Plucked Again!

By William D. Rouse

A highly original tale of a man given a second chance at life with the guidance of a talking chicken...

A bump on the head sends Jackson Fitzroy, known as Flanker, into a temporary amnesia. But all is not lost: As the owner of a chicken broiler house, he now has the companionship and assistance of MAC, a talking chicken, the most ancient spokes-chicken. MAC, who has the uncanny ability to not only advise Flanker but also read his mind, carefully helps him piece together the details of his life.

As his attachment to MAC and the others grows, Flanker learns more about the tragedies he had been running from before he hit his head, and he begins to understand how he can save himself, his marriage and his future. Told in a sardonic style, the well-paced story has flashes of comedy with surprising turns of insight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William D. Rouse
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310438424

William D. Rouse

It is never too late to fulfill a dream, something William Rouse knows well. The 90-year-old WWII veteran Rouse has just published his first book, an imaginative, witty novel called Plucked Again! in the sci-fi fantasy genre for teens to adults. Rouse is not new to writing, having first gone to college on a play writing scholarship. The demands of work and raising a family put his writing on the sidelines, but Rouse never gave up.An analyst with the U.S. Public Health Department, Rouse retired but did not slow down, learning carpentry and renovating old Virginia houses, working as a freelance antiques dealer, and even trying his hand at chicken farming while living on the Eastern shore, Virginia. While chicken farming was not for him, it did inspire Rouse to weave the entertaining and insightful Plucked Again! in the process.A highly original tale, Plucked Again! manages to be both funny and insightful as protagonist Flanker is given a second chance at life with the guidance of a surprising guru, Mac, an ancient, very wise, talking chicken. While Mac leads Flanker to making sense of his past and improving his future, Plucked Again! takes the reader on an entertaining journey that also proves to the rest of us that it is never too late to pursue your dreams.

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Plucked Again!

By William D. Rouse

Copyright 2015 William D. Rouse

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

The Flock Supervisor's voice was urgent. You'd better hurry. You still have to lower the automatic waterers and adjust them before the crew finishes putting chicks in number one house ... and start in here.

Damn! For two days I'd been racing ,about, blocking off a third of the length of each house with heavy plastic curtains, installing light bulbs, filling the feeders, inspecting, checking, and worrying how it would all turn out.

I rushed over to an exterior wall, leaned over and yanked away a block of wood propping up a windlass handle used to raise a line of watering troughs. Too late I remembered why the block was there. The windlass handle, lacking a working brake, swung in a short, vicious arc and thumped against the side of my head. A bolt of pain coursed through me, then a sheet of fire came in front of my eyes, then darkness, followed by a few fading stars, then black oblivion...

********

Floating ... floating in an exotic limbo ... dim sounds, gradually acquiring some definition: cheeps, murmurs, squeaks, ululations ... · was that a roar of gas burners?

A mighty pounding in the head, gradually and clumsily some eye focus, but when the eyes were shut the world rocked and pitched.

Groaned ... that smell ... someone's burning manure aren't they? Tried to raise the head ... a sound like the dash of a tiny rain squall on a metal roof ... thought better of it ... a short command in ... Chinese? ... a slight fanning noise and the gentlest of breezes ...

A tiny, precise voice ordered, You have had a sharp knock. Lie still.

Opened one eye cautiously to see an open ceiling above steel trusses, portions of a metal roof showing through the skipped sheathing, a line of light bulbs at intervals in a line parallel to the exterior walls. Depressed, closed eye ...

With difficulty, throat tensed against nausea, What ... warehouse ... is ... this?

The small, precise voice corrected me. Not warehouse. You are in .chicken broiler house.

A what!?

Building to raise chickens.

But- what ... has this ... to do ... with me?

You own it.

OMIGOD!

The shock of this announcement opened my eyes to stare at a large, yet wizened rooster with an oversized fluorescent orange beak. The beak dipped quickly twice, to confirm my title to this madhouse. In the background I could see hundreds of tiny yellow chicks.

Why are you ... different? And who are you?

Proudly, as if preceded by a flourish of trumpets, "Most Ancient Chickenspokesperson.''

My head ached. Slowly, now ... how many words?

Three. Chickenspokesperson is non-sexist concession to the times. In full: Most Ancient Chickenspokesperson.

Groaned ... tried to think. Um ... could we make that ... MAC?

The super chicken frowned. You Americans do have a fondness for acronyms.

Now that your name is settled, tell me ... what is mine?

Amnesia, ... he clucked and shook his head, then turned to look at my feet. An old alumnus of the University of Virginia.

How do you know that?

"Elementary ... this is the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Who else but

an old Wahoo would be lying in middle' of chicken house in white buck shoes? Pat Boone?"

With difficulty, the eyes focused on toes ... right. Do I have a name?

