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A Meeting With Chicken-Mimmick

from Lobster Telephone No. 23

Old Tongue on the road, time travellin' cross time and space, seeking to re-establish old contacts...;

Old Tongue the bearded giraffe, the time traveller, we glimpse her/him/it/they, as her/him/it/they is passing through the nineteen eighties, moving backwards from forest wanderings in the late sixteenth century after poor old J.C. got nailed up for telling people to be nice to each other, pausing only for a pint in the Yorker, England midlands... Old Tongue moving backwards like some sort of backwards blur, disappearing up its' own events... Old Tongue as a young male black rat, he's headin' for the so called middle ages (middle of what exactly?) kind of appropriate though...

The rush of backwards sequences and reverse events gradually slows and Old Tongue finds himself scurrying through muddy shitty streets in a dark town, stench of death. In the air, smell of decay, Human beings crying and shouting and ringing bells to warn that death is waiting. Old Tongue as a small furry manifestation of death for humans and rats also...; Its sad but true that all the rats that died and suffered during the great plague were almost instantly forgotton, except by rats and time travellers that is.

Old Tongue as plague rat heads for the dime green countryside, scruffy people with no money or food, working the land for fat people with lots of money and food but no real existance; non entities or "The Rich".
Old Tongue is looking for an old friend. He searches the farms on all the estates. Through hay and in all the dank dark hen coops, smell of manure and dust.

Old Tongue was looking for a small chicken, or rather an old time traveller friend, in the form of small chicken.

Eventually our friend the giraffe, as a small diseased rat, came to a deserted village which an old man told him was haunted by many strange ghosts. Why an old man should bother talking to a plague rat is unknown, but if a time traveller learns anything, it is that most things are unknown.

And there, pecking at the grass in a grey field, surrounded by flickering images that the old man had thought were ghosts, was Old Tongue's old friend, Chicken-Mimmick.
Chicken-Mimmick clucked. Old Tongue said hello.
Chicken-Mimmick looked like a small hen, brown and a bit scraggy. Old Tongue knew something strange was goin' on, on account of all the flickering images; time anomalies they were, generated by anachronisms, things out of time. Also, Chicken-Mimmick looked nervous, kept clucking and running about excitedly.

"What's occuring?" mumbled Tongue.
Chicken-Mimmick clucked and scratched on the ground, Chinese characters; They meant; "I got a hobby, I collect things, come see" and off she ran, past decaying human bodies towards a big oily looking barn. Tongue scuttled after, trying to catch up.
Reason why Chicken-Mimmick had scratched in Chinese was cos she'd spent a lot of time (ha ha ha), among the early emperors, laying thousand year eggs, for bribes of grain.

Mimmick reached the barn, screeched to a halt in a cloud of feathers, smacking into the big brown doors, and they creak open..., Tongue scuttles up behind and hits Chicken-Mimmick in the nether regions. A pause. Plague time silence. Mist over the clearing. Distant sound of crows. Crows eternal.

Chicken-Mimmick scratched on the ground, proudly, "look, my collection..."

The door opened, and what Old Tongue the Bearded Giraffe saw was as follows; Across the barn were lined and piled numerous missiles from across the ages. And firing devices also; A pile of 25th century luxembourg slime grenades, 3 MX missiles (late twentieth century), 57 spears, a replica of a little boy (Hiroshima shadow maker), 17 assorted automatic rifles, both ballistic and electromagnetic acid guns, hair knives, filthohedron guns, and three million year old sticks with flint in them that villages full of bald apes (the men, thereof) would use to smash up the male member of other villages...

Chicken-Mimmick clucked proudly...

Old Tongue looked puzzled... "OK, very impressive I'm sure, but what are you gonna do with all this lot?"

The hen impersonator shuffled about coyishly and finally scratched a rather complex drawing of a large long shed; Old Tongue didn't understand, well not exactly anyway. He said good bye and left; going forward again, heading for the time of the HamsterLords.

He stopped off for a break in the late twentieth century, early twenty one maybe, by a big shed, which rang a bell, as they say. He took the risk of a guess, and scrawled on the white wall of a vast long noisy shed in red paint;


This building was a large factory farm full of wired-in, scared, force-fed chickens. As Old Tongue stood there (as a giraffe), the big house across the way, where the owner of the farm lived, burst into flame, and flints and bits of archeologically significant weaponry rained down.

"Well, well" said Old Tongue, "Fancy that, ...small world"

© The Barry Powell Organisation 1988.