Story for the Flock: “What’s for Dinner?” by Matt Wildman

At Our Hen House, we do our best to bring you the latest from the world of animal rights. That said, when it comes to telling you about books, there are just so many amazing new ones covering all kinds of animal issues, and we simply don’t have time to review them all (but don’t miss the ones we have reviewed). That’s why we thought long and hard and decided to bring you this exciting program. From time to time, we’ll publish excerpts of the author’s choice — highlighting the best in  animal rights books (both fiction and non) — right here on our online magazine. 
One general note about OHH’s intention to publish excerpts: We do our best to choose excerpts from books that reflect our values to change the world for animals, and to end their exploitation altogether. However, we are not able to read all of these books in their entirety, and so please note that the books we choose do indeed intrigue us, but might not fully be in line with our ethos — though we hope they are. In other words, vet these for yourselves, and feel free to share your thoughts with us at by emailing info [at] ourhenhouse [dot] org.
Today, a short story from Matt Wildman’s collection Curious Musings of a Compassionate Mind.

Flock members — you get to read the entire story! (Not a flock member yet? Join us!) 
***
What’s for Dinner?
by Matt Wildman
The ashen spaceship hovering several hundred feet above the Victorian homes of Cape May, New Jersey looked like a vast cauliflower or rather a gargantuan brain, certainly more mechanical than appetizing. Ten minutes after its unanticipated appearance every e-mail inbox in the world received the following message (written in the appropriate local vernacular),

Provide us with your best being. You have thirty minutes. Based on who you send we will determine how to interface with your planet. Place the being’s name and location at www.bestbeing.org.

