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The Tale Of The Chickens
The barn door creaked open. The stocky form of Farmer Bob loomed in the doorway. His forbidding presence caused a fluttering ruckus as the twenty-odd chickens sensed the reason for which he came.
He was hungry.
And it was dinnertime.
A lingering smile still remained on his face as he lowered the axe with a sickening thud. Bob could never get over the satisfaction of killing these witless animals he loved so much. The last spurts of blood propelled by the chickens' dying heart splattered on his coarse work pants, and he chuckled at the gory glory of it all.
He could almost taste the moist flesh, sizzled in its own juice; tantalizing his taste buds with its wispy tendrils of aroma. There would be a hearty feast tonight.
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