O flightless bird (Mr. Chicken)


Now the time had come. I went to my father Tom Jones and said, “Papa, dear, darling sweetest papa, I think it’s time that the truth came out. You are Frankie’s father. The parallels are too obvious to ignore. If you weren’t so physically akin you could still tell because you are both delusional and sort of sad and lost and resorting to desperate tactics in order to fumble your way through this world with stubby fingers slick with grease from the carry out buckets of Mr. Chicken I’ve found hidden about the house.”

But more than that, I was sick to death of both of them. I envisioned a glorious future where those two half-wits clubbed together in the belief that they would make a single wit, then went off to live in a shack in the mountains having subscribed to the theory that a body can  live by absorbing the minerals found naturally in air and rays of sunlight.

Then a very strange look came over Tom Jones; if I didn’t know any better I might have thought he was choking on a chicken bone that he’d swallowed when I came into the room so suddenly.

“Hell,” he said — with tears in his eyes. If I didn’t know any better I might have thought the bone was killing him. “Hell, Frankie ain’t my son. I wish he was…”

“Come now, father, enough lies,” said I.

Cough – cough -cough — a wishbone came flying out of his throat and pinged against the wall.  O chicken,  sweet, sad flightless bird, with your moronic gaze and absurd clucking, don’t you know that this is ‘the best of all possible worlds’ only because God is incapable of changing anything to improve it without simultaneously making it worse: bad and good are so delicately balanced, like the rainforest…

“But it’s true,” said my father. “I know it’s true because I know who Frankie’s real mother is — Nancy Sinatra.”


“I swear I never touched her. Frank Snr said he’d cut my dick off if I ever went near. Then he blacklisted me anyway, the cunt. His real father is that race-car driver who died under mysterious circumstances in 1974 –” Cough Cough Cough — Another bone; he must have swallowed the whole tiny chicken. He was turning really pink now. I watched him go on choking for a while.



One thought on “O flightless bird (Mr. Chicken)

  1. Pingback: Back in Hell. Feels like home | missshitsville

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