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Marshal Chester Finch: Chapter Five The Meanest Rooster in the West

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

June 13, 2026

Chester Meets General Drumstick

The townspeople of Finchfield had survived the Great Egg Fight.

Man chased by mad chicken
Chester Meets General Drumstick And Feathers Fly!

Barely.

The streets still smelled faintly of breakfast.

Eggshells covered the boardwalks.

The mayor had spent two days trying to remove dried yolk from his hat.

And Marshal Chester Finch had completed a forty-three-page report entitled:

“Municipal Egg-Related Disturbances and Associated Hazards.”

It was considered his finest work.

Unfortunately, trouble was once again approaching town.

And this time it arrived on a train.

The locomotive hissed to a stop.

The passengers stepped off.

The conductor stepped off.

Then everyone stepped back on.

Because the final crate being unloaded contained something terrifying.

Something dangerous.

Something mean.

Painted on the side were the words:

WARNING
PROPERTY OF THE FEATHERED BROTHERHOOD
DO NOT ANNOY

The crate suddenly shook.

A loud THUMP echoed from inside.

Then another.

The workers immediately abandoned the crate.

One resigned.

Another changed professions.

A third moved to New Mexico.

The crate burst open.

Out stepped the largest rooster anyone had ever seen.

He stood nearly waist-high.

His feathers were black as midnight.

His eyes burned with mischief.

And attached to his legs were polished fighting spurs that gleamed in the Arizona sun.

The crowd gasped.

The rooster slowly surveyed the town.

Then crowed.

Windows rattled.

Dogs hid.

Several chickens fainted.

The rooster’s name was known throughout the territory.

General Drumstick.

The undisputed champion of outlaw rooster fighting.

The terror of chicken coops.

The undefeated ruler of barnyards from Texas to California.

Legend claimed he once stared down a coyote.

The coyote apologized.

The Feathered Brotherhood smiled.

At last they possessed a weapon powerful enough to challenge Marshal Finch.

That afternoon General Drumstick marched through town.

Regular chickens followed behind him.

They admired him.

They feared him.

Some took notes.

The rooster strutted directly into the town square and kicked over a barrel.

Then another.

Then a third just because he enjoyed it.

Marshal Finch arrived moments later aboard his faithful moped.

The safety beacon spun.

The siren chirped.

The engine coughed twice and stalled.

Finch looked at the rooster.

The rooster looked at Finch.

The entire town held its breath.

A tumbleweed rolled past.

The rooster lowered his head.

Finch opened his regulation handbook.

The rooster scraped one fighting spur across the dirt.

Finch turned a page.

The rooster took a step forward.

Finch adjusted his glasses.

The rooster took another step.

Finally Finch found what he was looking for.

He cleared his throat.

“According to Municipal Poultry Ordinance 7-B…”

The rooster charged.

The Marshal leaped onto his moped.

The moped sputtered to life.

And for the next fifteen minutes the citizens of Finchfield witnessed the fastest pursuit in town history.

A giant fighting rooster chasing a lawman around the town square.

Past the barber shop.

Past the feed store.

Through the mayor’s rose garden.

Around the water tower.

Twice.

The chase ended only when General Drumstick became distracted by his own reflection in a store window.

The rooster attacked the glass.

The glass won.

Marshal Finch escaped.

For now.

But as the sun set over Finchfield, everyone understood a terrible truth.

The chickens had found a leader.

A dangerous one.

And somewhere inside Peterson’s Feed & Grain, the Feathered Brotherhood was planning its next move.

A move that could finally put the town under chicken control forever.

To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.    

Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.

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! 🐔🛵🌵

Chapter One: Chester Finch Is on the Case!

Benjamin2 Comments 
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

June 8, 2026

Chapter One

Chester Finch Is on the Case!

The telegram arrived just after sunrise.

URGENT. STOP.
TOWN OVERRUN BY CHICKENS. STOP.
SEND HELP IMMEDIATELY. STOP.

Marshal Chester Finch read the message twice. Then a third time.

“That can’t be right,”

he muttered.

He turned the telegram upside down.

Nope.

Still chickens.

Finch sighed heavily, folded the paper, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his wrinkled uniform. He had hoped for a quiet week. Maybe a missing cow. A stolen pie. Something civilized.

Instead, he was being summoned to a town apparently under siege by poultry.

He climbed onto his faithful moped, a machine that looked as though it had personally survived three wars and two tornadoes. The engine coughed, wheezed, and emitted a noise resembling an elderly goat clearing its throat.

Finch adjusted the flashing safety beacon mounted to the handlebars.

Regulations required it.

A wagon carrying 500 prize-winning chickens overturned. The mayor is trapped in a water tower. The sheriff has quit. Three outlaws surrendered out of sheer terror. Now the town’s last hope is Chester Finch—a weary marshal on a sputtering moped carrying a regulation handbook and far more questions than answers.

Nobody knew why.

He kicked the starter.

The moped groaned.

He kicked again.

The moped groaned louder.

A third kick finally convinced the machine to cooperate.

With a cloud of blue smoke, Chester Finch rolled toward destiny at a blistering speed of twenty-two miles per hour.

By the time Finch reached town, chaos ruled the streets.

Hundreds of chickens strutted everywhere.

They occupied porches.

They blocked sidewalks.

Several had apparently taken control of the post office.

One rooster stood on top of a wagon and crowed instructions to a flock gathered below.

“Organized,”    Finch observed grimly.

That was never a good sign.

The townspeople peered from windows.

Store owners barricaded their doors.

A group of children watched from a rooftop while taking bets on which chicken would attack next.

Finch parked his moped beside the town hall.

A chicken immediately pecked his front tire.

Finch wrote something in a small notebook.

“Destruction of government property,” he said.

