banks, and overall legality of the purchase didn't mean a thing. Especially not while Mac was actively trying to mediate a dispute between a clutch of angry oppressed hens and a sexually aggressive rooster. 

"You were saying?" said Betty, exasperated.

Mac held up an index finger. "Betty, I need one minute, ok?"

"You can't just drop a bomb like that on us and then leave us hanging." Spat the chicken.

"I swear that I will take care of this problem, but it kind of ties into the overarching issue of this place. If you give me a few moments, I'll be able to kill two bir-," Mac stopped midsentence, having forgotten who he was speaking to. "I'll be able to take care of two problems at the same time, Betty." 

Mac slowly got back up to a knee. "In the meantime, I'm removing Dexter from the coop." Betty and the other hens cheered their approval.

"Treachery!" roared Dexter. "I was simply doing what's in my nature!"

"That's the thing, Dex. There is nothing natural about this place, and that's what all of us here need to discuss." Mac turned to the dog, still faithfully protecting him from the non-existent threat. "Mikey, Can I get a favor from you?" asked Mac.

"Vanilla," Mikey instantly replied. "No! Bacon!" he quickly corrected.

Mac sighed. "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey!" he said, snapping his fingers in time with his words. "Eyes and ears, buddy." The canine finally turned all the way around. "I said favor. I need a favor from you," said Mac

"Oh," replied Mikey, lowering his head bashfully.

Mac leaned in close to make sure he kept the dog's undivided attention. "I need you to gather all the animals from the fields and tell them to meet me behind the house. I'll make sure all the gates and pens are open."

"Ok! Gather all the animals!" Mikey repeated, his nubby tail wagging quickly. He took off like a bullet only to come to a skidding halt a few feet away, sending up a cloud of dust. "Uhm, Mac? What about Larry? You told me not to go near him."

"I'll get Larry. You get everyone else."

Mac watched Mikey race off as he walked towards Larry's pen. He only intended to make a half-hearted effort with llama because he knew how it would end. "Larry! Mac shouted as he approached the creature's enclosure. The llama came trotting up, his lower jaw ever moving in a circular motion, chewing and re-chewing the partially digested food called cud. 

"My white brother!" exclaimed Larry. 

"Off to a terrible start, Lar. What the fuck did I say about that white power shit?"

Larry stopped just on the other side of the fence, his mouth chewing even more aggressively. "What? Are you not proud of being white? I know I sure am."

With that, Mac about-faced from the fence and llama. "Nooope," he said, walking towards the house. "I'm only gonna chalk this shit up to ignorance for so long, Larry."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the llama called after him.

"It means you and I have a lot of work to do," he called back. "We'll try again tomorrow. Mac continued towards the house, juggling his problems in his mind. He had gotten the llama after authorities raided a white nationalist's farm just over the border in New Hampshire, so he remained patient with Larry. 

So far, Mac's lessons on equality had fallen flat, ending multiple times with him getting called a race traitor. Still, he felt he was making progress as the llama hadn't tried to spit on him in several weeks. 

Just as Mac was about to reach the animals now gathering in his backyard, a raccoon with the strangest markings descended an oak tree and stood in his path, Mac stopped and raised his eyebrows at the bizarre critter. He was white, with black stripes, black paws, and black rings around his eyes.

 "Look," said Mac, holding his palms out. "I told you guys what goes on in the woods is none of my business. I've got enough problems here on the farm."

The raccoon mimicked Mac perfectly, holding his little paws out to the side. "Is your name on the deed to the land?" he said.

"Yes," replied Mac.

"Then I'm afraid you don't have a say in the matter. You essentially signed a contract with the land and, well, me."

Mac widened his eyes at the raccoon's audacity. "Uh, no. False," he said flatly. "I signed a purchase and sale agreement with a bank and the original estate."

The raccoon lowed his paws. "Lawyers didn't find anything out of sorts? No strange clauses? No oddities?"

Mac furrowed his brow, recalling his purchase of the farm. "The bank said there was a weird clause with some little rhyming blurb." Mac blinked and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The raccoon slapped a paw to his forehead. "I'm such a dolt. You've been here for well over a year, and I haven't introduced myself. My name is Azeban, pleased to meet your acquaintance." With that, Azeban held out his hand to shake Mac's.

In all the weird shit Mac had seen since taking ownership of this property, this was by far the weirdest. At this point, he was used to animals exhibiting human traits but not to this extent. He took a large step back from the raccoon's outstretched paw.

"Completely understandable. I'm not even offended," said Azeban lowering his paw. The raccoon folded his arms behind his back and began to pace in front of Mac. "Mac, Can I call you Mac? Or is that like a friend's only thing?"

"Mac's fine," he replied, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Mac, let's talk about the big picture here. Do you need to sit? You look like you need to sit."

"I'm gonna sit, yeah," said Mac, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Probably the tumor in my brain-

Mac's inner monologue was interrupted by Azeban speaking. "You don't have a tumor in your brain, Mac." He paused, waiting for Mac to come to grips with a raccoon reading his mind. 

Mac's jaw dropped as he slowly blinked at the telepathic raccoon. "Did you jus-"

"Read your mind? Yes. Now, let's get down to brass tacks." said Azeban with his furry arms still regally tucked behind him. "You've done better with this place than I ever could have imagined. I mean, the last three owners were so easy to drive mad it almost took the fun right out of it. Almost."

Mac sat in front of the raccoon, bewildered and now concerned by the creature's rhetoric. Slowly he regained his grasp of reality and shook off his astonishment. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh dear," said Azeban, dramatically putting a paw to his mouth. "You're certainly not the brightest, are you?"

"Listen, you furry dickbag," snapped Mac, pointing a finger defensively. "I have zero context on the subject of which you speak. You come out of nowhere, acting more fucking human than the rest of these animals combined, saying something about driving people mad, and then expect me to know what you're talking about." Mac stood up and took a breath. "So make your godamn point, Rocket. And say it plainly."

Azeban put his paws to his chest. "It has been, for thousands of years, my sworn duty to cause all kinds of mischief, trickery, and general skullduggery in this place." The raccoon gestured around to everything.

Mac's eyes widened in realization. He threw his head back and groaned knowingly. "Please don't tell me you're an Algonquian river spirit or some out there shit like that."

Azeban belly laughed. "Oh heavens no," he said, waving a dismissive paw. His laughter ceased suddenly, and he straightened up. "I am, however, an Abenaki trickster spirit. He shrugged, walking by Mac and towards the woods. "Anyhoops... I just wanted to introduce myself." 

With that, Azeban walked towards the treeline, whistling the Andy Griffith theme and leaving Mac with a much larger pile of problems.

Mikey came thundering up behind Mac, coming to a skidding halt just past him. "Who was that?" Asked Mikey.

"Azeban," Mac replied casually.

"Huh," said Mikey. "Must be the guy the cat was talking about."

Mac startled. "Lucy was talking about him?"

"Yup. She told me to go chase him off because he was a..." The dog looked up, trying to recall the cat's words.

"A Native American trickster spirit?" suggested Mac.

"No," said Mikey shaking his furry head. "Twat. She said he was a twat."