Chickens Coming Home to Roost

Cameron Slater was about to eat his breakfast when he heard a clucking noise outside his back door. Investigation revealed a little chicken called Ben standing on the other side.

"Fuck off!" shouted Slater, waving his meaty hands and calloused fingertips at the cheeky feathered interloper. The bird immediately excreted a steaming soft bundle onto his porch before exiting in a flurry of feathers and excited squawks.

"Shit!" said Slater.

Murray McCully was sitting in his favourite armchair enjoying a particularly nice single malt (after returning from another luxurious visit to Saudi) when an exotic Arab chicken fluttered into the room and perched behind him. He shortly became aware of a smelly mass dribbling down the front of his Savile Row suit.

"Shit!" said McCully.

Judith Collins leaned back in a chair on the deck of her home and looked out across the Auckland Harbour. The city lights were starting to be reflected in the water as the evening light dimmed. It had been a satisfying week unifying the backbenchers in a protest against the new health and safety legislation. Her comeback was going to plan and businesses around New Zealand will soon be tacking her image to their office walls (she hoped it would be ones that emphasised her superior taste in clothes).

Suddenly a large flock of white chickens blocked out the light of the sinking sun as they flapped towards her and quickly settled on the spouting nearby. In the fading light their ghostly forms shuffled along the gutter as they positioned themselves in a tight mass directly above her head. Collins suddenly had images of forests, mines, farms, ports and a quarry swim around in her mind before a cascade hit her from above.

"Holy shit!" exlaimed Collins.

Bill English pulled into the driveway of his $1.5 million Karori mansion and thought about the additions he planned back in 2009 before he had to give up his housing allowance. The $48,000 a year he had been receiving would have amounted to over $300,000 by now and would have paid for the two extra bedrooms and ensuites they wanted. Even on a Deputy Prime Minister's salary it stretched their budget supporting six children through private schools and university and that money would have been useful.

English was lost in his own thoughts as he walked to his door (mainly regarding what he would have liked to have done to those who had exposed his little Dipton charade) when he was suddenly aware of a flock of shivering little chickens directly under his feet. The small birds were obviously unwell and many were wheezing through their tiny beaks.

"Shoo, get lost!" shouted the irritated English. "Don't you have warm homes to go to?"


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