Volume 2: The Government Chicken
by Bobby Fairhope, Redneck
People think livin’ in the country means peace and quiet. That is incorrect. What it means is your emergencies happen slower.
City people got sirens and helicopters and SWAT teams. We got Larry Peebles in overalls drivin’ fifteen miles an hour with one hand out the truck window yellin’, “Y’all got a chicken problem?” And somehow that’s worse.
Now this particular incident started because the county decided to improve things. That should’ve been our first warning. They sent a young fella from Tallahassee down to “evaluate rural infrastructure needs.” Which is government talk for: “We got grant money and no hobbies.”
His name was Trevor. You could tell he was from the city because he wore loafers in a cow pasture and kept sayin’ words like “initiatives.”
Trevor gathered everybody at the volunteer fire department and explained the county was piloting a “sustainable community poultry partnership.” We all just stared at him. Finally Earl asked, “Is this chicken-related?”
Trevor smiled like he’d connected with the common folk. “Exactly.”
Now apparently the county had decided free-range chickens could help reduce food insecurity while encouraging environmental stewardship. I still don’t know what that means. But by Friday they had released forty-seven government-funded chickens into Possum Hollow. No fences. No plan. Just chickens.
Trevor said the chickens would become a “shared community resource.” That sounded suspiciously communist to me.
At first everything seemed fine. The chickens wandered around peckin’ bugs and lookin’ judgmental. Then they started organizin’.
By the second week those birds had figured out traffic patterns. They knew when the school bus came. They knew when Earl opened his bait shop. And somehow — to this day nobody understands this — they learned exactly when Miss Darlene set out fresh biscuits to cool on her windowsill.
That was the beginning of the Biscuit Raids.
Every morning around nine-thirty you’d hear Darlene scream: “NOT AGAIN!” Then chickens scatterin’ in every direction like tiny feathered bank robbers. One of ’em carried an entire sausage biscuit halfway across town. Another one somehow got into the Dollar General and survived three days livin’ off Funyuns.
Sheriff Trotter tried to get control of the situation, but his deputy refused to chase the chickens after one of ’em spurred him directly in the pride. Then the mayor called an emergency town meeting.
Now, small-town emergency meetings are different from city emergency meetings. City folks bring charts. We bring lawn chairs and theories.
Earl blamed federal weather satellites. Miss Darlene claimed the chickens were unionizing. Skeeter said one of ’em had been watchin’ him through the bathroom window. Trevor from Tallahassee insisted the program was still within acceptable metrics.
That was when a chicken flew onto the refreshment table and stole half a pecan pie. The room turned against him immediately. You ever see a government program die in real time? It’s beautiful.
The mayor stood up slow and serious. “Trev,” he said, “I believe your chickens have become too confident.”
Trevor started talkin’ about phase two funding. Nobody listened. Because at that exact moment, through the open firehouse door, we could all see the chickens marchin’ down Main Street together in a straight line. Not wanderin’. Marchin’. Like they had business somewhere.
Sheriff Trotter removed his hat. “Dear God,” he whispered. And I’ll tell you right now: when a Southern sheriff starts whisperin’ at poultry, things have officially deteriorated.
Turns out the chickens had discovered the automatic doors at the Piggly Wiggly.
For nearly two hours they wandered in and out of the store stealin’ produce and terrifyin’ tourists from Ohio. One old lady locked herself in the restroom and refused to come out until Animal Control arrived from three counties over. By then the chickens had vanished.
Nobody knows where they went.
Sometimes folks claim they still see ’em near dusk out by Route 9. Watchin’. Waitin’. Probably planning phase two themselves. Trevor transferred back to Tallahassee. Miss Darlene started puttin’ screens on her windows.
And Sheriff Trotter now keeps what he calls an “anti-poultry contingency shotgun” in his patrol car. Officially it’s for snakes. Unofficially we all know better.
As for me, I learned an important lesson from the whole affair: If the government ever offers you free chickens…
Pay whatever they’re askin’ instead.
© 2026 Curtis Wiggins, freely shareable with attribution.
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