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Quentin hated chickens. Really, it was more that chickens hated him. He’d gotten pecked one too many times—which was twice—and now he was done with the whole damn species.
But these chickens, he was realizing, were one million percent Glob’s girlfriends. Maybe that was one more reason to hate them. Except that the way Glob was talking to them and petting their little chicken heads was making him feel almost like they might be… cute. Almost.
One chicken kept circling Glob. Eventually he reached down and picked it up, letting it sit down in his cupped hands. He lifted it towards Quentin. “This is Cluck Norris.”
Quentin stared at him. The chicken stared at Quentin. “All your chickens are chicks,” he said finally.
Glob shrugged. “She liked Zombie Plane.”
“She what?”
“You know, the new Chuck Norris movie? It’s got zombies on a plane.” He held the chicken closer to Quentin. “Come on, pet her.”
“Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, dude!”
Quentin shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Nope. Not happening.”
“Pet the chicken, Quentin.” Now it was stretching its head out towards him, too. Of course it was siding with Glob.
“I don’t want to pet your stupid chicken!”
Glob put a hand over Cluck Norris’s head. Was he… covering her ears? Did chickens even have ears? Of course they did, otherwise they wouldn’t be so obnoxiously clucky. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“No! Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that! I’m not gonna pet Cluck Norris!” Oh, no. He’d called her by name. Even worse, he’d thought of her as a her. He was cooked. Like that chicken should be. Preferably in nugget form.
“You will. You just don't know it yet.” Glob set down Cluck Norris. “Okay, you know who you’ll love?” When Quentin didn’t answer, Glob continued, “She’s got a great name. And she’ll only peck you provoke her, so, y’know, don’t be a dick.”
“How would I even provoke a chicken?” he muttered. Glob stared at him, squinting as much as a guy with no eyelids could. He didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was thinking: If anyone could… Quentin rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I won’t provoke your fucking chicken.”
Glob nodded and scooped a mottled grey and black chicken off the floor, standing up with her cradled in his arms.
The chicken looked fucking ridiculous, even by chicken standards. Her feathers looked puffed out and ruffled everywhere, with black spots and a stupid little white beard puffing out from under her beak. Her head was bald with extremely judgy beady little eyes. “Professor Eggs-avier?”
Glob looked down at the chicken. “Okay, I see it,” he said, “but nah. This is Nessie!”
“You named the chicken… after the Loch Ness Monster.” She was still giving him a disapproving look. He leered back at her. At least the contempt was mutual with this one. “I thought they’d all be lame-ass puns.”
“Well, I named her Hen-Nessie, but calling her Nessie was a bonus!” Glob took a step closer and Quentin took two back, not breaking eye contact with the chicken.
“Seriously, dude, are you, like, scared of chickens? It's okay if you're scared of chickens.”
“I am not scared of them!” he snapped, glaring up at Glob. “I just hate them. Back off.” Damn it, now he’d been out-stared by a chicken. He just had to hope the chicken wouldn’t take it as a sign of weakness.
“Then why are you being such a chicken about it?” Glob kept advancing with Hen-Nessie. Quentin kept backing away until he hit a wall. He could have just slipped out to the side, but that would be pretty pathetic. He was in too deep, now. “Bok bok bok!”
“I’m not a fucking chicken! And get that fucking bird out of my face!”
“Yeah, I know you’re not a chicken,” Glob said, scratching Hen Nessie under her beak. “You’d be nicer if you were.”
Quentin blinked. That stung way more than it should have, which was to say it stung at all. He looked down at Hen Nessie, trying to let his loathing distract him from it. It worked pretty fucking well, especially with Glob cooing over her. Quire, you will not be jealous of a chicken. Get it the fuck together. “Fucking whatever, man.”
“Can you just pet the chicken, like, one time?” Glob was watching him, unmoving. It sounded like an actual question. He hated that. It meant he had to actually answer, or it’d be weird. It was already weird. Weirder.
Of course he could pet the chicken. But that would be admitting defeat. Except running away without petting a chicken would also be defeat. He couldn’t kill the chickens, both because it would break Glob’s dumb heart and because he wasn’t convinced they had enough of a mind for him to shut down if he tried. Didn’t chickens keep walking after their heads were cut off? He’d definitely heard that somewhere. Maybe he just had to kill himself. No, Glob would probably be upset by that, too, the fucking loser.
He needed to get it together. What was option four? Five? Stop counting, do something.
Quentin grabbed the chicken that was pecking at his boots and held it in one arm, giving it three pats on the head. It clucked and shuffled its wings. “Happy?”
Glob was happy. Too happy. “Hen Solo! Aw, look, she likes you!”
He stared down at her, gritting his teeth. Now he was holding a chicken, when he could have just given that ugly one a bop on the head. Tonight he was going to scrape out whatever stupid part of his brain had been responsible for this decision with a spoon.
Glob had set down Hen-Nessie and was now crowded even closer to Quentin, petting Hen Solo’s neck with one massive finger. “She really likes pets on her wings,” he said, taking Quentin’s hand and moving it. “See? Look how happy she is!”
Glob’s hand on his was nothing, and he felt nothing at all about it. Nothing worth mentioning. “She looks like a chicken, dumbass.”
Glob shook his head. “C’mon, man, listen! She’s clucking.”
“That’s what chickens do.” But he did listen. She was making a soft sort of warbly clucky sound that he had to admit—only to himself—did seem pretty happy. Great. Now a chicken loves me. This fucking blows.
“You don’t have to be such an asshole about them, man,” Glob said, and now he was just way too fucking close, casting a pink shadow over him and the chicken. That would have been lucky for Quentin if his ears had been turning red, which they weren’t, because there was no reason for them to, so he wasn't worried about it.
Quentin looked down and huffed. “I’m petting one. That’s what you wanted.” Hen Solo ducked her little chicken head and he scratched behind her crest. Glob was still watching him as he did, as if his humiliation wasn’t complete enough. And the moment just kept stretching on. And on.
Glob finally stepped back, folding his arms over his chest. “Okay, I gotta get started on dinner. Be nice to my chickens, or I’m feeding you kale salad.”
A moment too late, Quentin realized he was being left alone with the chickens. And by then Glob was already halfway across the greenhouse. And he was still holding Hen fucking Solo.
She was tilting her little chicken head curiously. Or he was projecting. Either way, the chicken was looking at him.
“What kind of a psycho threatens someone with salad,” Quentin grumbled, putting her down. “You’d better peck him for me, Hen.”
And that was it. His worst mistake yet. A catastrophic error that he would never come back from so long as he lived. The kind of debasement that a samurai would have to slice himself open for, a fact he knew completely against his will.
He had talked to a chicken.