Chicken Valhalla

I decided the other day that I was over my chickens. Finally. The moment has left the building. Or something.

But I wanted to give them a good end. An honourable end. Something memorable and worthy of them.

I've heard of people blowing theirs up, running them over, shooting them, kicking seven shades of crap out of them and bouncing them from 3000m. All of these lack a little panache though, I reckon. I wanted to create something memorable.

In this post, Tony Curtis's part will be played by myself, while the Kirk Douglas's part will be played by eight chickens.

So yeah, a memorable end. I wanted to see them on to a better life. To send them to chicken heaven in style. And what has more style that a Viking funeral? Sending off the dead to chicken Valhalla to evermore feast and frolic, waited on by chicken valkyries. If I was a chicken, it would be my idea of heaven. And how I'd want to go.

It was going to take a little arranging, but I knew I could give the chooks an admirable goodbye.

The first job was find a Viking longboat. And to transfer the chickens to said boat. The second part of this was easier said than done due to their innate desire to want to return 'home'. Fortunately I had a willing accomplice on hand to move the chickens and hold them in place while I touched them and typed quickly to 'home' them.


They looked a little uneasy over there on the boat, bobbing up and down with the swell of the sea. I think they looked a whole lot more uneasy when I pulled a bow, an arrow and a Zippo out of my inventory.


The first shot fell short. The second shot sailed over the bows. The restless chickens definitely picked up on the warning shot. But the third shot dropped perfectly into the bowels of the longboat. With a whoosh and a puff smoke the flames began to spread.


It didn't take long for the flames to take. And spread. The boat was wooden after all. I'm sure the squawking of the chickens got a lot more deliberate and panicked at this stage. I couldn't hear it though, over the laughing from the girly next to me. "OMG. This is all sorts of wrong" was a rough approximation of her sentiments. Between the laughs.


The longboat burned long into the night. I stood there on the foreshore in the shadows of the flickering glow. Watching. Reminiscing. Taking in that oh-so-good chargrilled chicken fragrance.


So, as the longboat drifted off into the night, glowing brightly against the dark sky and even darker sea, I contemplated my feelings. Was I sad? I had expected to be but no, I wasn't. Maybe the send off had been some sort of flame-grilled closure. We'd been through a lot but I'd sent them on their way with glorious honour.

Alternatively it may be that I wasn't sad because I was already too busy contemplating what I was going to do with an extra 200 prims.

I've heard tell of a yard sale close to my little mudmound that's happening this weekend. Do you think anyone would want to buy one slightly charred Viking longboat?

Ok, so that's the chickens gone. What's the next craze I can jump on the bandwagon of well over two months late? I've got 200 spare prims after all...