By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 14, 2026
People and Chickens Were Everywhere!
The town square was packed.
Five hundred chickens perched on rooftops, wagon wheels, fence posts, and one very nervous barber pole. The townsfolk stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for Marshal Chester Finch to reveal the identity of the mysterious Chicken King.
The Marshal slowly climbed onto a wooden crate.
His moped sputtered beside him.
The emergency beacon spun lazily.
A chicken pecked the siren button.
“WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!”
The crowd gasped.
Mayor Buckley adjusted his neck brace, still recovering from being chased into the water tower three weeks earlier.
“Marshal Finch,” he shouted.
“Tell us who is behind this poultry madness!”
Finch removed a folded sheet of paper from his regulation handbook.
He cleared his throat.
Then he accidentally dropped the paper.
A chicken picked it up and ran.
After a brief chase involving three deputies, a garden rake, and a wheelbarrow, the Marshal recovered the document.
He unfolded it dramatically.
“The mastermind,”
Finch announced,
“is neither outlaw nor criminal.”
The crowd murmured.
“It is…”
A gust of wind blew his hat off.
Another chicken stole it.
After recovering both hat and dignity, Finch continued.
“It is retired schoolteacher, Mr. Horace Wimple.”
The crowd erupted.
“MR. WIMPLE?”
The old teacher stepped forward carrying a piece of chalk and looking mildly embarrassed.
“Now hold on,” said Finch.
“Hear the man out.”
Mr. Wimple adjusted his spectacles.
“Well,”
he began,
“I was tired of everyone arguing.”
The crowd looked confused.
“You fought over parking spots.”
The crowd nodded.
“You argued about whose pie won the county fair.”
Several bakers glared at each other.
“You couldn’t even agree on the color of the new water tower.”
The mayor lowered his eyes.
Wimple continued,
“I decided the town needed a common problem.”
“A common problem?”
shouted someone.
“Yes.”
The teacher pointed toward the sea of chickens.
“If everyone was busy dealing with chickens, they wouldn’t be busy fighting each other.”
The crowd fell silent.
Several people slowly looked around.
For the first time in months they noticed something.
The blacksmith was standing beside the baker.
The banker was talking with the mechanic.
The mayor and sheriff were sharing a lemonade.
Even the town’s two most stubborn brothers were helping remove chickens from a church steeple.
Mr. Wimple smiled.
“For the first time in years, everyone worked together.”
The crowd didn’t know whether to applaud or demand a refund.
Marshal Finch scratched his chin.
“Well,”
he finally said,
“that is certainly the strangest civic improvement plan I’ve ever encountered.”
The retired teacher nodded proudly.
“I was aiming for unusual.”
“You succeeded.”
Just then a tremendous crowing erupted from the center of town.
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!
The enormous fighting rooster known as General Clawford strutted into the square.
His polished spurs gleamed in the sunlight.
Every chicken immediately fell silent.
The giant rooster stared directly at Marshal Finch.
Finch stared back.
The townspeople held their breath.
Then General Clawford slowly walked forward.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until he stopped beside Finch.
The rooster bowed.
The crowd gasped.
Marshal Finch looked down.
General Clawford dropped a small wooden sign at his feet.
Painted across it were the words:
“THANK YOU FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT.”
The rooster turned.
Every chicken in town followed him.
Within minutes the entire flock marched out of town like a feathery army.
The townspeople stood speechless.
The mayor blinked.
“Did… did the chickens just leave?”
“They did,“ said Finch.
“Why?”
Finch shrugged.
“According to regulation manual section 14, paragraph 6…”
He opened his book.
The page was blank.
“Huh.”
The crowd waited.
Finch closed the book.
“I got nothing.”
That evening the town held the largest picnic in its history.
Old arguments were forgotten.
Friendships were renewed.
And retired schoolteacher Horace Wimple was officially prohibited from solving future civic problems without written permission.
As the sun set over the town, Marshal Chester Finch climbed onto his faithful moped.
The beacon flashed.
The siren chirped.
A chicken feather drifted past on the breeze.
Finch smiled.
Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard one final crow.
Or perhaps it was merely a warning.
For trouble, as Finch knew well, never stays gone for long.
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! 🐔🏍️☀️.
