Interview with the Christmas Chicken #PulpAdventCalendar2022

You take the DVD out of its package. It's an old deck—as you push the disc in, the display, also old and unreliable, manages to output the footage with a bit of noise.

Static... static.

This novel is brought to you by #PulpAdventCalendar2022.

December 24th, 10:00 PM.

The East Coast of the United States. Greenwell State, which developed as a port trade city spreading across the coastal region. In the largest city among them, Old Height—at the George Poultry Farm on its outskirts.
Inside an old chicken coop—the door is unlocked, and it doesn't seem like there is any electricity. In the back—a man is collapsed. A man in a red-haired suit. What on earth happened to him? Why is he collapsed in such a remote poultry farm?
To tell that story, we must turn back the clock twenty-six hours.

Interview with the Christmas Chicken (in a creepy 80's horror font)

December 23rd, 8:00 PM.

At Diner Red Drucker, located a short walk from the city's main intersection in the central district of Old Height.

"You... again?"

"Yeah, it's me again..."

The two men seated at the table were facing each other with weary expressions for the same reason. Their second cigarette already—the champion of the masses, the quintessential cheap cigarette 'Lucky Striker'—was now on the verge of burning down to the filter.
The red-haired man—a businessman-type dressed in a striped suit—sighed heavily, picked up the bottled beer served on the table, and took a swig. The hops were even more bitter.

"Domon. Look... I've told you many times. I'm not saying don't increase your workload, but I've told you over and over not to do anything that'll get you fired..."

The restless black-haired man in front of him—sporting a casual look with a black jacket, white turtleneck, and jeans—tried to force out some words while darting his eyes, which were visible beneath deeply etched dark circles.

"No, that... it's not like that, Sai. I didn't mean to. It was just how things went, or maybe a coincidence... or maybe I just got carried away..."

"Well, what's done is done. You can just look for the next job. ...Anyway, what I want to know is... you didn't kill anyone again, did you?"

The moment Domon heard Sai's words, he averted his gaze.
Oh, he killed someone again!
Sai gulped down his beer as if to wash away his complicated feelings. If it weren't for this, he'd be a good friend—.

"No media outlet has picked it up, and I've made sure the police wouldn't have any way of knowing, so... does it really matter in practice?"

Seeing him smile in a strangely servile way, Sai pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose again, trying to push back the headache that was bound to come.

"Look, Domon. I'm a reporter, for starters. Is it really okay that I know every single time?"

"You wouldn't sell me out, and besides, there's no point in it. No, this time it was a terrible story... I was working taking orders at a donut shop, and a customer asked if we had ice cream. Of course we don't, right? I just told them we didn't, and it turned into a storm of complaints, and eventually they started calling in a few nasty friends to try and gang up on me. The manager just pretended not to notice."

By stating that and intentionally leaving out the conclusion, like a child who had been caught hiding a broken plate, his inner conflict—that is, his pathetic nature and remorse—was visible.
There is no one who deserves to be killed, but it is difficult to suppress that impulse. Especially for a man who was a real hitman, that is not necessarily the case.
Domon is a hitman who has retired—or so he claims—but he is a part-timer struggling to lead a daily life. He is ashamed that the only thing he was ever good at in life was being a hitman, and he is trying his best to live as a decent human being, but because his abnormal life as a hitman and the rules for surviving in the abnormal city of Old Height are intricately intertwined, he occasionally reacts at his part-time job as if he has clearly killed someone.
I say 'reacts' because even if Sai, a newspaper reporter, tries to verify the facts, he cannot. Whether he does the perfect cleanup himself or hires someone else—either way, that is the only way to describe it.
It's too much trouble to turn him in to the cops now after we've become stuck with each other through thick and thin, and as he says, it would be pointless anyway.

Look, Domon. I can send some proper work your way, so why don't you stop juggling all these part-time jobs already?

I'm poor and have no free time, you see.

It's no wonder you keep getting fired for getting dragged into trouble every time. Anyway, just listen to me.

Sai loosened his tie slightly and began to talk about the job. There is a run-down facility called George Poultry Farm on the outskirts of Old Height City. It used to be a farm raising broilers for meat, but about three years ago, they started losing contracts because they weren't following animal welfare standards, and it seems the business has been struggling.

