General Beauregard vs. Chick-fil-A

General Beauregard vs. Chick-fil-A

A Cooter Short Story by K. Brad Barfield

When word reached the Kingdom of Cooter that a Chick-fil-A had opened in El Dorado, the reaction was not what you might call measured. It was, however, deeply personal to one individual: General Beauregard, the self-appointed commander of all poultry interests in the western reaches of Egypt Township.

The trouble started when Joon Cooter, who treats news like a contractual deliverable, stepped outside with her phone and announced in her clean, bureaucratic tone:

“General, I regret to inform you that a quick-service chicken enterprise has begun operations in Union County.”

The General froze mid-scratch. His comb stiffened. His pupils dilated like he had just heard artillery in the distance.

“Chicken what?” he said, voice trembling like a fence wire in a thunderstorm.

“Fil-A,” Joon continued. “Their business model appears to center on sliced, brined, and pressure-cooked members of your demographic.”

The General staggered backwards. “They have pressure cookers? In a retail setting?”

Joon nodded. “And waffle fries.”

This nearly ended him.

He paced the length of the porch, muttering phrases such as “my honor,” “dastardly commerce,” and “a clear breach of the Geneva Conventions of Poultry.” Then he announced he would be taking a “diplomatic mission” to El Dorado.

By “mission,” he meant riding in the back of Joon’s Tacoma inside a milk crate, glaring at everyone on Highway 82 like a tiny, feathered attorney preparing his opening argument.

When they arrived, traffic was wrapped around the building twice, because Chick-fil-A on a Saturday will test the patience of the saints and the structural integrity of the drive-thru asphalt. The General climbed onto the dashboard, looked out the windshield, and gasped.

“They’re smiling,” he whispered. “Why are the humans smiling while participating in a poultry massacre?”

Joon explained that Chick-fil-A employees were known for their customer service.

“Customer service?” he screeched. “You mean to tell me they are cheerful about this? That is diabolical. That is psychological warfare.”

A teenager in an orange safety vest approached the truck to take orders. The General panicked.

“Drive!” he shouted. “He’s unarmed but highly trained!”

Once Joon had safely exited the parking lot, the General collapsed dramatically across the cupholders.

“It is worse than I imagined,” he said. “They have uniforms. They have choreography. They have… sauces.”

Joon checked her rearview mirror. “General, respectfully, no one is hunting you. You are a bantam rooster in Egypt Township. They are selling sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches made of WHAT, Joon? AIR? HOPE?”

He flopped again, talons in the air, as if the mere concept of Polynesian sauce had spiritually wounded him.

Later, back home, he called an emergency meeting of the Cooter Fowl Coalition, which consisted of himself, Okra the Pig (who is not poultry but enjoys meetings), and Bronkey the Donkey (who came for the snacks). The General stood on an overturned feed bucket and declared:

“Chick-fil-A is now a regional threat. We must adopt a defensive posture.”

Bronkey asked, “What kind of posture?”

The General puffed himself up and replied, “An honorable one. A posture of vigilance, valor, and—”

Okra interrupted. “Ain’t nobody drivin’ to El Dorado to get YOU, fool.”

The General straightened his Big Chief badge. “By my honor, I will not become a combo meal.”

And with that, he strutted off into the yard, loudly practicing threats such as:

“You tell El Dorado if they want me, they gotta come THROUGH Cooter!”

and

“I am NOT available in spicy or grilled!”

By sundown he had calmed down enough to accept a peace offering of cracked corn, though he did eat it while glaring suspiciously toward the southern horizon, muttering:

“Waffle fries… the humans are weak.”

And thus concluded the Great Chick-fil-A Panic of the Rooster Republic.

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