The Golden Pompous

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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(I got sick of drawing chickens.)

I tried ushering Goldie towards the coop.

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He didn’t like that.

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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.

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

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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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