Little Miss Proto-Lesbian and the Evil Demon Chicken of Doom
Once upon a time, there lived a little cowgirl in cut off jeans and plaid shirts and she lived with her family on a wee bitty ranch.
Little Miss Proto-Lesbian lived happily singing along with Helen Reddy and building chicken coops out of chicken wire and feed bags and raising goats.
One day, Little Miss Proto-Lesbian was out playing with her goats (Pooter One and Pooter Two, bonus points if you know which television show that was from) in the pasture when, to her utter shock, a white Leghorn rooster named Rodney came flying out of the chicken coop.
Now, let me tell y’all, lest you not know. Roosters are MEAN. They have spurs on their heels and they can cut a bitch. True story. Add to that the squawking, the flying of feathers and the beak and this shit is the stuff of nightmares.
Little Miss Proto-Lesbian went screaming into the house, wherein there was a lot of cleaning up blood and tears and perhaps a bit of teasing, because Texans are inherently evil that way (or maybe it’s just my family…).
All was well until the next morning when Little Miss Proto-Lesbian had to go out to the chicken coop to gather eggs.
You see, not only are roosters mean? They have long memories.
Fast forward three months.
Three months of twice daily go-rounds with the meanest chicken known to man. Three months of gathering eggs with one hand while tossing the evil bastard back with a pitchfork.
Then, one day?
Little Miss Proto-Lesbian flinged when she should have flung and instead of tossing Rodney out toward the rabbit pens I — I mean, Little Miss Proto-Lesbian — shot him straight into the dog run.
The family got the dogs back and all, and tried to get to the demon chicken, but he disappeared under the house.
Now, back in the day, when the dinosaurs walked the earth, ranch houses were built on bois d’arc beams and there was a crawl space down there that was like the bowels of hell. Snakes. Bugs. Scorpions. Goo. Foul funk. No one – not even daddies – wanted to get down under there.
So, everyone figured, okay, he’ll die down there, it’ll stink for week or so, the end.
No big, right?
They’d get a more easy-going rooster to protect the hen house. All would be well. Right?
Three and a half weeks later Little Miss Proto-Lesbian was out there playing jump rope when a one-winged, one-footed ZOMBIE CHICKEN came flying out from under the house, head barely held on, fueled by utter hatred and attacked.
At this point, Little Miss Proto-Lesbian had had enough (and had a cinderblock handy) and she squashed that evil bird until it died.
They did not eat it and lived happily ever after.
Much love, y’all.
Check Out B.A. Tortuga’s Books
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy’s Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her basset hounds and her beloved wife, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she’s not doing that, she’s writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA’s personal saviors include her wife, Julia Talbot, her best friend, Sean Michael, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the high desert and lives in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head.