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A Chicken Walks into a Bar

He dialed up his humor and intellect settings. Also sensitivity and empathy. Rolled back sarcasm and cynicism. Adjusted his configuration to those he knew appealed to most Earth women. He could always adjust on the fly if he encountered an unusual specimen.

He looked around the room. His language app seemed to be working sporadically. The species recognition utility was on the fritz. Too many inhabitants of the room registered as bovine or porcine to make sense. He scanned his own entity to make sure he had assumed human form. He had to be careful. He was getting a poor signal. It had been quite some time since his last visit. Humanoids came in a number of varieties throughout the universe. He needed to be careful to get the anatomy correct even when he locked onto the correct species. Did he need one or two penises or more? Arturian women accommodated several and yet their anatomy was more straightforward. Earth women reacted to his genital mistakes sometimes with horror, often with delight. Earth women like the Arturians had functionally specific orifices but in such odd proximity as to cause confusion.

There were amusing errors as well as the tragic ones. Once he realized he had entered a drinking establishment in the form of a chicken. He had to make adjustments in a hurry to prevent ending up on the menu.


“Are you from out of town? I’ve not seen you here before,“ she asked.

“What color is your bedspread?” he responded.

He knew there was something wrong with his response. She laughed which was encouraging. He made adjustments anyway.

“You’re a comedian, right? Here for open mic night.”

“You’ll like my braunschweiger,” he said.

She laughed again. “You certainly get to the point.”

She summoned the bartender. “I’ll have another gin and tonic and get my friend here another beer. What are you drinking?” she asked him, looking at him narrowed eyes that indicated many questions.

“Due birra,” he said, knowing that was an accurate assessment of his level of consumption but not quite appropriate for what she had asked. And in the wrong language.

“He’s a drunk comedian,” she said to the bartender. ‘Serve him another of what he was drinking.” She pointed to the empty pint glass.


They throw us out there underprepared to fend for ourselves, he is thinking, risking life and limb no matter the quantity or configuration. Perhaps he could get lost in this backwater region of the universe. Abandon the corps. Go A.W.O.L. He knew that many had tried but none succeeded, to his knowledge. He was fated to his destiny as a Breeder, charged with spreading the seed of the Empire until no habitable star system was left unfertilized.

A scan showed the chronological status, health and dimensions of his present company to be suitable for impregnation.


The work is not altogether unpleasant. The sensations are powerful yet fleeting. Just as you become fond of one of them she begins to rot, so brief are their lifespans. One of them labeled Sarah, a frail and fragile specimen had been the one to sow seeds of doubt in his own mind. Maybe they had it right. Brevity inspires intensity, a sense of urgency unfamiliar to his own  who lived many, many Earthly centuries. Sarah’s whatthefuckedness attitude made a mockery of the philosophies and grand schemes in which he had been been steeped since inception.

Like every life form, Sarah was reabsorbed, in her due time, in the great vortex of cosmic energy and pooped out in another form and, perhaps, in another time.

Perhaps as a chicken who mistakenly walks into a bar to become dinner. He laughed at his own perverse, foul (fowl) witticism that Sarah would have appreciated and turned his attention back to the current human woman under examination, who’s name he had already forgotten.


After a few more drinks, she invited him to her room, as expected. He conjured two penises and a prehensile tongue, hoping that would be enough.


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