I see. I love chicken, but I don't see where you're going with this. Also, what is animal welfare?

It's animal welfare. The idea that whether they're livestock destined to be eaten or not, it's better to raise them without suffering. People used to say that broilers grew faster if they were kept under constant light, but now, everywhere makes sure to turn the lights off for six hours.

Either way, it's the same once you eat them, and I feel like it's us humans who are doing the killing. That's a very selfish way of thinking, isn't it?

Domon said this as if it were nothing, staring at me with pitch-black eyes that barely reflected any light. That somehow felt eerie, so Sai quickly changed the subject back.

Well, even if it's just self-satisfaction, I'll buy the sentiment. Anyway, about that George Poultry Farm... the owner changed. Apparently, the person is from the research department of some biotech company. Well, that's a common story about a company changing management.

I see.

So, the ones who took notice of that were Animal Anon, a radical animal rights group. This AA group has been nothing but trouble from the start. Without doing any proper fact-checking, they combine political conspiracy theories with animal protection policies, and while it doesn't go as far as terrorism, they engage in direct, radical protests. They started claiming that George Poultry Farm is some kind of national genetic modification testing site and began denouncing them.

I still don't see where you're going with this.

This is the crucial part. They went in there three days ago. It seems there were about twenty protesters, but 'not a single one of them came back.'

...Were they killed?

That's what we're going to find out. The conspiracy theory scene is shady, so articles about it get good engagement. Come on, Domon, please. I'm in charge of the online news lately, but the page views are dropping... I want to turn things around here.

Domon felt a tug-of-war in his heart between the desire to say yes immediately and the feeling that Sai had brought him another troublesome story. After all, this man Sai was more prone to getting dragged into trouble than he was. If it were just gangs or the police, that would be one thing, but he deals with stalkers, curses, paranormal phenomena, and bizarre, mysterious occurrences, which makes it even worse. This isn't some exaggerated joke. In the city of Old Height, anything can exist: abnormal crimes, abnormal phenomena, psychopaths, and criminal organizations. It's clear from the direction of this story that it won't end well. I'd bet on it. But if he left it alone, it would only be a matter of time before he was turned into minced meat or something by that unspeakable something.

...I understand. I'll take the payment, but fine.

You're a lifesaver! That's my Domon. You really are reliable, aren't you?

Can I ask one thing?

Domon held up a finger as if to show his will to resist. If he was going to risk his life again, it wouldn't be a sin to be a little selfish.

...What is it?

Onion rings and beer. Can we add those?

Not knowing how to respond to such a petty demand, Sai gave a small laugh and nodded.

December 24th, 3:00 PM.

I feel like the biting cold air is piercing my skin. The skyscrapers of Old Height are far away, the hustle and bustle left behind, and nothing can be heard here. If you drive for more than an hour, the area around the city is filled with a rich natural landscape—though this area is just wilderness. The stale smell of feathers and droppings, and the rhythmic cries of what sound like broiler chickens—cluck, squawk—echo from the coop. Sai parks his beat-up Hyundai Accent with Domon inside and stands in front of a tall fence. A padlock is rolling on the ground, and the door is slightly ajar.

...When was it that the protesters broke in? Was it three days ago?

Domon picked it up and examined it closely. There were marks that looked like it had been chipped. If the AA did this, they were apparently quite rough. There were enough footprints left behind to suggest a fair number of people had gone in. Most of them had headed inside, and there were no signs of anyone coming back out.

It was three days ago. The official website's updates stopped then. They had uploaded photos of the members who were going to storm the place just before, so the timing shouldn't be that far off.

Sai took a quick photo with his smartphone and tucked it into his black coat. Domon took off his long brown coat and pulled a bat case out from the back seat. His weapon was inside. Of course, if he flaunted such a thing from the start, he wouldn't have an excuse if he ran into civilians, so he had to use this disguise. He slung it over his shoulder like a sash so he wouldn't lose it. It would be better if he didn't have to draw it. That said, when working with him, he usually ends up having to draw it anyway.

...So? What is that?

