“Private Chuck-Bob!”
“Yessir! Right here sir.”
“Private Chuck-Bob, we’ve got them.”
“Sir?”
“The chicken and its accomplices. We’ve got them.”
“Sir? How do you figure sir?”
“I’ve just been on the phone with my contacts back at HQ, private Chuck-Bob. They got a ping this afternoon.”
“A ping? Sir?”
“A hit. Private-Chuck Bob. A hit.”
“Ah, a hit. Uh, what kind of hit, sir?”
“The kind that means we’ve got them, Private Chuck-Bob.”
“Right, we’ve got them. Sir. Uh, sir? If we’ve got them, where are they sir?”
“Don’t ask questions! Private Chuck-Bob, do you realize how important this might be?”
“Sir! Yessir! I understand, sir. No questions. Sir.”
“Pull the Jeep around, Private Chuck-Bob.”
“Yessir! Uh, sir. Where are we going? Sir?”
“I’ll tell you on the way, Private Chuck-Bob. Just get the Jeep.”
“Yessir.”
“Now we’ll finally have that chicken. Now the world will be safe again. Now HQ will recognize my true genius as a military leader . . . ah, Private Chuck-Bob, that was quick. Well done, Private Chuck-Bob.”
“Thank you sir. Hop in, sir.”
“Colonels don’t ‘hop in’ Private Chuck-Bob, we enter vehicles with dignified grace. Like so.”
“Wow, sir, that was dignified. And graceful, sir. So. Sir? Where are we headed.”
“To the Baltimore Shipping Port, Private Chuck-Bob.”
“Roger that . . . uh if I may, sir?”
“You may, Private Chuck-Bob. You may.”
“Thank you sir, but why are we going there, sir?”
“Because, Private Chuck-Bob, that’s where the ping came from.”
“Ping. Right, sir. The ping. How do you know it’s real? Sir?”
“Well, I was hoping you’d ask that – there! Take that exit! That was close, Private Chuck-Bob, we almost ended up in Washington.”
“Sir?”
“Ah, yes, where was I? The ping. The ping came from a private security guard at the Port. He claims to have stopped a young man and a young woman.”
“But we’re looking for a young man and a chicken. Sir.”
“Correct! Private Chuck-Bob. Correct. But this young woman was carrying a bowling ball case!”
“Sir? I’m not sure I follow, sir. It sounds like a young couple who like bowling.”
“Think! Private Chuck-Bob. Think for just a moment. What would fit nicely into a bowling ball bag?”
“Uh . . . a . . . a, uh bowling ball?”
“Yes, yes, Private Chuck-Bob, a bowling ball would fit into a bowling ball bag. But something more . . . sinister . . . could fit into that bowling ball bag . . .”
“Uh, sir? Like a toaster? Sir? I’ve never trusted toasters. Maybe it’s one that’s on the fritz like and when you plugged it in it . . .”
“No! Private Chuck-Bob! I. Am. Not. Talking. About. A. Toaster! I’m talking, Private Chuck-Bob, about a certain brown colored avian threat to national security. A certain probably-a-terrorist fowl, Private Chuck-Bob. I’m talking . . . about a chicken!”
The Continuing Adventures of Crimson Hen 