Once Upon a Time

There was once a man who lived in a house with his wife and his six children.  He owned his own business, as was evident by the house he lived in.  Lining the surrounding three acres of property was a metal fence lined at the top with barbed wire.  Though this wasn't farm country, it was the suburbs, this man was given to certain eccentricities.  Amongst them were two pet roosters he was very fond of.  No one can say for sure what exactly compelled this man to keep two of what are at best man's third or fourth best friend, but he kept them just the same.

Easily within earshot of the neighbors, the two roosters did as nature and man intended.  Every morning at sunrise they crowed.  Cock-a-doodle-doo.  But you see, the roosters escaped from time to time into the yards of neighbors.  More often than not, this resulted only in phone calls alerting him to the whereabouts of his flock.  One neighbor, however, consistently took exception to the very presence of the roosters, mostly due to their alarm clock capabilities.  His malcontent was such that he would even call his neighbor on occasion, complaining of the noise and disruption, one time even threatening their well-being.  

One day, after work and subsequent merrymaking at a local bar -- amongst the man's eccentricities there was also an affinity for the drink -- the man arrived home and was handed the telephone by his youngest son.  It was his disgruntled neighbor.  And he wasn't happy.  Apparently, that morning, the roosters felt it was he who had needed their wake-up call most.  He mustn't have agreed.  

So he took the phone from his son, listening to his neighbor without saying a word as war was declared on him and his roosters.  "I don't care what you do with them, just get rid of them!" 

As he hung up the phone, he summoned his youngest son, "Get me my gun."  

Though just a boy, his youngest son had grown acclimated to certain irregularities in his father's behavior: fluctuations that were to be expected of a man with an affinity for the drink. But now, his father's mood was colored also by his exceptional temper.  He knew better than to question him, though he feared his intentions.  Dutiful still, he brought his father his shotgun.                    

He followed cautiously at a safe distance as his father purposefully stormed through the house and into the back yard.  Without hesitation he shot and killed both of his roosters, carrying them by their feet, their heads dangling in unison with his gait, back toward the house and his youngest son.  

"Get a bag," he mumbled.  His son obliged.  As he dropped the two corpses into the bag, he doled out further instruction, "...and make sure you ring the doorbell.  Don't just leave them."  

Trembling, the son sauntered across a few yards eventually arriving at a front door.  He took a deep breath and rang the bell.  Without a word, he handed the bag to the neighbor, whose mouth hung open in fearful bewilderment.