Domon pointed with a suspicious look at the ground ahead—a woman in a simple outfit of jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt with the 'AnimalANON' logo designed on the back was crawling. Yes, she was crawling. She was a thin, young blonde woman, and her face was twisted in terror, but as soon as she saw us, she stood up with incredible force and started heading toward us!

H-h... help me! Right now!

As if overwhelmed by her tremendous intensity, Sai grabbed the short woman's shoulders. The stale smell of birds clung to her, and that was also part of why he wasn't very happy about it.

What is it? What happened?

My friends... are inside!

She said that and pointed to the chicken coop. A large shutter was down, and the old door nearby was creaking.

Is there something inside?

Domon immediately reached for his back. If something was coming at them, there wouldn't be many variations in how it would attack.

“A-anyway, help me! I’m being held captive!”

“What do we do, Domon?”

“What do you mean, what do we do? Is there any option other than leaving? I mean, I’ll brush off the sparks, but there’s no reason to charge in, right?”

Though he said that, Sai, who had a strong sense of justice at his core, didn't seem like he would back down. If he were the type to back down, he wouldn't have thought to cover a story like this in the first place.

The two of them put the woman in the back seat of the car, told her not to leave, and decided to head into the chicken coop.

It was dark. I’d heard that in the case of broilers, they are kept until the coop is packed, but it didn't seem to be on that scale. A few broilers with atrophied legs were wandering around. It was clear that this poultry farm was no longer functional.

“It stinks...”

“It doesn't look like they’ve been taking care of them properly, either. But this is strange.”

“What is?”

Sai pinched his nose and said in a nasal voice.

“If they were running it, the numbers are too low, and if they aren't, then what is this sound of chickens?”

“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.” The sound of birds, rhythmic. The sound echoing from the darkness clearly indicated that there were countless things there.

“...Wait a minute. There’s something there.”

Sai turned on his smartphone’s light and illuminated the ground ahead. Between the droppings, feathers, and the broilers crossing by, he could see the ground. And beyond that, a man wearing the same shirt as the woman from earlier was sitting. It was no wonder he was startled. He wasn't even moving. And the light revealed a dark hole in his head. He instinctively covered his mouth with his hand, confirmed to himself that he was okay, and then fearfully called out to his partner.

“Domon. This is bad. Run—”

When he turned around, he wasn't there. Domon had vanished. His breathing became ragged. There was nowhere to hide in the chicken coop. He couldn't have just disappeared. The sound of the broilers clucking rhythmically fueled his sense of anxiety. Something was wrong.

“Welcome to ‘my country’.”

A voice came from the darkness. A baritone voice that sounded like it was echoing from the bottom of hell. Sai shone his light toward the voice. In an old-fashioned military uniform, mixed in with glittering medals, several clunky metal plates were hanging on his chest. And his face was—a chicken!

“Whoa!!”

“Whoa” is what you say to me? You fool! Don’t you dare make a mockery of me!!”

"If we talk, we can understand each other... you say!?"

The chicken-man stops moving for a moment. Sai recalls what his friend Domon, who has now disappeared, said.

"The city of Old Height has everything and everyone. Dangerous guys, dangerous things, dangerous phenomena—including hitmen like me. The important thing is that there are rules for everything. You have to follow the rules—if you step out of line, you will definitely die, just like pressing a button on a vending machine makes a cola come out."

This is bad. Did I step on some kind of landmine? If not, there is no explanation for why the eyes of this chicken, which show no emotion, are moving so busily.

"You... that... sounds almost human. I like it."

The chicken-man says this and slowly reaches out a hand. A hand—yes, a hand. You could call it a rolled-up wing, but it is dexterous nonetheless.

"What are you... I'm sorry I broke in. I apologize. So, from here..."

"I like you, human. As a reward, I will listen to your story thoroughly before I extract your brain."

The raised club casts a shadow over Sai's face. The sound of blood draining from his face rushes through his ears. Ah, this is the worst—before he even has time to think that, Sai's vision goes dark.

Sai wakes up, finding the sound of dripping water incredibly unpleasant. Looking at his wristwatch device, it is already nine o'clock at night. He gets up, feeling disgusted by the dusty concrete floor. Seeing dried blood on his hands, it seems he was beaten severely.

