Stupid macho cock (er, chicken)

Have been back in Cavite since Tuesday morning. Which means I shall no longer sleep on cold floor tiles reminiscent of morgues, or on a bed whose agenda includes eating me bit by bloody bit. Which means no more blankets of Indian mangos in different stages of rot on the dusty ground. No more waking up to Marikit the Dog chasing random chick (as in manok) through the living room.

Astig.

Now it's back to coagulating on the couch. (Yes, I sleep on the couch. A feel-the-springs-against-your-ass couch. My family doesn't think it's necessary for me to have a bed. I don't, after all, live in the place. Sus.) Back to wading through the archeological dig that is the surface of our house to get from one place to another. Back to mindless cable (hell-oooo, Seeley Booth and House and Lucas Scott, Triple H and MadTV). Back to cooking for myself (which means, I'm going hungry. Ayos.)

I am closer to the metropolis but that does not mean I am any closer to civilization.

Yesterday, under threat of mortal melt-age, I fed my father's chickens. These are not sissy chickens, mind you. These are tough'uns -- they tear out your throat, peck by peck, until you beg for mercy, kissing their scaly little feet (claws? talons?). Gah.

There was this one particular chicken. Strong one. Muscular, big, fierce. Pretty one. Glossy red feathers on its impressive breast, green-black feathers on its back, black-black feathers stuck to its ass. And that weird fleshy red thing on the top of its head that reminds me, frightfully, of a tissue-mass found on a female human body. Or a droopy old man's body.

But I digress.

I hate that chicken. There I was, melting, leaving puddles of me on the grass, carrying a bucket of feed with me. And I went to him, tiptoed, gave him the respect his stature demanded. I nearly kowtowed. But then Mr. Tough Guy decided to farking attack me, a flurry of feathers and tight, compact muscles and that screeching.

I got away, but only barely. I threw his food pellet things at him and sneered. (A sure sign of my maturity.)

"Adobo," I growled.

He stared at me. Malevolently. Kulang na lang, background music and a clap of thunder.

I stepped back. He had that "Ima get you now, bitch" pose going on.

Walk away, Sasha. Walk away.

Stupid macho cock (er, chicken)!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was a mighty battle.

And he sure as hell won.