Mike "The Dog, The Myth, The Legend" Renning posted:

This showed up in my journal this week.  It's kind of in rough form,
but hey, whaddya want?
 
Feel free to add to, change, parody, enjoy, or trash it.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
  The Elkins - Steve and Judy - believed that learning had elevated
humans out of the animal conundrum.  They spoke ten languages between
them.
  On the outskirts of town, on the shoulder of the highway across from
a rickety old house with no paint, lay a still thicker slab of protoplasm.
Fortunately, the sun was shining brightly as nature wended its merry course
across the land, nourishing crops, quenching the radiation-thirst of
forests, and exciting slabs of protoplasm to new and bigger adventures.
  "El slab es muy grande," commented a passing man-sized bee.
 
  Steve slowed the Volvo to just under the posted speed limit to glance
at the hitchhiker.  Where another hitchhiker standing in that spot
might have been overlooked at twilight, this one was out of the ordinary.
  It wasn't his unruly hair nor even the patina of generalized scum
enveloping him that set him apart.  No, those are the stock and trade
of hitchhikers the world over.  And Steve didn't realize until he had
stopped the car and cracked the passenger side door open that the
stranger's odor was an entity with a character all its own.
  No, it was the, er, uniquely appointed headgear the stranger wore
that made him obvious to even the slightest glance.  Perched atop the
hitchhiker's tangle of greasy hair sat a sombrero large enough to
house a small chicken farm (and from its appearance, it might well
have served that purpose).  Around the edge of the hat, bulbed tassles
hung like a host of miniature pinatas.
  "Ey, man.  Thanks for thee ride," the stranger greeted him, scattering
spittle over the dashboard as he wedged his hefty frame into the passenger
seat.  Deep in his rustling clothing, Steve thought he could hear a
clattering of... chicken bones?
 
                  +  -  +  -  +  -  +
 
  Life in the barnyard always seemed so orderly.  Now sitting on the cold
floor of the house, the hen thought of old times and could feel the dull,
warm glow of contentment well up again within her over-large, genetically
redesigned breast.  For a moment her thoughts seemed to stop completely.
But then suddenly she was brought back to the present -- in mid-cluck she
had caught a sound from the next room, the report of a blade striking a
formica counter, nearly muffled by the dying scream of an anguished fellow
chicken!  Far away in the back of the building she heard a clink of glass
and drunken laughter and then... the clattering of bone on bone.
  This time when her thoughts faded, they were washed away by a red wave
of terror.  She had heard the stories, but hadn't believed them -- back
in the henhouse, late at night, the older hens would speak the unspeakable,
name the unnameable fear that gripped them all:
 
                          CamChata!