"You're awake, human."

Startled by the voice, he looks up to see a chicken's face there.

"WAAAAH!!!"

"What do you mean 'WAAAAH'?! You're making a fool of me!!!!"

He instinctively covers his head with his hands to defend himself, but this time no violence comes flying. The chicken is leaning against the back of a chair, looking down at him. An old light bulb crackles, fueling his anxiety.

"You, what is your name?"

"S-Sai..."

"I see. I am George. The same as the name of this country."

"C-country? You, this country is America."

George rolled his eyes, which were devoid of any discernible emotion, shook his neck restlessly, and then opened his mouth—his beak.

"I know that. What is your profession?"

"I'm a reporter. A newspaper reporter..."

"A reporter!!"

He stood up from his chair with a loud noise. George stood about two meters tall. From the sleeves of his bursting military uniform, rounded wings that looked like hands and feet with hooked claws protruded. This is abnormal. Even for a prank, it's too well-executed. And in this Old Height, events that make you think it's a prank are usually the real deal!

"A reporter... a spokesperson for civilized society! So it has finally come to our country!"

George stood up suddenly in excitement, shaking his comb and the wattle under his chin violently, and thrust his fist—or rather, his rounded wing—high into the sky.

"I like you, Sai. I grant you the right to interview me."

"...Wait a minute, George."

"Add 'Mister'! How rude of you! This country is my country! You lack respect for the head of state!"

He spread his beak wide, and his bright red interior threatened Sai's fear! Above all, he hadn't let go of his selfie stick, which looked like a secret police baton. He could crack his head open like a raw egg. No matter how many abnormal events one has experienced, one cannot escape the fundamental fear of death!

"O-okay, Mister George. Head of state?"

"The Colonel. Colonel George! Though you may call me George as a special favor. I will allow you three questions! But leave your 'friends' for last. After that, I will decide whether to release you. Rest assured, even in our country, we must treat reporters with care. For now, your life is guaranteed."

At the word 'friends,' he grasped the general situation. He didn't think Domon would be caught off guard in the dark, but since he couldn't see him, he couldn't expect help immediately. There was no way for Sai to survive other than to conduct a proper interview so as not to anger this tyrannical head of state. He managed to summon his professional spirit as a reporter, regained his composure, and decided to throw out his first question.

"...Mister George. There are many things I want to ask you, but... I only know that this place is just a chicken farm. When and how did it become a country?"

"I shall tell you. Three years ago, the man who bought this place—a man named Sanders—created me. Sanders said something about it being for the food crisis, but that had nothing to do with me. He thought about whether he could make my companions—that is, the few remaining broilers—larger by tinkering with their brains. And so I was born. I became more than a broiler, more than a chicken—I became a Super Chicken Man! That is why I made this chicken farm a country for my own sake!"

His head spun. In other words, this chicken man in front of him was a genuinely evolved chicken. It was ridiculous. But it was clear that if he said that, nothing good would come of it.

"This uniform is something Sanders had. He seems to have been a soldier, but I don't know much about that. Sanders passed away last year, but I learned about humans from the great mass of intelligence he left behind... that is, the internet. And I learned that the position of 'Colonel' is a position that can even rule a country. I gained the position, I gained the country... which means I am the head of state! Do you understand!!"

Perhaps because his emotions were running high, he shook his wattle violently, trying to make a chicken-like sound while maintaining his baritone voice. He's insane. I'm going to go crazy too.

"...Then, second question. What happened to the people who rushed in here? About twenty of them came three days ago, right?"

"Hmph, those violent humans... they tried to kidnap the citizens of my country... my broilers! An invasion from another nation... as a head of state, I absolutely cannot overlook this. They kept saying things like 'for the sake of the chickens' or whatever, but to me, they are criminals. I caught them all and..."

"C-caught them?"

"I used them for experiments. I have a brain equal to a human's!! So, I thought... if I transplanted human brains into my citizens, perhaps chicken-humans like me would be born! I cracked open their skulls one after another and extracted them!"

