It was one of those nights in Frog’s Holler when even the frogs complained about the heat, and everything smelled like boiled peanuts, swamp gas, and questionable life decisions.
Buford Bass—proud redneck philosopher, amateur explosives expert, and four-time champion of “Hold my beer and watch this”—emerged triumphantly from behind Granny Nellie’s chicken coop, feathers stuck to his shirt, eyes wild as a deer in headlights.
“Possum!” Buford whisper-yelled toward the darkness. “Quit scratchin’ your behind and git over here! We done committed ourselves a poultry crime!”
Possum Wiggins, whose primary talents included napping on uncomfortable surfaces and spitting accurately over twelve feet, sauntered up casually. “Buford, what in tarnation you gone and done now?”
Buford held up a squawking chicken, gripping it with the dignity usually reserved for stolen property. “I have acquired us dinner, my friend!”
Possum eyed the chicken skeptically. “Buford, that right there is Granny Nellie’s prize hen. She loves that bird more than she loves most of her grandchildren.”
Buford froze, momentarily considering his life choices. “Well… crap! “
The chicken stared at Buford accusingly, feathers ruffled, dignity insulted. “Bawwwk!”
“Shut your feathery behind!” Buford hissed, shaking the bird gently.
Possum shook his head slowly. “Buford, Granny Nellie’s got herself a shotgun and ain’t afraid to use it. Remember when you borrowed her tractor without askin’?”
Buford swallowed audibly. “You reckon she’ll notice?”
Right on cue, Granny Nellie’s porch light flicked on, bathing the yard in a menacing yellow glow. “Who’s out there stealin’ my chicken?! Buford Bass, I swear on my good hip, I’m gonna pepper your behind with rock salt!”
Buford and Possum shared a terrified glance, and without another word, Buford tucked the chicken under his arm like a football player headin’ for the end zone. “Run, Possum! Granny’s reloadin’!”
The duo sprinted toward the safety of Buford’s old pickup, Possum stumbling over his flip-flops, Buford cursing the chicken that had decided now was the best time to fight back, pecking at his armpit furiously.
Inside the cab of the truck, breathing like they’d just run a marathon, Possum turned to Buford. “You reckon she’s gonna tell your mama?”
Buford shook his head, tossing feathers from his beard. “Hell, mama’s still mad about that time I set fire to Uncle Virgil’s outhouse. What’s one stolen chicken?”
Possum glanced nervously at the angry hen now seated between them. “You reckon we should return it?”
Buford grimaced. “Maybe. But you go first.”
And with that, they drove off into the night, Granny Nellie’s prize chicken riding shotgun, plotting revenge.
To be continued… (Likely after Granny Nellie calls both their mamas.)