The chicken seemed unimpressed.

The mayor emerged from the water tower using a rope ladder.

He looked exhausted.

His suit was covered in feathers.

“Marshal Finch!” he shouted. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived!”

Finch nodded.

The mayor looked around.

“Where is the rest of your team?”

“This is the team.”

The mayor blinked.

“You’re alone?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Finch pointed to the moped.

The mayor frowned.

The moped’s horn suddenly honked by itself.

“BEEEEP!“

Finch nodded.

“See?”

Inside town hall, officials gathered around a large map.

The sheriff’s chair sat empty.

A handwritten note rested on the desk.

I quit. The chickens can have it.

Nobody blamed him.

The mayor pointed at the map.

“It started yesterday. A wagon carrying five hundred prize-winning chickens overturned on the north road.”

Finch listened carefully.

“They escaped.”

“Naturally.”

“Since then they’ve spread through town.”

Finch nodded.

“Any injuries?”

“A baker lost a muffin.”

“Serious?”

“It was blueberry.”

Finch removed his hat.

Everyone observed a respectful moment of silence.

A loud crash echoed outside.

A deputy rushed into the room.

“Marshal! The chickens have taken the courthouse steps!”

The mayor gasped.

Someone fainted.

Another person fainted because the first person fainted.

Finch slowly stood.

He picked up his regulation handbook.

Then he tucked it beneath his arm.

“Very well,” he said.

The room grew silent.

The townspeople stared at him expectantly.

This was the moment.

The legendary hero would unveil a brilliant strategy.

Perhaps a daring plan.

A secret weapon.

Some magnificent display of courage.

Instead, Finch opened the handbook.

He flipped through three hundred pages.

Then four hundred.

Finally he stopped.

“Interesting.”

The mayor leaned forward.

“What does it say?”

Finch adjusted his glasses.

“It says absolutely nothing about hostile chickens.”

The room groaned.

Finch closed the book.

“Which means,” he announced, “we are entering uncharted territory.”

Outside, somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed triumphantly.

The battle for the town had begun.

And Chester Finch was already behind schedule.

The Day the Johnson’s Mimic Bird Flew the Coop And Flew Throughout Johnson City, Kansas

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3–4 minutes

The Day the Mimic Bird Flew the Coop

Earl and Mabel Thompson were a quiet couple in their seventies. They lived on Maple Street in a small white house with blue shutters. Most evenings were spent watching the news or sipping tea on the porch. Their pride and joy, though, wasn’t a grandchild or a garden, but a bird—a rare mime bird. Unlike parrots, which repeated words, this bird can mimic voices perfectly. You’d swear the real person was in the room.

They named him Charlie.

One summer morning, Mabel was dusting the birdcage. Earl was fumbling with the Sunday crossword. Charlie spotted the cage door ajar. With a gleeful flap, he darted out the window and into the open sky. Earl dropped his pencil. “Mabel, the bird’s loose!”

But by then, Charlie was already over Johnson City, Kansas Main Street, testing his repertoire of voices.

Trouble Takes Flight

Charlie’s first stop was the Jenkins’ house. Hovering outside the kitchen window, he called out in Mr. Jenkins’ voice:


“Darlin’, I burned the roast again!”

Mrs. Jenkins stormed into the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon, ready for a fight. Poor Mr. Jenkins had been quietly napping in his recliner. He nearly fell over when she accused him of ruining dinner. He hadn’t even touched it.

From there, Charlie zipped down to O’Malley’s Bar. Perched on the ceiling fan, he crooned in half a dozen voices: “Put that on my tab!” “You call that a drink?” and, worst of all, in the barkeep’s own gruff tone: “Next round’s free, boys!” Chaos erupted as patrons demanded their “free round,” and fists began flying before anyone realized the voice was coming from above.

Civic Mischief

Not content with bars and kitchens, Charlie wheeled into the Johnson City police station. He perched outside the dispatcher’s window. He barked in Officer Daniels’ exact voice:
“Unit 12, urgent back-up on Fifth and Main!”

Three patrol cars roared away with sirens blaring. The station was left in confusion. The real Officer Daniels walked out of the bathroom holding a sandwich. One County Unit, A State Patrol Car and the city’s only other active patrol unit.

Later that same afternoon, Charlie wandered into Johnson City’s Hospital. There, using a spot-on imitation of the head doctor, he announced over the intercom:


“Paging Dr. Howard, please report to Room 207. Emergency tonsil transplant, stat!”

Patients and nurses alike scrambled in a tizzy, while Dr. Howard was still in the cafeteria with a mouthful of Jell-O. He nearly joked. Squirming to get up his belly got wedged beneath the table and chair. A colleague that was with Doctor Howard, began laughing so hard he nearly passed out from the added action.

Charlie flew down to Johnson City John Deere. He landed in their parts department. There, he began calling out engine parts numbers from bin numbers. This drove the parts clerks absolutely crazy.

The Chase and the Capture

Word spread of a mysterious troublemaker around town. By that time, Earl and Mabel were chasing after Charlie with a birdcage. They called sweetly, “Here, Charlie! Come home, dear!”

The town’s patience was running thin, though most couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Charlie was exhausted from a day of impersonations. Finally, he landed right back on Earl’s shoulder with a satisfied squawk:


“Well, that was fun!”

—in Earl’s exact voice.

Earl sighed, Mabel shook her head, and the crowd around them burst into laughter.

Aftermath

From that day on, Charlie’s cage was fitted with a brand-new lock. Earl swore it would never happen again.

Still, every now and then, when the wind blew just right across Maple Street, folks swore they heard Charlie. He was practicing a new trick. The voices varied—sometimes the mayor, sometimes the school principal—but the laughter it brought the town was always the same.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025