George pressed a switch on the wall with confidence—though it might just have been his pigeon chest. With a spark, the fluorescent lights in the back flickered on, revealing what appeared to be members of the AA who had been crucified. Blood-stained shirts, skulls crushed and hollowed out, heads hanging limply—I was horrified. Had he done this to so many people in just three days?

"Unfortunately, it was a failure. Human brains are too large and not suitable for transplantation. It will still take time for a super chicken-human like me to be born. Until then, I must prevent the invasion from America."

"Just so you know, I'm not with the government."

"You don't look like a Man in Black, either."

Even though he's a chicken, he understands jokes. It seems the power of the internet can evolve a chicken's intelligence to a human level. What a cruel irony.

"Before I ask about my friend, I have an additional question, Mr. George."

"You are much better behaved than the invaders lined up here. Out of respect, I will allow an additional question."

"What is your goal? Even if you could create more super chicken-humans, with your methods, they'll eventually send in the military. America won't recognize you, will they?"

"...Sharp. That is certainly true! I am considering joining the United Nations, but it is still too early for that. From America's perspective, I am a dictator who has carved out a piece of American territory. In other words, a criminal. I understand why they wouldn't recognize me. However, America... no, the President has a precedent for declaring that I am innocent!"

With that, George activated a large display that looked out of place in the old basement and began playing a video on it. November 22nd. In front of the White House, a smiling President is holding a ceremony and speaking to something. It's a turkey. Before Thanksgiving, which is two days away, the turkey is granted a pardon.

"You don't have to end up on the dinner table anymore."

Even after being told the words of a presidential pardon, the turkey just looks around, perhaps not fully understanding—.

"Look! If a turkey can be granted a pardon... then I, too, should have the right to be granted a pardon! And that would show that I am recognized as a legitimate head of state, and that this country is a legitimate nation recognized by America as well. In other words... I don't know if it's Christmas or whatever, but I will let go of my anger toward you humans who stuff my brethren into buckets during this season. Be grateful!"

I have no intention of being forgiven, but anger is welling up inside Sai. What is there to be forgiven for? The pen is mightier than the sword. But that should be a deterrent against humans who try to force their way through violence. For a reporter like Sai, those who try to control the pen through violence are the most detestable existence. Whether it's a chicken or a human, that doesn't change.

"Now, Sai. Do you understand? Write an article about me! And have me meet the President to make him recognize me. If you do that, I might let you live as my spokesperson!"

In the light emitted by the video, George spreads his wings wide. With the corpses of the crucified animal rights activists behind him, the one and only abnormal dictator raised his voice!

"Mr. George. I have two things I want to say to you."

"You may speak."

"You're insane."

Sai said this smoothly, with a tone of profound mockery. George lowered his wings, clasped his hands behind his back, and said quietly.

"...And the other one?"

"I won't ask about your friend. 'He's already been found.'"

The light from the monitor reflected off it for a moment, and a flash cut through the basement. George rotated his neck and caught sight of the one attacking from behind—namely, Domon.
His weapon was a sword—the white blade gleamed as he closed in to turn George into minced meat!

"You think you can make a fool of me!"

He blocked the sword with his selfie stick! A normal person would have been cut in two, but the blade and the stick struck sparks as they clashed at the hilt.

"A loser who gets caught by a female human is waking up!! And what happened to your restraints!"

"Amateur restraints are nothing more than a pose. Besides, I thought it was strange when that girl told me not to come out, but then suddenly called me over."

Domon said this coolly, then suddenly loosened his grip on the sword-clash, throwing George off balance. It was his signature 'unbalancing' technique. He lowered his body and swept at the feet of the man who was about to tip forward!
George should have done a full rotation in the air and been slammed into the ground.
Both Domon and Sai could only be astonished. George had flapped his wings, hovered in the air for a split second, and regained his balance!

"Domon! Where did you go!?"

Sai took advantage of the opening to roll over to Domon and hide behind him. Whatever he was usually like, there was no man more reliable than him in an emergency like this!

"The Anon girl told me to go outside. I was wondering what was going on, and then this chicken punched me. I suppose I was too careless. I was unconscious for a while."

He was saved before his brain could be removed. Coincidentally, the interview with George had bought enough time for Domon to wake up.

"If you had just stayed unconscious, I would have extracted your brain!"

