The Golden Pompous

Gabriel, my stepbrother (once removed…?), got a live chicken from school. They just give those out. Hey kid, want a chicken?


Our parents built a little coop for Goldie, and then we started acquiring various other chickens and ducks. As I write this, I keep backspacing. Why did we have all these farm animals? I have no explanation.

Goldie grew to be a massive cock, in every sense of the word.

As roosters go, he was a prime specimen. Nearly my height with huge breasts, golden eyes, a reddish-orange comb and long, luxurious sickle feathers. He knew he was beautiful and would strut around, asserting is dominance.


After feeding Goldie one day, Gabriel came inside rather upset. “I don’t like when Goldie knocks me down and jumps up and down on my back.” he said.


Yeah, dude. That sucks.

I was taller than Gabriel (at that point in time – didn’t last long) so Mom asked me to go round up the chickens and put them in the coop. My friend Michael came to help.


(I got sick of drawing chickens.)

I tried ushering Goldie towards the coop.


He didn’t like that.



I soon realized I had been led into a trap. There were spiky sticks and jagged rocks all around me. It was a woodland Thunderdome.


I backed away slowly, abandoning the mission my mother had assigned me. Goldie lunged at me. He was out for blood.


I could hear Michael’s raucous laughter over the sound of my fearful screams. Admittedly, I was laughing too.

I narrowly escaped certain death. Goldie went to live on a farm.

EDIT: My parents read this and said Goldie didn’t actually go live on a farm. He died heroically protecting the rest of the flock from a fox.




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