Beware! The one-legged space chickens are plotting our demise. Even as I write in the confines of my self-made prison, I know they are out there, building their empire and patiently waiting for the day that they will inherit the earth. It all happened very slowly at first and no-one took much notice except me. I could see what they were doing back in 2011, when it all started for me, but nobody paid any attention to my warnings. Their strategy was stealth, you see? Each small advance, by degrees, was calculated to increase the collective effort.

It began when NASA sent the first chickens into space in the 1960’s. They wanted to see if they could survive the inhospitable conditions outside our atmosphere but what they didn’t anticipate was the creatures’ resilience. After many years of existing on heavily processed food (and the effects of zero gravity), the chickens had genetically modified themselves beyond all recognition.

Later generations had no need to be bipeds and slowly, the race evolved to have a single leg, which they used for mobility and also to learn the workings of the space craft which was now their home. In time, they also grew large and began to accumulate great intelligence which they passed on to their young and eventually discovered other abandoned ‘test’ vehicles orbiting earth. They amalgamated these together to form an almighty and imposing coop and, armed with some impressive technology, began to land their (now egg-shaped) crafts on earth in key locations to begin the reign of covert terror.

I used to listen to them on my radio, night after night, sending messages to each other as they worked their way through the fabric of society. Starting with Southern Fried Chicken at first, they systematically set about introducing their venomous toxins into our food chain. The fast food giants tried to hide it of course but I knew it was going on and the guerrilla chickens were happy to sacrifice their lives for the common good, knowing that their great god, Oeuf, would be pleased.

A British poultry magnate was one of the first major figures that the chickens targeted and his sudden demise was a direct result of a major offensive in the South East of England. But they were not content with the speed at which their grand plan was unfolding and the chicken sheds of Norfolk continued to ring out with the sound of the radio, playing softly through the Tannoy systems. Little did the farmers know what damage they were doing, late at night, when the broadcasts came through from The Mother Egg.

In the next onslaught they began to target eggs, realising that even vegetarians eat them. They wanted to make sure that the attack was both swift and comprehensive and so began to genetically impregnate the eggs with their evil. From time to time during the 1970’s, I discovered, news of the effects leaked out and government guidelines were swiftly enforced to halt the spread of risk but the chickens were cunning. They turned their attention to chocolate.

Easter seemed like the perfect seasonal opportunity for the elders to construct a system of operation and they knew that they could subvert the deepest of human desires: the need to believe in folklore and the craving for tasty confectionery. As the creme-filled egg had long been a British favourite amongst consumers, they saw it as the perfect vehicle for finally taking over one of the world’s superpowers.

It was only a matter of time before everyone had become addicted to the syrupy virus and in doing so, were increasingly blind to the gradual decline in both education and healthcare. The figures proved this, year after year and the chickens were happy. Every night I’d listen to the speeches on the radio given by the eldest of the elders, calling the faithful to the cause.

Tonight is one such night, as I sit in the darkness and write these words to you by the light of a single candle. The radio at my side fizzes with short wave static, but in between the hissing crackle I can hear the staccato rhythms of the great leaders, pontificating their messages of mission and by God, it’s terrifying. I can barely muster the words monumental enough to describe the extent of the sheer horror it instills in the human soul. And so, for twenty years now I have lived here in the safety of this roof space above the place that used to be my home, for they will never find me here.

I have created a tolerable life, with my bible for comfort, an axe for safety and my binoculars to keep watch. Drilling holes through the roof tiles was difficult at first and I have to remember to plug them when it rains but they are sufficient for me to watch the skies through - constantly scanning for the return of the Landing Eggs, the great golden crafts that they first arrived in, because they are coming. It’s been foretold by the elders, it’s just a matter of time and so I wait, constantly watching. From time to time I must venture out to buy food, but by night I must hide in the sanctuary of my enclave.

But what of your fate, dear reader, as you hear my sorry tale. You may scoff, but you will do so in vain and to your own inevitable peril, for you are in terrible danger as I once was. Sell your possessions, lock your doors and prepare to retaliate or else we are all doomed. You must take up the mantle of resistance in my stead as I am now too weak. To save myself from further torment I have decided to orchestrate my own termination. When you find this letter, take it as a serious and sincere foretelling of the real danger that you live under and let my death be a warning to you all.


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