Jackson Fitzroy. Usually known as Flanker.

A football player?

Third cadre, 150 pound team. But no, name comes from ancestor at Battle of Gettysburg, Civil War.

Ah, -I thought. - Descendant of a Civil War hero. Glory on the cheap. Help me up, please, I said, as I struggled unsuccessfully to sit up. Tell me about this Flanker thing.

Did the odd creature seem to smile?

Your ancestor- great-great grandfather to be exact- the first Jackson Fitzroy, was captain leading company of raw young men into Pickett's Charge, when suddenly he veered off Said afterward, he clearly heard bugle signal to break right and penetrate Federal flank. Once through northern lines, held himself and troops in reserve awaiting a second signal, which never came. By aborting his charge, Fitzroy escaped almost certain annihilation.

Blast this little feathered pedant. Now he's going to make me beg for the

bad news, I thought to myself

So? I said.

No one else heard the bugle signal, and during the court martial no one recalled giving such an order. By then, the Confederate high command recognized Pickett's Charge was monumental error, and that Captain Fitzroy's little stratagem may have- with more troops - had some chance of success.

Was this goddam chicken gonna tell me my ancestor/was one, too?

And ...?

The chief judge at the court martial was General Butler, better known as 'Hanging Harry.' But even Butler realized the war was lost. The South would need all its surviving men to rebuild, and he might have to punish some other officers if he found Fitzroy guilty. Besides, each man of the entire force would live under a cloud for the rest of his days.

He paused - his eyes looking inward as if reading from some sort of antique scroll.

Judge Butler and his two associates acquitted Jackson Fitzroy, but from thenceforth all Jackson Fitzroys were dubbed 'Flanker.' After the war the extended Fitzroy family annually tendered General Butler and his heir's five Virginia hams, later Smithfield hams.

Sounds expensive.

Did MAC smile again?

Several times the Fitzroys have proposed dropping the gift. The Butler family mentions interest in publishing the General's memoirs. The gifts continue.

So that’s what part of the money collected annually for the big Fitzroy reunion was used for.

What happened to the original Fitzroy ... Jackson, did you say?

Three wives, 18 legitimate children, quiet death in bed, full of years and good whiskey.

How many years?

Eighty-six.

But who are you? I asked ... now that we knew who I was, however inglorious.

Most Ancient Chickenspokesperson, he said proudly. Born again, and again, and again Buddhist. Descendant of the famous Chang Wa breeder who restored and replenished brood stock and blood lines of all Chinese chickens in 12th Century, A.D.

Must get a little tiresome, I said. Shouldn't think there was much challenge in being a reincarnated chicken.

Affronted, he drew himself up as if to intimidate me with a couple of extra inches to add to his stature. Oh, no, not merely chicken. Various animals and people, some rather well known, back and forth across history.

Anyone I know?

Just missed being Mata Hari. Instead became Archduke Ferdinand ... also short assignment.

Not so good.

Ah, but think of poor colleague who's eligible for Joan Collins, instead become Richard Nixon.

Just then, a nicely formed chicken strolled by. Was she wearing eye

shadow? She paused, gracefully extended her left leg forward and to the side, then lazily extended her left wing to cover the leg, the entire effect reminding me of a fan dancer. Did the old chicken's eyes gleam?

There was a pause, then he waved a wing in her direction. Gimmee Gimmee, he said by way of introduction. Wants to go into show business.

Charming... creature.

A mere child, he dismissed. Besides, MAC has sworn to set aside personal gratification until he accomplishes this incarnation's goals.

Use it or lose it!

Hah! Like riding a unicycle, one never forgets. Perhaps he wanted to change the subject.

... Jackson, what do you remember?

Nothing. Not one damn thing. I assume I enjoyed myself at the ... University of Virginia, was it? Did I graduate?

Barely. Almost dismissed for drunken incident. With two friends you wrote your name in snow on dean's lawn.

Sounds harmless enough.

Ah, but dean was not at home and his wife's bridge club, sitting in the bay window, have full view of your, ah, pen and ... choice of ink. Great hue and cry, until tempers cooled. Most experienced lady in the club remarked that there was much ado about very little. Dean finally concluded hardly worth international incident to extradite Fidel Castro and Che Guevarra, the other two signatories.

So, what happened?

You became minor campus hero by taking full responsibility, insisting that memory failed, but with six strong imported beers under the belt, you easily could've done all the writing, with addresses as well. Then the line 'very little' became an instant joke, and your nickname as well. You stayed on probation for a full year.

And graduated, I take it?

Easily summarized, your college career seldom rose above a gentleman's 'C', prodigious consumption of beer and something called 'beano', and miscellaneous other spirits, lustful and inept pursuit of girls.

I thought, bad enough to get hit in the head and lose your memory without getting the big put-down from some hip chicken.

