For all of you out there that been unable to sleep at night from worry, please rest easy now. After weeks of tense negotiations with the wicked, desperate pirates that plague the aisles, cubes and halls of my workplace, the chicken has been returned.
As I have been under strict orders from the FBI hostage negotiation team not to discuss any of this until this high profile case was resolved, it has been impossible to keep readers of this site abreast of events as they happened. Fear not, the harrowing and heroic story can now be told.
When last we heard from the despotic criminal mastermind behind the nefarious chickennapping he was sending taunting messages and photos under the name “Jason.” What kind of name is that for an arch-criminal? Lex Luther, Goldfinger, Moriarity, and…Jason??? I’ll bet he drinks lambics, owns a yappy poodle and ties his sweater around his neck. But I digress…
After more notes, photos, and even a taunting phone call from a helium voiced accomplice, this saga took a strange twist. The top suspect in the chickennapping had his beloved stuffed manatee (don’t ask) abducted as well. In its place was a note that read as follows:
It has come to our attention that you have reneged on multiple promises to release a chicken that has been held hostage for almost a month. This sort of behavior is intolerable to us anymore.
Our aim is to end the oppression of all fowl, whether they be barnyard or rubber, and to crush their oppressors under our utilitarian, yet quite fashionable boots. Consider yourself warned and return the chicken to his rightful owner.
The People’s Army of the Chicken Liberation Front
P.S. The manatee wants you to know that it does not like the car trunk where he is being held. He says that it is dark and there is not enough air. In addition, he finds it quite disturbing that his jailers keep calling him a “tubby little mermaid” with a strange gleam in their eyes.
In an apparent retaliatory move, the wind-up flipping Mario that guards my desk turned up missing which caused me to walk over to a co-worker’s desk where the following conversation took place:
Me: Mario is missing.
Chickennapper Co-worker: Really? So is my manatee.
Me: No kidding?
Chickennapper Co-worker: Yeah, for a couple of days now.
Me: It looks like we are in the middle of a crime wave.
Chickennapper Co-worker: Yep, and this used to be such a nice place to work.
Me: I better warn the others of possible gang-related activity in our area.
Chickennapper Co-worker: Okay, well you have a good weekend.
Me: You too.
As you can see from that terrifying conversation, I work in a place that resembles the streets in an old Scorcese movie.
Eventually many other folks became involved in the campaign to get the chicken released. When I purchased my pirate chicken in California, I had also purchased one for my Chickennapper co-worker. Even his chicken got into the act.
This may have been close to the final straw for the scoundrel who purloined my fowl friend, but it was another day or so before he cracked, as documented below in glorious technicolor photographic proof.
The grilling he received from the authorities must have rattled him to the core, because this hardened and evil lifelong desperado released my chicken, completely unharmed, the very next day. Here he is gazing adoringly up at me from my chair. That is the chicken with the adoring look, by the way, not the chickennapper.
Thus ends the Chicken Chronicles. May it serve as a reminder to one and all that life’s blessings, and chickens, should never be taken for granted.