Culture

“I’m not hot about it. YOU’RE HOT ABOUT IT”

A short, moving story by Terry the Seagull about the afterlife and a chicken WHO WILL REMAIN NAMELESS.

This chicken is up in heaven or some sort of afterlife type of place, he’s definitely surrounded by clouds and some pretty sweet mood lighting, and also there’s like a mad big wound in his neck so there’s no way he’s alive alive, like our alive, but he could probably be you know, afterlife alive.

Anyways he’s just chilling out doing chicken stuff and then along comes this fox and he’s been fucking MAULED like he’s taken a proper battering. He walks up with one hand on his neck wound, just opens up the fridge, notices the chicken and says “You want one? Oh nice, they’ve got Blue Moons in here” then grabs one and sits down.

The chicken’s not said anything, he’s just staring all mad. The fox is looking around, pretty excited about being in the afterlife and all the cool stuff that comes with that. “Oh nice, they have Jenga, you fancy a go, mate?” The chicken’s still well pissed and giving him that moody girlfriend treatment (I’m sure moody boyfriends do the same, I’m not being sexist I’ve just never had a boyfriend so I’ve never experienced a moody boyfriend silence, only a moody girlfriend silence…that’s just how it is).

f7032f2f-3556-4a65-ae10-01c87f9b4947 (1)
By Laura Merizalde. Instagram: @lau.merr

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the fox is like “Mate have I done something here?” The chicken looks at the fox, dead in the eyes, looks kinda inexplicably happily at the big hole in his furry neck, then gestures toward it: “No, nothing, nothing at all. Everything’s JUST FINE! ITS JUST ANOTHER PERFECT DAY BEING DEAD! BECAUSE YOU KILLED ME!” “Did I?” the fox put down his beer and placed a paw on his forehead, “Oh shit! Yea, I did, yeah, that was for Tim’s birthday dinner actually. Yeah, yeah, oh you’re not hot about it, are you? It’s just sor..”- “I’M NOT HOT ABOUT IT! YOU’RE HOT ABOUT IT” the chicken was right up in the foxes face.

fox-chicken
Source unknown

The foxes eye twitched but he mostly just looked innocent and perplexed. “…you sound pretty hot about it, c’mon mate, let’s move forward, I’ll get you a drink, I’m pretty sure they had a Carlsberg in there somewhere” As he got up to head to the fridge the gates opened and in walks this like fucking red-faced, grey-haired, old Tory looking wanker in some riding trousers, and a red jacket. The foxes eyes narrowed lightening quick, he smashed his beer bottle and froze, staring a hole right through the hunter. The chicken, observing the obvious chimed in “what happened to not being mad about the past and moving forward n all that? See its fucking annoying isn’t it, meeting the cunt that killed you” “Killed me?” spat the fox, not moving an inch “He didn’t kill me, he slept with my misses”

fox-chicken (1)
Penguin Books

safe, I'm mostly gonna be ya man on the seen for current affairs over the oceans but you can also expect some really fucking insightful thought pieces, and some pretty decent short stories. Anyway, cheers, Terry

%d bloggers like this: