The Metal-man and The Chicken-girl

The Metal-man and The Chicken-girl

(This is part one of a short story. It is written as a script in case I talk someone into making this into a TV special.)

By SJ Otto

I came into the Ranchararo cowboy bar. It’s complete with country music and a wooden bar area. The seats and tables are also wooden. The bar seemed partial to the color yellow.  Wood isn’t used much today. Most bars are made with some type of plastic or metal. These are modern times.

I went to a table, so I could order lunch. Korvin Richardson was playing on the juke box. He is the last person to win on "Country Mile High," the newest TV and computer show that allows country singers to become instant hits.

Joe the Bartender walked over to my table. I call him Joe the Bartender because that is the only name I've ever heard him called.

JOE: How's your Trump Hoover running? 

ME: Smooth. I can crank that up to 150 if I can find the right track to spin it on. It rides like air. Of course it would, it runs on air rather than tires.

JOE: I think of all the metal-men I have known you have the most piercings I've ever seen.

Joe the Bartender is a metal-man himself. He has tattoos over most of his body and rings of all kinds doing up and down his arm. Since he was wearing his bar tending uniform I could only see those of his face and arms. I also have rings up and down both arms, ear rings, a noise ring and tattoos on my face and arms.

ME: I don't look like a chicken.

JOE: I couldn't serve meat here if I was a chicken. What will you have for lunch? Want to try the pork sandwiches?

ME: You know I can't afford that kind of meet. I'm a working class metal-man. I'm not a 1 percenter.

JOE: We have a new sauerkraut sauce for our chicken strips and we have a butterscotch beer. The beer is not sweat. I know that is something you don't like.

ME: I'll start with the beer. Then you can bring me a basket of chicken strips with that new sauce.  

As Joe the Bartender walked back to his station, I noticed a young blond girl in the corner of my eye. She was very pretty. She wore a synthetic-wool-green and red robe. She was tall, slender with long blond hair. To my surprise she walked to my table.

HILDA: Can I sit with you?

ME: Sure.

She sat down.

ME: Need a drink?

HILDA: I'll have a Rollo Colo.

ME: They have good beer here. They also have a lot of good rum drinks?

HILDA: I can't drink. I'm a chicken. And I don't even like to eat meat. It makes me sick just to look at it.

I could tell right away she was different. She had no Tattoos and no piercings. Of course I could only see her neck, face and parts of her arms.

ME: I don't know many chickens.

HILDA: That doesn't surprise me. Not at all. You do meet them from time to time don't you?

ME: Sure. But I never actually had drinks or dinner with one.

HILDA: Well now you have.

ME: I'm not used to seeing people up close with absolutely no tattoos and no piercings.

HILDA: That's because you haven’t spent any time with chickens. I'll be you've never pinched at a chicken before.

My eyes popped out and my ears stood straight up. Did this women just imply she wanted to have sex with me?

ME: No! I haven't.

HILDA: Maybe you should.

ME: today?! With you?

HILDA: Why not?

ME: OK.

HILDA: We can go to my apartment. It is only a few blocks from here. I hope you have a hover-car, most metal-men do.

ME: The Trump Hoover 2030, top of the line. It's right outside.

We hopped into my beast and away we went—60 per hour in town, on a foot of air, which is real high and real impressive—especially for the chicks.

HILDA: There is a liquor store over there. Pull up and go in and get me a fifth of vodka.

ME: I thought you can't drink?

HILDA: What are you a cop?

ME: Well, no!

HILDA: Then pull over and get me some booze.

ME: Won't they drug test you?

HILDA: Yes, but I know when they will test me.

ME: How?

HILDA: There's a pattern to their calls. I know how to beat the system. Besides! I can always get some black market cleanser. It masks the chemicals they use to detect alcohol.

ME: Wow! You're pretty clever.

HILDA: Being a chicken doesn't make me dumb.

We finally pulled up to her apartment. It looked small on the outside. To my surprise it was also small inside. It was the smallest home I ever saw. However it had TVs, computers, laser-boxes, tarme tubes and all the modern amenities. The walls were all blue. She had some tapestries on the wall and a poster from the latest punk-ribo band the Severed Hog Heads. There was only one bedroom and it was small. 

Hilda went to the kitchen and made a drink.

HILDA: Do you want a drink? I have tonic water or white Bubble-fest.

ME: I'll take some with Bubble-fest. I like that stuff.

HILDA: Let's go to my bedroom.

ME: You don't waist any time. No talking, no music to get us in the mood.

HILDA: I live fast and I die young. Why waist time?

So we went into her bedroom and before I could finish my drink she stripped naked. She was one of the most beautiful sites I ever saw. She was thin and yet voluptuous. She had average size boobs. She was blond all over except her pubic hairs which were a sandy blond color. But what really stood out was that she had no marks of any kind. No tattoos, no metal in her at all. It was something I never saw before. It had a kind of beauty I never saw in any other women. Of course I was only 19 and she looked to be a lot older than me.

ME: You look older than me.

HILDA:  So what? You get to live to be 120 and I will die before my 40th birthday.

ME: I didn't mean anything bad by it.

HILDA: Just shut up and take your clothes off!

Soon we were kissing. And shortly after that we were embraced, both with our arms and our legs. I rubbed and licked every part of her. She seemed fascinated with my many tattoos and piercings. I had to take a few of the piercings off before we made love. She was the best women I every slept with. After we did it about three times we took a breather.

HILDA: Why do metal-men and metal-women need so many tattoos and so much metal in your flesh. Does it really take that much difference?

ME: We don't want to be mistaken for a chicken.

HILDA: You've got tattoos on every part of your body and metal as well?

ME: If I had it all on one part of my body, maybe a leg...what if I lost my leg in a car accident and it had all the tattoos and piercings? Then I would look like a chicken.

HILDA: Don't you have ID that proves you are metal-man beyond a doubt?

ME: Yes. I guess we do overdo it. I'm not sure why. Everybody wants to look their class. I guess that is the main reason.

We sat together with our arms around each other.

ME: I'd like to see you again some time.

HILDA: Forget it.

ME: Why?

HILDA: We're not in the same class. I can't even legally marry you.

ME: We could still see each other.

HILDA: So you can live a nice long life while I get butchered and served as some ones lunch snacks...forget it.

ME: You know there was a time when we couldn't eat other people. It was considered discussing and sinful.

HILDA: That was before the great animal die off of 2094. Before that people ate farm animals. My great grandfather told me he knew when the great die off came that the wealthy would start eating humans. The wealthy always have what they need. They always get what they want.

ME: But I eat meat and I'm not rich.

HILDA: The wealthy always create a middle class that protects them from revolution. It’s a buffer. They need some people to join in just some of their pleasures so those people will think they are part of the rich class. That is where people like you come in. Since the days of the Roman Empire there has always been a lower class, a kind of plebeian. There always has to be the lower classes. In the last few US centuries there were the "poor".... the "poverty." We where killed off by the wealthy because they said we lacked what it took to survive. That was called Social Darwinism. For a while they kept us alive through welfare. After that, they got tired of the expenses of those programs and they went back to killing us off. Usually they just kept us from getting medical care when we were sick so we would die off early.

After the great animal die off they decided to give us what we needed in return for our meat after the age of 35 or so. Suddenly they needed poor folks, but they have to control us and keep us from enjoying life's simple pleasures, such as drinking alcohol. That is not good for the meat or liver. You know the name chicken used to be used for a small bird.

ME: I knew that.

HILDA: They say those birds tasted a lot like us.

You know the rich used to say that God ordered them to eat meat. They also wanted chickens to believe it was our God given purpose to provide meat to the rest of society. They like us to take part in religion to take our minds off of our short and fun-less lives.

She gets up and goes over to a statue of Jesus that is sitting on a dresser. 

HILDA: It just don’t work for me. I’m just not feeling the magic.

ME: Screw history! I still want to see you and you are more than just "meat" to me. You’re smart. You’re smarter than most women I know.

HILDA: You mean smart for a Chicken.

ME: Nooo!

HILDA: If I were really that smart I could go to a school and get a degree that shows I have specially needed skills. Then I could be reclassified as a non-chicken.

ME: Why don’t you do that?

HILDA: Get real! They need people who are technical. I just am not. It’s not possible. I’ve tried.

ME: I still want to see you.

She continues to stand at the statue. She looks over to me.

HILDA: You'll forget me in time. Surely you realize there can be nothing between us.

ME: I don’t think so.

HILDA: Eventually I will be your chicken strips and you can brag to your friends that you got to fuck your food.

ME: Not funny.

HILDA:  OK. I’ll see you at least once more.

ME: How about next Friday, about 7pm?

HILDA:  Fine.  

I got dressed then gave her a kiss. This woman was different. I think often of how I had to see her again. There is something exciting about someone who comes from a totally different world. This woman was from the other side of the tracks and I knew I could not forget her.

Surely in a democracy there is some way to save a girl who is destined to be food. How could our society do like this? If there is a way to break her out of her class I will find that way.

(This story is obviously going to continue. There is no way I can end it like this.)

Pix by webneel.com.