The Poultry Prophet. The Bluetooth-wearing, prophecy-whispering robe entity from beyond the meat aisle. This time, he’s barefoot, one big toenail painted like a cracked eggshell, with tiny googly eyes glued on, and glistening, like he’s been baptized in poultry fat. No mug. No robe. Just gym shorts, and a shirt that says “I WAS PLUCKED FOR THIS” in glitter-puff paint. Either a homemade offering from a chicken cult kindergarten class, or a cursed Etsy purchase.
He stares. I stare.
We nod. Two soldiers who once shared a foxhole made of glitter and vague threats.
“You return with new offerings,” he says, voice low.
I hold up the bag. “No threats this time. Just vibes.”
He approaches. Sniffs the air, catching the scent of moral compromise and celebratory cocoa butter. “Someone has recently doubted capitalism,” he whispers. “And moisturized.”
I’m too stunned to confirm or deny.
Without warning, he takes a cake knife out of the gift bag.
Not a word. Just plucks it like it’s Excalibur from the tissue paper.
Then, without ceremony but with divine aim, he shanks it into Kira’s door. Like the door had sinned against the flock and this was judgment day.
Right through the pink ribbon handle of the bag. Clean. Centered. Buried to the hilt. The bag flutters, pierced. A ritual complete.
I take a second to reboot. “Holy shit. You just nailed the vibe and the door.”
He nods slowly, a prophet admiring a holy relic. “The hens accept this penance,” he says. “Forgiveness is the yolk spilled across the altar. Contrition smells of boiled egg and glitter glue. Judgment comes softly on clawed feet.” Then, softer, he says, “We rise on broken shells.”
“I... don’t know what that means, but I love that for us,” I whisper.
He squints at me like he’s reading my aura through a poultry veil. “You’ve molted,” he says. “Feathers of chaos now soften with meaning. The chaos molts with you. The coop sees. The coop forgives. Until next molt.”
I forget how to word.
He stares deep into my soul. “Less cock,” he intones, “More doodle doo. The dawn is coming. Be ready to crow.”
It feels like the highest praise I’ve ever received.
“I’m working on myself,” I say brightly. “Like, still unhinged, just not currently weaponizing glitter as emotional terrorism. I have plenty of cock still. But yes more doodle and doo to come.”
He considers. Then, faintly, like the ghost of a chicken’s laugh, he clucks once.
I fish a packet of trail mix and two Godiva truffles from my purse and offer them up. “For your flock,” I say.
“The protein pleases them,” he says, pocketing the goods with an avian nod. And then, just as silently, disappears back into his door, trailed by a faint squawk that could be a bird sound from his Bluetooth, or a hallucination.
I stare after him. The hallway is quiet again. The bag hangs from the knife. A peace treaty skewered for display.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “That was actually pretty mature. For me.”
I blow a kiss to the bag, whisper “Mazeltov, hens,” and strut back down the hallway like a reformed demon who just got her wings clipped but is still allowed to scream on weekends.
Chapter Fifty
Jett
Rhys had us all bent over sketchpads in his glorified porn class, pretending it wasn’t about watching her stretch and breathe and pose like temptation in soft focus.
Benji let us all into his world yesterday. The pool was fun. Even after she left and took the color with her. Like always.
And now they’re coming here.