George raised his selfie stick and swung it down, intending to crack Domon's skull.
However, in this particular situation, everything was over—or rather, futile. As he stepped forward with his right foot, the white blade sliced through the darkness. The stick he had been holding tumbled to the ground along with his severed wingtip, and George let out a pathetic cry. It was five hours too early for dawn.

"You... you! You think you can make a fool of me!! Don't underestimate me, you invaders! Do you think I, as head of state, have made no preparations!?"

Having lost his right wingtip, George held the flowing blood with his left wing, shouted something in a voice that was not human but that of a chicken, and ran toward the back of the darkness—or rather, toward the stairs leading out of the basement.

"What do we do, Domon! If we let someone that dangerous outside, it'll be a disaster!"

I suppose so... Are you hurt?

Just like you, I've got a bump on my head. ...The bleeding has stopped.

That's good. Let's go then. It's almost Christmas. It would be bad luck to have the chicken escape, after all.

There was a hatch-style door at the top of the stairs, and the two of them pushed it open and crawled out onto the ground. The smell of the poultry farm grew stronger, and it didn't take long for them to realize that they were inside the chicken coop they had been in just moments before.

This is bad. My phone battery is dead... Domon, how about yours?

It's in my coat pocket. I left it in the car. It's too dark to really...

Cluck, squawk, caw, cluck... The sound of chickens echoed and echoed. It was as if they were being shouted at right in their ears, the sound surrounding them. The sound of wings flapping passed by their bodies and ears, as if they were inside a dome of chickens.

Sai.

What is it?

Could you get down? It seems we won't be able to escape.

Domon said this calmly, yet with a sense of urgency. He was the type whose daily life was a disaster, and who couldn't survive without being taken in by someone occasionally—but when it came to dangerous situations, he never made the wrong judgment. Instead of answering, Sai immediately lay flat on the ground, which was covered in feathers and bird droppings, and covered his head with his hands. Immediately after, something passed over Sai's head. Along with the sound of rushing wind, there was the sound of water splashing as it hit the back wall and splattered. Squish, crack, snap... Sensing his friend's movement, Domon tucked his sword into his belt and, while pushing the guard with his thumb, unsheathed it. He lowered his waist and slid the white blade toward the 'something' that was approaching like a bullet. The technique of iai—piercing through the air—scattered feathers and blood beneath the white blade, and a death cry rang out.
Chickens were being launched.
It was definitely not being thrown by anyone. They were flying toward them, piercing the air, likely leading with their beaks, tracing a free curve that should be impossible for a broiler with atrophied muscles. Just like an arrow shot by a hero of myth!
Even for Domon, a modern swordsman who wouldn't even flinch at a gun, in such darkness, the best he could do was predict the launch from the sounds he recognized and cut them down at the moment of impact. However, in this situation where he didn't know how many chickens there were, he was completely running out of options.
A streak of blood appeared on Domon's cheek, and a chicken bullet grazed him and crashed into the wall behind him, leaving a hole. Blood and feathers stuck to it, and the beautiful moonlight shone through the hole, illuminating the humans.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!! Did you see the power of our country's suicide squad, terrorist! Next, I'll open a big hole in your gut and have all the citizens of our country peck at your body!

George's delighted cheers echoed from somewhere. The sound—and the moonlight. Domon, who had been keeping his eyes closed in the darkness, finally opened them.

...Found you.

As if he didn't fear the darkness, Domon began to walk. George, who recognized him through the night-vision goggles left behind by his former creator, did not know that the human standing before him was a 'hitman.' He didn't know why he could move freely in this darkness, or why he could cut down the chicken suicide squad while walking.
The chickens in the coop did not know the vast sky.

W-w-why can you see!? Why can you shoot them down! I am the Super Chicken Man! I am a transcendent being and the head of state of this country! You won't get away with this, you terrorist...!

Dark adaptation. It is a phenomenon where, by closing one's eyes in the darkness, the cells that sense light proliferate, making it possible to secure a certain degree of vision as a result.
Because moonlight leaked out from the accidentally broken wall, Domon's vision recovered faster than usual.

I'm afraid I have no intention of being forgiven, though...

Shut up!! I'll turn you into minced meat!!

