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The people of Dustbucket Junction had decided that Marshal Chester Finch deserved recognition.

Not because he had actually defeated the chickens.

But because he had somehow survived them.

The town council voted unanimously to establish “Chester Finch Day,” a holiday that would be celebrated every year on the second Tuesday after the first Monday following whichever month seemed most convenient.

No one understood the schedule, but everyone agreed it sounded official.

By this point, Chester had developed a troubling habit.

He consumed breath mints at an alarming rate.

One container every day.

Sometimes two during periods of extreme poultry-related stress.

“Calms my nerves,” Chester explained.

Unfortunately, nobody listened anymore.

The only creature willing to hear his theories was a stray dog he had adopted after its owner abandoned town during the Great Chicken Takeover.

The dog’s full name was George Jones. Around town, everyone simply called him George. Attached to his collar, Chester had fastened a small digital audio player that endlessly played “Have You Seen My Chicken?” by the real George Jones whenever the dog trotted through town. Before long, residents could identify George’s whereabouts without ever seeing him. They merely listened for the distant twang of country music drifting down the street, followed by a dog that appeared to be conducting an active search for missing poultry. Chester thought the song being fastened to the dog was a great tactical advantage.

Nobody knew why.

The dog certainly didn’t.

Yet every morning Chester sat on the courthouse steps, shaking mints into his hand while George Jones listened patiently. Chester, would pet George and play the song from the front steps hoping if there were any chickens left in town people would report where they were seen.

“You know, George,” Chester said, crunching his eighteenth mint before breakfast, “these chickens were organized. I think they had committees.”

George scratched an ear.

“Exactly,”Chester nodded. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

The holiday celebration arrived under a blazing desert sun.

Children waved miniature moped flags.

Lou Anne sold commemorative burgers.

The mayor delivered a speech that lasted forty-seven minutes despite containing only six minutes of actual information.  It had been interupted twelve times by George Jones who activated “Have You Seen My Chicken?” when he began scratching his neck and clipped the player on his collar.

Then came the unveiling of Chester’s statue.

A giant canvas covering was pulled away.

The crowd fell silent.

Chester stared.

George Jones tilted his head.

The sculptor slowly began backing toward his truck.

There, cast forever in bronze, was Chester Finch.

Only something wasn’t quite right.

Instead of riding his beloved moped, the statue showed Chester heroically astride a giant chicken.

The chicken stood twelve feet tall.

Its wings spread dramatically.

One claw rested atop a defeated rooster.

The bronze Chester held a bag of breath mints high above his head like a conquering warrior.

The resemblance was questionable.

The chicken, however, looked remarkably accurate.

“Well,”the mayor finally said, “that’s unfortunate.”

The sculptor cleared his throat.

“In my defense, all the photographs I found involved chickens.”

“Why am I holding mints?” Chester asked.

“Artistic interpretation.”

The crowd examined the monument.

A few people began laughing.

Then more joined in.

Soon the entire town was roaring with laughter.

Even Chester smiled.

George Jones barked approvingly.

For the first time since the Great Chicken Takeover began, nobody was worried.

Nobody was frightened.

Nobody was being chased by poultry.

They were simply laughing together.

As the sun began to set over Dustbucket Junction, Chester stood beside his accidental monument.

He popped another breath mint into his mouth.

George Jones sat beside him.

The giant bronze chicken cast a shadow across the town square.

And somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed.

The sound made Chester nervous.

He immediately ate three more mints.

Just to be safe.

To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.

Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!