This excerpt from a story below is just one of the many examples why THE LAWDOG FILES is the bestselling funny book on Amazon. I mean, have you ever seen a book with 79 of 82 reviews being 5 stars?
FILE 8: The Six-Foot Chickens
There I was, parked in the Allsup’s lot with an an extra-jumbo Dr. Pepper in one paw and a chimichanga in the other. Somewhere else in the county, a rookie officer was doing his first solo patrol. Life was good.
“SO, car 12.”
*Chomp, chomp* “Go ahead.”
“Car 12, car 20 requests backup at Wobble Creek. He’s nekkid.”
I paused, for a moment, eyeing my chimichanga suspiciously, and then keyed the mic: “Car 12, SO. Say again your last?” Please, please let me be hallucinating.
“Car 12, I’m just relaying what I was told. The kid needs help and said he was nekkid.”
I hightailed it to the location, looked frantically for the rookie’s cruiser, and spotted it parked beside a big corral. I whipped in beside the corral, leaped out, and started looking for my newbie. All I saw was a rancher leaning against the corral, chewing on a stalk of something, and staring with bemused fascination into the corral. I looked into the corral, and it was full of chickens. Six-foot-tall chickens.
“T’ain’t chickens,” grunted the rancher before I could say anything. “Emus.”
I was about to ask what an Australian bird was doing in North Texas, and then I noticed that about four of these mutant chickens were in one corner of the pen, crawling all over each other and trying to get away from a man in the center of the pen.
A man who was on his knees, arms held out in supplication to the terrified megafowl, and begging in alcohol-sodden tones, “Birdie want a Benny?”
And he was as utterly, completely, and totally bare-butt nekkid as the day he was born.
On the other side of the corral was my rookie. He was crawling frantically for the corral fence while an enraged six-foot chicken jumped up and down on his back.
It was a Prozac moment.
“Frank.” Could those calm tones belong to me? “Would you mind getting out here? Thank you. Benny, come here. Now.”
Benny turned and shuffled toward me with an air of I’ve-done-something-wrong-but-I-don’t-know-what-it-is-yet while staying well out of grabbing range.
Still wondering where this remarkable calm came from, I asked, “Benny, what are you doing in that chicken coop?”
“T’aint chickens. Emus” grunted the rancher.
Benny warbled, hiccuped, and waved his arms at me.
“You’re doing what? Committing suicide? BY CHICKEN?”