#PRIVATE#
While savvy in regards to human technology, the beings transmitting this message were presumably not only oblivious (or perhaps indifferent) to the logistical and philosophical challenges of identifying the chosen one in less time than most people’s morning commute, but also unaware (or perhaps aware) of the substantial number of humans struggling with hubris and entitlement.
And so it was that Jake Malone from Tucson, Arizona recklessly entered his name and location in the newly registered domain and the brainy spaceship at once departed Cape May airspace noiselessly appearing six seconds later several hundred feet above 385 Whitehorse Lane. Jake exited his front door and was promptly beamed up by a greenish ray, soon disappearing into the base of the spaceship. Half a minute passed before he was released, sans beam, crashing through his roof and destroying his computer in the final irony of his life.
Jake’s ascent and rapid descent was displayed in real time on bestbeing.org and millions of viewers hastily back-spaced their contact information.
While the spaceship idled above Jake’s house and most of the world’s citizens affixed their eyes to their inboxes, the tech team at Entertainment Weekly created an impromptu survey which was uploaded directly onto the aliens’ website a mere twenty minutes after Jake Malone shattered his computer. It read,
Entertainment Weekly wants YOU to be part of this amazing opportunity to select the best among us. Below is EW’s list of the top 100 world celebrities. Choose your favorite NOW and he or she can be sent to represent EARTH!
And so it was that fifteen minutes later a 21 year old superstar with a boilerplate voice and boundless talent in the realm of self-promotion was nominated by 10,231,739 voters to represent herself as the best humanity has to offer. As a courtesy, the editor of Entertainment Weekly contacted the poor woman who was so flattered and so vain that she exuberantly typed her name into the website and in moments the spacecraft hovered above her Miami Beach oceanfront home; and just ninety seconds after her proudest moment she unceremoniously nose-dived onto the sand of her private beach.
Four thousand six hundred miles away, a world renowned philanthropist whose magnanimity was not lost on himself was persuaded by guests at his $15 million French villa to submit his contact information. And so it was that his dinner party catastrophically concluded before dessert was even served.
The myriad world leaders were oddly (or not) silent on this developing story. Despite preternatural egos and deficiencies in common sense not one sought to enter that spaceship.
The Pope also humbly declined his followers’ request to submit his name.
Such humility was wanting amongst a handful of religious television personalities who perceived a God-given opportunity, and almost as quickly perceived – in free-fall – the ground rapidly approaching.
An English billionaire sought to impress the aliens by opting to forego transport via the ship’s beam, instead utilizing his hot air balloon to deliver himself to the spaceship’s belly. He ascended 150 feet before the beam was utilized to destroy his balloon.
Five hours after the spaceship’s initial appearance in Cape May the United States government provided the aliens with the contact information of certain notorious criminals and terrorist masterminds currently under incarceration, postulating that perhaps these were nefarious extra-terrestrials with a warped sense of “best being.” After this rather unorthodox form of corporal punishment it was still unclear if the aliens were in fact nefarious.
And so it went for 36 more hours . . . the enigmatic spaceship zigzagging across the hemispheres and equator like some celestial waiter at the earthlings’ beck and call. There was no further alien e-mail communication and their initial thirty minute timeframe was graciously extended; or perhaps they simply enjoyed watching humans plummet. The sane and the insane; the famous and those yearning to become; those who seemingly had it all, and those who had nothing, and those who had something but were willing to risk it for more; those who truly thought they were the best, and those who were a little more skeptical, but still confident; those with testosterone-fueled egos; those in need of a drink and those under the influence; those with an inner voice saying, “come on, take a chance”; those who  were despondent and those who had a god complex; those who had a death wish and those with a zest for life; and a few who took to heart their mothers’ life-long assertion that “you are very, very special.”
Amongst these several hundred, one person managed to survive the fall. Morgan Taylor was an elite skier who in an inebriated state succumbed to his friends’ ribbing and logged into bestbeing.org. Given the considerable number of supplicants there was a several minute delay in the spaceship’s arrival and Morgan utilized this time to drink several more beers, which perhaps contributed to saving his life when his limp body landed in the remarkably soft snow of an Aspen, Colorado mountain. He was unconscious for 19 hours and airlifted to NIH for medical tests and interrogation about what he observed on the spaceship.
Morgan’s first word was “Chicken.”
Neurologist and U.S. high-ranking Army Officer, Dr. Charles Mays, stood over the patient. “Nurse, he’s got an appetite! Get this man some chicken.”
Morgan, in a body cast and still quite dazed, shook his head. “Chickens,” he said.
Dr. Mays nodded his head and squeezed his patient’s arm. “You’re going to make it son. Nurse, this man is very hungry; get him a full basket of chicken.”
But Morgan persisted in his head shaking and in a barely audible, yet agitated voice said, “Aliens, chickens.”
Dr. Mays now shook his head while biting his lip in disgust. “I know son. These aliens, whoever they are, are a bunch of cowards. We’re trying our best to do something. What else can you tell us?”
Morgan attempted a deep breath, but was denied by the pain in his ten cracked ribs. He felt consciousness eluding him and with one great burst of breath he uttered with resolve, “The aliens are chickens,” and then his eyes rolled back into his head.
“Morgan, I’m not following you.” Dr. Mays clutched his patient’s unresponsive arm. “Nurse, he’s clearly delusional. Give him some more Demerol.”
Three hours later, a second survivor, a cliff-diver who (barely) managed to survive a three hundred foot drop into the ocean verified that the aliens looked like chickens.
The President of the United States was duly informed and called an emergency cabinet meeting.
“It appears,” the President spoke to his elite roundtable, “that we’re dealing with alien chickens. Should we send up a chicken? I guess that’s what they want.”
The head of the Department of Agriculture spoke. “Mr. President, that may not be a good idea given how chickens are treated on this planet. They’re might be some repercussions from the aliens.”
The President scoffed. “Oh come on, how bad can it be. They’re just chickens.”
“Yeah, but the chicken aliens are likely going to be very upset.”
“Well we have to do something. Are there any chickens that are treated well on this planet?” asked the President.
“Not that I know of sir, but I’ll do some investigation.”
Forty minutes later the Secretary of Agriculture entered the Oval Office where the President stood with his Secretary of Defense. “Sir, we have reports of various sanctuaries for chickens and other farm animals that have been rescued. I think this is going to be our best shot, to send some of those chickens up to the aliens.”
“Yes, I agree,” nodded the President. “Let’s just hope the chickens don’t have long-term memories.”
“That’s a question I was thinking as well, and apparently chickens do have surprisingly long-term memories or at least sufficient enough.”
“Damn it!” POTUS punched his left fist into his right palm. “Alright, thank you, that will be enough,” and the President waved off the Secretary of Agriculture so he could consult with his Secretary of Defense.
“Sir,” said the exuberant Secretary of Defense, “I think we finally found a bipartisan issue that can dramatically boost your poll numbers.”
“You’re thinking we’re likely going to have to defend ourselves against these alien chickens?”
“I’m all but certain. Have you been to a factory farm?”
***

Matt Wildman, a former NYC public high school teacher, now volunteers his time helping to keep pets in their homes. He is a cat behavior expert who assists cat owners in crisis, and also an advocate for tenants with pet-related landlord issues. He currently lives in NJ with his nine dogs and three cats. His collection of short stories, Curious Musings of a Compassionate Mind, is available on most e-readers.