By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 12, 2026
Wait a minute there has been a change!
What change?
During the weeks Marshal Finch was occupied battling chickens, the chickens secretly organized. Led by a radical rooster faction known as the United Poultry Front, they held an unauthorized election behind Peterson's Feed & Grain. The vote was conducted under questionable circumstances. Only chickens were allowed to vote. The ballot contained one question: Should Finchfield be renamed Clucksville?
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Yes
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Absolutely Yes
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More Corn
The measure passed overwhelmingly. The chickens immediately erected new signs around town. Unfortunately, no human noticed because everyone was busy avoiding peckings. The town remained legally Finchfield. But, the signs said otherwise.
The Chickens had grown very bold.
So bold, in fact, they had secretly held an election.
Nobody knew about it.
Nobody attended it.
Nobody was invited. Except for those Foul – Birds!
And somehow the chickens voted unanimously to rename Finchfield.
Overnight new signs appeared reading:
WELCOME TO CLUCKSVILLE
C-L-U-C-K-S-V-I-L-L-E
The town charter stated animals can’t vote.
The chickens simply ignored that fact.
Overnight new signs appeared reading: WELCOME TO CLUCKSVILLE
Marshal Chester Finch discovered one of the signs and ballots while riding his moped to work.
He studied the sign carefully.
Then consulted the town charter.
Then consulted the county charter.
Then consulted three separate books regarding poultry authority.
Finally he announced: "I am reasonably certain chickens cannot rename a municipality."
"The chickens disagreed."
The citizens of Cluckville awoke to an unusual sight.
For the first time in weeks, the chickens appeared calm.
No one had been chased into a tree.
No wagons had been overturned.
No mail carriers had been forced to seek refuge atop water towers.
In fact, the chickens seemed… content.
Marshal Chester Finch parked his sputtering moped near the town square and studied the situation carefully.
He adjusted his safety helmet.
Reviewed three pages of poultry regulations.
Then peered through a pair of borrowed binoculars.
The chickens were everywhere.
Perched on rooftops.
Sitting on fences.
Gathered around feed barrels.
And nearly every one of them appeared to be laying eggs.
Finch lowered the binoculars.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it could be a good day for egg laying.”
The townspeople gathered around.
No one knew exactly what that meant.
But everyone agreed it sounded official.
Within hours, baskets of eggs began appearing throughout town.
Hundreds of them.
Then thousands.
The local grocer ran out of storage.
The feed store filled completely.
One farmer reported his barn looked like a giant omelet waiting to happen.
By noon, the town faced a new crisis.
Too many eggs.
Nobody knew what to do with them.
Then old Mrs. Weatherby offered a suggestion.
“What if we throw them at each other?”
There was a moment of silence.
Then enthusiastic cheering.
By one o’clock, Cluckville’s First Annual Emergency Egg Festival was underway.
Rules were established.
Mostly.
Children formed teams.
Adults formed teams.
Even several chickens appeared to organize into teams.
Marshal Finch was appointed Official Referee because no one else wanted the responsibility.
The first egg sailed through the air.
It struck the town banker squarely on the forehead.
The crowd erupted.
The battle had begun.
Eggs flew from every direction.
Neighbors attacked neighbors.
Children ambushed adults.
The mayor accidentally hit himself while attempting an underhand toss.
The town doctor declared it the healthiest civic activity he had witnessed all year.
For nearly three glorious hours, Cluckville forgot about its troubles.
People laughed.
People cheered.
People slipped repeatedly. Some egg fights went off better than others. Some people, didn’t take it well.
Egg yolk covered nearly every building in town.
Even the chickens appeared entertained.
Then everything changed.
A rider arrived from the northern road.
His horse was exhausted.
His hat was crooked.
And his expression was one of pure alarm.
He galloped directly into the town square.
The egg fight stopped instantly.
An egg bounced harmlessly off the horse’s saddle.
The rider pointed toward the hills.
“The Feathered Brotherhood!”
The crowd gasped.
Marshal Finch removed a piece of eggshell from his shoulder.
“What about them?”
The rider swallowed hard.
“They’ve collected enough protection money to hire reinforcements.”
The town grew silent.
“What kind of reinforcements?” asked Finch.
The rider hesitated.
“You aren’t going to like this.”
“No one ever says that before good news.”
The rider nodded.
“They’re bringing in trained chickens.”
The townspeople stared.
The chickens stared.
Even the horse appeared concerned.
Marshal Finch slowly closed his notebook.
This was becoming serious.
Very serious.
Because regular chickens were difficult enough.
But trained chickens?
That was an entirely different level of poultry-related emergency.
Finch climbed onto his moped.
The engine coughed.
The siren chirped.
The safety beacon spun.
And somewhere in the distance came the unmistakable sound of hundreds of chickens marching in formation.
The battle for Cluckville was about to enter a dangerous new chapter.
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!
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