He swung the selfie stick he had switched to his left hand, aiming to finally cave in Domon's skull. But there would be no third time for that act. A third attempt on a killer's life was impossible. Domon was not the kind of man to be so naive as to allow that in the heat of a life-or-death struggle.
Turning the blade, he slammed the spine into George's thin knee. Even if it was a blunt strike, there was no escaping the impact of being hit with a steel rod. George's joint shattered! Overcome by intense pain, he had no choice but to drop to his knees, his club slipping from his hand and rolling across the ground. Then, the spine of the blade fell, tap, against the back of his neck. The pressure of the kill traveled through the blade, and naturally, the head of the head of state bowed—like a pathetic tyrant awaiting execution.

"W-wait... I-I am an intelligent chicken! I am practically the same as a human! I am a head of state! To kill me, you, how can you think this is acceptable..."

"I'm afraid I'm not merciful enough to sympathize with someone who beat up me and my friend. By the way..."

The white blade shimmered, ripples of light dancing across it as if reflecting the moonlight. The tip reached its zenith, and perhaps sensing something amiss, the chickens crossed overhead.

"Decapitation is supposed to be a merciful execution, isn't it?"

"W-wait-"

The air flowed with a sudden, hollow sound, and with the blade swung down, the chicken's head rolled away on the ground. The body that had been George collapsed from the shoulders onto the dirt and stopped moving.

"If you'd just stayed a quiet chicken, you wouldn't have had to beg for your life."

Domon muttered this, flicked the blood off his blade, and performed zanshin as he sheathed it.

He struggled to get the feathers and droppings off his face and clothes. The AA woman must have run off at some point, as she was nowhere to be seen. Well, even if she had been there, he wasn't sure he could have felt any sympathy for her, so it was just as well for the two of them.
They got into the car that had remained unscathed and turned on the radio. Christmas songs played cheerfully through the static. Bobby Helms' Jingle Bell Rock. The starlike twinkling of the skyscrapers in the distance brought a sense of relief to Sai, who was gripping the steering wheel. They had survived. Even if he told anyone—or wrote an article about it, which would surely be rejected—no one would believe him, but they had survived nonetheless.

"Ah... it's past midnight."

Domon muttered, pointing to the digital clock built into the car stereo.

December 25th, 12:00 AM.

"Something... sorry, Domon. This has to be the worst Christmas in history, right? Same for me."

"Isn't it fine? As long as you're alive, there's hope. You're alive. I'm alive—if there is such a thing as Santa, isn't he quite merciful?"

Domon took two cigarettes—Lucky Strikers—from his jacket pocket, lit them both with his lighter at the same time, kept one for himself, and held the other out toward Sai's mouth. Sai took it with his left hand, searching his mind for words to celebrate this Christmas.

"...To the cocksuckers!"

He opened the side window and held the cigarette out. The purple smoke dissolved into the night sky.

"Same here!"

Domon followed suit, holding the cigarette he had grabbed in his right hand out toward the exterior.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas."

The two men said this, smoked their cigarettes, and laughed as they exhaled purple smoke. No one would believe them if they told anyone about this. But the two of them, alive right here, were an undeniable truth. That much, at least, no one could deny.

"Shall we buy a chicken barrel when we get back? I've suddenly got a craving for one."

Domon said this insensitively. Are you serious? But that's the kind of person he is. Even after what they went through, I don't want to do anything that would make the chickens hate us any more than they already do. At least, not tonight.

"Spare me. I have no intention of participating in genocide."

Domon laughed and brushed it off with a "I see."
Outside the window, the holy night in Old Height was quietly deepening. A car descended the highway, melted into the city, and eventually disappeared.

End

Afterword
Since it's Christmas, I considered doing a "Magical Girl Training" session for the first time in a year, but I reconsidered, thinking that everyone would probably want to read something else! So, this is what it became.
I wrote this after seeing the news about the turkey pardon, wondering if chickens might want to be pardoned too. By the way, Domon and Sai appear in other works from time to time, so if you're interested, please take a look at my other articles on note.

Tomorrow is 12/20, and the person in charge is Sugiko-san. Looking forward to it!

Last year's Christmas training session