Sternly MAC said, I suggest you practice civility, perhaps even servility. I am your only hope of learning about, surviving, and surmounting a host of problems engulfing you. MAC has foreknowledge, post-knowledge, can read minds and lips, control minds, transubstantiate himself and others, and can think and speak in over a dozen languages. Without me, the house of cards that is your personal and economic life collapses before you can recover enough memory to have a prayer of forestalling it. You will awaken with the worst hangover you have ever experienced, not having touched a drop.

The implications of what he said staggered me. MAC was a strange one, no doubt, but his pronouncements had the impact of falling stone tablets. Trying to control a rising panic, with as much dignity as I could muster I talked to the main man, and tried to ignore the dozens of chicks who had gradually edged close and were staring at us with beaks agape.

"Look, MAC, do I have some vague, tribal memory that people

do not hit a man when he's down? Level with me. I'm almost naked here, metaphorically speaking."

The old chicken was hard, but not ruthless. I might point out that your kind eat my kind, but I'm not one to hold grudges.

Help me. The words came out without my being able to stop them, and I was conscious that once more a Fitzroy had headed for the flank. Please?

MAC will help you. Of course there may be a few minor favors I shall perhaps expect. I trust that between gentlemen ... no ... ah ... formal contractual agreements will be necessary.

I nodded.

Very well, he said, pressing his wingtips together.

I need a backgrounder. First, am I married?

To a remarkable woman. Intelligent, but not demanding. Beauty sufficient for any artist to want her as subject. High standards, but infinite patience with life's losers. Hence, you. Name- Lillian. You call her Miss Lil, perhaps unconsciously describing your relative status.

Chicken zingers are what I should call your helpful little descriptions, I said.

You must recognize, he said smugly, that mandarin standards are high. It is not surprising that you, the median product of a mediocre culture, should fail to excite my admiration.

Dimly, I perceived that he had all the aces, not to mention the wild cards, and that I should try to elicit the facts in a bare bone fashion, or expect to suffer his verbal quills all through my psyche.

Married ... children?

"Two daughters. Currently married. Average husbands. No

issue."

Where is this ... broiler house, did you say?

Northampton County, on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, a peninsula with the Chesapeake Bay to the west and the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

How many broiler houses?

Two.

''What capacity?"

Approximately 15,000 chickens each.

How long does the growing cycle take?

About seven weeks.

How much downtime in between cycles?

About two weeks.

So I get to rest for a couple of weeks between cycles?

After you have had the house skimmed out with a front end loader of some accumulated manure, removed half an inch of fine yellow dust from the heaters, cleaned the screen wire on outside walls, made repairs or replacement to whatever is broken or worn out, and finished most of the preparation for the next flock.

Sounds like a sharecropper with leverage.

Ye-es, you have the work and the investment, and the chicken company has the leverage.

Well, what kind of land are the broiler houses located on?

Sixty-acre salt-water farm. Some oysters ... if pirates don't get them first.

House?

Middle-sized traditional architecture, needs sills, coat of paint, kitchen makeover, etc., etc.

My stomach was growing colder and colder with his answers. But, I pressed on. What kind of shape are the broiler houses in?

Semi-obsolete and demanding repair.· Crying need more insulation, additional wiring, more fans, scraping and painting of metal roofs ...

All right, all right! I held up a hand to stop his dispassionate recital of the problems facing me.

MAC looked at me steadily. Mr. Fitzroy, denial will not help your situation. The brutal facts may.

I've had one hell of a clout on the outside of my head; just take it a little slow with those shots to the worry-factory inside.

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Mr. Fitzroy, you're quite right. Nature of my assignments over the centuries has given me nerves of steel. Not to be expected of those less blessed.

In turn, I nodded slightly, and the dizziness that followed made me abandon all thoughts of sitting up for awhile. How did I come to the Eastern Shore?

You were a civil servant in Washington, until you took early retirement to 'do your thing.' You somehow felt deprived.

Defense Department?

I said 'deprived,' not 'depraved' ... Interior Department Secretary Watts stirred up the last vestige of principle in you. After several false, expensive starts you convinced Miss Lil you should come to the Shore and graduate to semi-retirement in the chicken business.

How am I doing?

You only graduated to semi-employment. Full-time work, half time pay. Big Chicken Company will achieve half-billion dollar earnings before you make first million ... unless you hit lottery.

I groaned. Had this Jackson Fitzroy condemned himself and his wife to a lifetime of marginal living by smashing all the mirrors in life's fun house? It struck me that my newfound guru hadn't displayed any credentials to back up his claims, but he had never stooped to flattery, and his little zingers had the aim and the pain - right between the eyes - of the real, down home truth. Nothing so terrified me as the spectre he raised of nameless horrors lurking in a memory bank to which the key was missing - a host