“It’s weird how little you can hear them, with the music and all”

John turned to Chris with mild exasperation: both eye brows raised; slight head tilt; and a long, unimpressed stare. Chris went on,

“The dance floor is spacious, nobody nearby to complain about the noise, and people can park wherever they want. The barn is the perfect place for the party; It couldn’t be done cheaper!”

John looks up.

“Forget about them.” Explained Chris, “The chickens probably love the music. I bet they’re having a party of their own.”

_Crack_

John looks back at Chris wide eyed. Chris is dead silent.

Suddenly the ceiling bursts open at the center of the barn, right above the dance floor. The chickens, their feathers, and their waste funnels down. The sufficating mass begins to quickly pile up on people as they try to dissipate. The cacophony of clucking and crowing grossly overpowers the music.

The people burst through the barn door like a stream of water. They are quickly stoped by the lamberth of cars parked sporadically. Some people are able to spill through the gaps between the cars; however, most sucume to the rath of the chicken hoard flooding them.

John and Chris seek refugee on a lifted truck bed. John turns to Chris with a all too familiar look. A slow, knowing smirk with a slight head shake. The “I told you so” look.