Chocolate Chicken

"Faaak", Jim Calden, sitting alone in his large office, behind an expensive looking oak desk, was at his wits end. His chocolate business; his family's chocolate business, was about to close its doors, and he was about to lose his shirt. The Calden's had been making gourmet style chocolates since the 1950's when his Grandfather Fredrick Calden opened the business, in a tiny little store, on the main strip of Brogberg, Manitoba, a small quaint town of about 1500. Business was always steady for Calden's Chocolatiers, however since he had taken over as President, it had really been booming. With his savvy, he had taken their small store, and built a miniature empire, of sorts. Focusing on their town-famous "Calden's Chocolate Chicks" ('delectable chocolate eggs, filled with an array of flavours, from peanut butter, to mint and all things yummy'), he invested heavily in marketing and advertising, taking these "Chicks" from 'town-famous', to North American phenomenon.
It couldn't have worked out better; a big factory on the outskirts of town, a sexy mansion, and a fleet of cars were his rewards. Oh, and of course a rampant drinking problem, that proved to be his downfall...

"Werre did'a ulll g'wrongggg?", he mused to himself. Looking towards his outstretched hand, which casually grasped what was once a full pint of Drambuie. "Uoooggohya! Thas'werre!", laughing, he climbed onto his desk, and began a slow waltz, shuffling his feet about, knocking items to the floor, with no regard.

Drunker than a Muskie, Jim closed his eyes, and recounted the fateful events that lead to him driving the company in the shitter.

It all started one day, when Jim arrived for work, drunk (as usual), wearing only underwear, with his legs painted bright orange, and declared the need for a contest to, "spice the fuck out of the shit". Confused, and ashamed, his round table of advisers, listened in to what they all knew would undoubtedly be another one of Jim's drunken follies (such as the time he brought in two call-girls and declared it "Hooker Day", or his attempt to banish shoes from the workplace, and replace all of his employees, with empty bottles of vermouth). These drunken tirades had become rather common place, however today's idea seemed even more strange...
Jim began "Owwkay, so we'needa Willy Wonka the fuck outta this friggin place! We need'a contest that'll make people love us chocolate eggs, an'a I gotsit figered, while you jerks were'asleepin'! We need'a magic egg!" ...He paused awkwardly, looking confused, as it he had suddenly lost his train of thought... "Ah! Ahhha!", He continued, "What da chickens have in their eggs? Ug? Eyh? Ennawun? Eggsalas, thatswha! Eggmotherfuckinsalas! One lucky egg'll be full'd up with eggsala', an'a the lucky winner'll getta come here, and have a whiskey-slut party wi' me! Wi Jimma, and his band'a sluts!! Yeaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

After his speech, Jim felt his heart demand for rest, and fell asleep in the boardroom for 6 days. He woke up to his C.F.O., Farley Jenkins wrapping him on the back. The look in Farley's eyes suggested something was indeed wrong.
Mr. Jenkins explained that after his latest drunken exploits, they put his plan into action, and filled one chocolate egg with egg salad. Jim explained how he remembered none of this, and suggested that Farley stop talking to him, as he was very weak, and hungover, and that his urge for McDonald's prevented him from "giving a fuck".

However, Mr. Jenkin's persisted, and what he said next struck fear into the head of Jim's Penis:
Some schmuck had eaten the 'Magic Egg'; that schmuck had been deathly allergic to actual eggs, had dropped dead, and in turn his Family was suing Calden's Choclatier for many millions. Farley then slapped Jim in the testicles (which were flopped outside his underwear), handed in his resignation, and prompted left the boardroom.
Jim began to cry. What had he done? What had he become? Watching the tears trickle, and blend down his still orange legs, he knew he was finished.

That was three days ago. It was night now, and Jim, coming back to reality, fumbled down from his desk, and left his office. He proceeded through the empty factory, looking dreamily at what once was, and outside into the brisk Manitoba winter. He began to solemnly walk down the main road, and after a few minutes, reached his final destination. At the large farm, he entered the Chicken Coop. Those dastardly Chickens! Those wicked egg hatching Nazi's! I see it now, he thought, yes, it was all their fault! It was time he thought, for the Chickens to have their ultimate reward; to take his life. Drunkenly, he lay on the floor of the coop, awaiting the razor sharp beaks, and vicious talons.

The chickens did nothing, but in his state, Jim passed out in the floor of the coop.

His body was found the following morning, frozen solid, and covered in chicken shit.


Fin