By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 9, 2026
Chapter Two
Operation Colonel Panic
Marshal Chester Finch spent the night studying chickens.
Unfortunately, most of what he learned came from a pamphlet titled “The Happy Hen and You.”
It was not helpful.
By sunrise, the chickens controlled the bank, the feed store, and most of Main Street.
The mayor remained inside the water tower.
A rooster had been elected temporary chairman of the town council.
Nobody was entirely sure how.
Finch sat on the courthouse steps, sipping lukewarm coffee from a dented tin cup.
A large white rooster stared at him from across the street.
Finch stared back.
Neither blinked.
The contest lasted twelve minutes.
Finch lost.
The rooster appeared pleased with itself.
That was when an idea arrived.
It was not a good idea.
Most of Finch’s ideas weren’t.
But they occasionally worked.
Finch immediately called an emergency town meeting.
The remaining citizens crowded into the church basement.
Several carried broomsticks.
One brought a tennis racket.
Nobody asked why.
Finch unfolded a map of the town.
Then he placed a photograph in the center.
The crowd leaned closer.
The photograph showed Colonel Harland Sanders.
Silence filled the room.
Finally, the mayor raised a hand.
“Marshal?”
“Yes?”
“What exactly are we looking at?”
Finch pointed dramatically.
“The enemy’s greatest fear.”
The crowd exchanged confused looks.
“The Colonel?”
“The Colonel.”
“The fried chicken fellow?”
“The very same.”
A woman in the back gasped.
“My goodness.”
Nobody knew why she gasped.
But everyone appreciated the effort.
Finch paced slowly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, every chicken in America has heard the stories.”
“The stories?”
“The stories.”
“What stories?”
“The Colonel.”
Nobody understood.
Finch continued anyway.
“I propose we recruit volunteers.”
“For what?”
“To dress like Colonel Sanders.”
The mayor nearly swallowed his mustache.
“You’re serious?”
“No.”
The room relaxed.
Then Finch added:
“Unfortunately, it’s still our best idea.”
The room groaned.
Within hours, Operation Colonel Panic was underway.
The town theater donated white suits.
The barber shop supplied fake goatees.
The drugstore provided eyeglasses.
Soon dozens of citizens wandered around town dressed like Colonel Sanders.
The effect was unsettling.
Everywhere one looked, there were Colonels.
Colonels in wagons.
Colonels on porches.
Colonels riding bicycles.
One Colonel accidentally arrested another Colonel.
Nobody could remember which one was the real citizen.
Then came Finch’s masterstroke.
He sent telegrams across the territory.
The messages were brief.
NEED ACTORS IMMEDIATELY. STOP. MUST RESEMBLE COLONEL SANDERS. STOP. PAY IS QUESTIONABLE. STOP.
Several traveling performers accepted.
Among them was a red-haired singer from a touring stage company whose name sounded suspiciously like Reba McEntire.
She arrived with three wagons full of actors.
“Marshal,”
she said.
“I understand you need more Colonels.”
Finch tipped his hat.
“The town’s future may depend on it.”
She nodded seriously.
“I’ve performed before difficult audiences.”
“You have?”
“Twice in Amarillo.”
The room fell silent.
Everyone understood.
By sunset, nearly one hundred Colonel Sanders look-alikes marched through town.
The chickens watched.
The Colonels watched.
The townspeople watched.
Nothing happened.
For several minutes.
Then one young chicken saw a Colonel.
Another chicken saw two Colonels.
A rooster counted seventeen.
Panic spread through the flock.
Feathers exploded into the air.
Hundreds of chickens sprinted in every direction.
One rooster fainted.
Another attempted to surrender.
Three hens stole a wagon and headed west.
The townspeople cheered.
The mayor cried.
The sheriff briefly returned from retirement just long enough to announce he was proud of everyone.
Then he resigned again.
As darkness settled over the town, Finch stood beside his sputtering moped.
The chicken army had retreated.
For now.
But not all of them.
Across the distant hillside, illuminated by the moon, stood a dark figure.
A gigantic black rooster.
Far larger than any normal bird.
The creature stared down at the town.
Then it crowed.
The sound echoed for miles.
The remaining chickens immediately stopped running.
Slowly, they turned around.
And began marching back.
Finch adjusted his glasses.
“Well.”
The mayor gulped.
“What now?”
Finch climbed onto his moped.
The engine backfired.
A hubcap fell off.
The safety beacon began flashing.
“I suppose,”
Finch said,
“we’ve just met their leader.”
The giant rooster crowed again.
And somewhere in the darkness, the chickens prepared for war.
To Be Continued…cluck, cluck, cluck.
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