The Chicken Detective

Carl climbed over the fence. He was slightly angry. Only slightly–Carl didn't appreciate people who were too angry. He was (slightly) angry because it was three a.m. on a Tuesday, and his landlady, Mrs Hudson, would have something to say about his going out so early as soon as he got home. 

He would say what he always said: duty calls, and then he would nod solemnly.    

Carl Eatsbourne was the foremost Chicken Detective in all of North America - well, all of the world, probably, if it hadn’t been for that bastard Nikaloenovitch in Georgia. Carl was even more angry (even more slightly angry, if you're keeping track) just thinking of him. 

But as he dropped down from the fence, all thoughts of that bastard, Nikaloenovitch, fled from his mind. The crime scene before him was the most impressive he had seen in his three decades as Chicken Detective. 

The farm owner, who had presumably been waiting for him, rushed up, distraught. “Mr Eastbourne, Mr Eastbourne!” 

“Eatsbourne,” Carl corrected. 

“Mr Eastbourne,” the farmer continued, ignoring him, “I need your help!”

“I know. You did call me here,” Carl said.

“My chicken—oh, my poor chicken—has been stolen!”

“I know,” Carl said. 

“I am completely and utterly at a loss—I need a detective!”

“I know,” Carl repeated. 

The farmer continued to wring his thin hands and look pitifully helpless, which did not affect Carl with any vaguely sympathetic emotions even a little bit. Carl did not like to be sympathetic, he liked to be slightly angry.

(It’s worth saying that Carl was almost always slightly angry—it gave him the air of being faintly disapproving of everything and everyone, which was quite a good air for a detective to have, if he did say so himself.)

Carl focused his thoughts on the interesting scene at the chicken coop, and stood for a while. It would have been awkward if Carl was not overbearing and in control of every situation; so, it was awkward by normal human standards. Carl did not care at all about normal human standards.

He cared about chickens. 

Carl stayed there, taking notes and observing for the next five-and-three-quarter hours. Needless to say, Mrs Hudson was not pleased. 

-----

Carl stepped on the pedal of his 1941 Soybean. It was rickety and old and probably would be worth a lot if it had been at all taken care of, but Carl did not care about cars. 

He cared about chickens.

Carl kept driving through the monotonous prairie landscape, his eyes on the stars dotting the brilliant night sky ahead of him. 

----

It was one a.m. on a Wednesday. Mrs Hudson would have his hide, but this was important. This was a secret Carl needed to keep; he couldn't just go traipsing off to prairies in the middle of the day on Wednesdays—it wouldn't do for a respectable detective. (And he was a respectable detective, no matter what the bastard Nikaloenovitch said about him.)

Carl drove up to a huge mountain in the middle of the prairie. Nobody knew why or how the mountain came to be, but every time someone tried to investigate it, they met with an... well, a mild accident. Not fatal. No, Nikaloenovitch would certainly have something (probably unkind) to say about that.

Carl parked his car on the side of the lonely road and stepped out. He trooped towards the mountain (Carl never walked, he only trooped) and pushed on a patch of sand. The mountain opened, and Carl went inside a hatch, quick as a dying chicken, and the opening disappeared. If you had blinked (or been distracted by a dying chicken) you would have missed it. 

Carl stepped in, blinking at the sudden glare of light that accompanied the opening of the hatch. Inside the mountain, there were thousands of chickens. Big and small, brown and white, male and female: every kind of chicken was here. They were all free range (of course—Carl cared about chickens, he wouldn’t mistreat them, even if it did make things a little more chaotic than they could have been). Carl walked among the chickens as they parted for him, clucking and pecking at him as though they were all exact replicas of Mrs Hudson. Carl occasionally stopped to pet a hen or two. He surveyed the chickens with a fatherly familiarity, making sure every one of them was well-fed and cared for. 

He continued this for some time. When dawn broke, however, he gave a small white hen a kiss and disappeared back through the hatch. 

--------

Carl climbed over the farmer’s fence, appearing as if by magic out of the mist. He had no patience for things like ‘gates’ and ‘manners’ (it was a side effect of the slight anger). The farmer stood by the coop, wringing his hands, no less anxious than he had been two days before.

Carl breathed deeply—he must be prepared for the denouement. He would miss this little chicken, he thought, feeling her warmth against his ribs. Yes, he would miss her, as he missed all the others.

Carl dialed up the slight anger. It wouldn't do to be sentimental in front of this man. 

Carl stepped forward, attracting the farmer’s attention. He opened his trench coat much more dramatically than he could have (and perhaps should have) done. Curled up inside a large pocket was a small white hen, looking extremely contented. 

“Is this your chicken?” he said, in the blandest, bluntest, calmest, most Carl-like tone possible. 

The little farmer trembled with excitement. “Yes! Yes! Oh, Bessie,” he cooed, snatching her from Carl’s arms. “I don’t know how I can thank you enough!”

“Your gratitude is my reward,” Carl said, even though he did not care about the farmer’s gratitude. 

He cared about chickens. 

Carl backtracked over the fence, disappearing into the mist much more enigmatically than he probably intended to. 

The farmer stared after him, a look of awe upon his face. 

Mrs Hudson would be happy that he’d come home in time for dinner, Carl thought distractedly. As he walked towards his rickety old car, he mentally patted himself on the back, and his anger dissipated (slightly). Another job well done, he thought. Another happy chicken. 

He trooped off into the fog. 

The End