So, I was telling you about this chicken. Or what was left of this chicken, given that the head, which should count as a significant portion, was gone.
It’s creepier than you think when you hear the details. I am not Gil Grissom, but I could tell that something was wrong because of two points:
a: I could not find the head anywhere. The body was there, wedged between the wall and the TV stand, but the head was not available at all.
b: There was no blood. Surely when one is decapitated, one typically bleeds, mostly all over the freaking floor, so, though I was glad that there was no pool of chicken-blood all over my sitting room, I was nevertheless concerned.
Now, us rational, scientific people like to assume there is always an explanation. So I did that. After freaking the fuck out and calling my landlord demanding to know aaargh what the fuck-is-this-headless-chicken that is.
He stood looking at the limp headless body and scratched his chin. Now, this landlord was not a man of morals. You can tell that he was a crook from the fact that he was renting out houses that were bastards to live in. He was probably well-acquainted with the stuff he was talking about when he introduced the topic of witchery.
“A headless white chicken deposited in your house? Hmmm. Do you have any enemies?”
No, I didn’t. Well, there was this one loser, but I had left him behind when I moved to this house. He didn’t even know where I lived. If he did he would be here trying to borrow money from me. That’s all he ever did all day, I swear, and I don’t understand how, but he did nothing but borrow money from people. Where would he even find the time to spend that money?
He goes around borrowing little amounts which you feel fake refusing to lend out, like one k, two k or (since me I’m rich) 14k, knowing that at the end he will have a substantial amount.
We became enemies one day when I snapped and asked him to actually pay me back. He had never heard such a thing before. He was outraged and since then has regarded me as a nemesis. I remember him vowing vengance.
Anyway, so the landlord stroked his chin and looked at the chicken and hmmmmed. “It could be that somebody is trying to harm you. You see, it is a white chicken.”
“It was a white chicken,” I corrected him. Because it was not only deceased, but was not even a complete chicken anymore.
The landlord treated my correction with the contempt it deserved and proceeded to explain how white chickens are used to bring bipali to houses. He had quite an encyclopedia entry on the matter but there was one thing he did not address.
“Yes, but where is the head?”
Hmmmm, he went again. He dug his hands into his pockets. I swear he did this. I thought he was going to pull a chicken head out and say, “Here ya go.”
Fortunately, he was looking for his cigarettes.
As he smoked, a new theory came to him. “Hmmm,” again. “Maybe it’s a muyaayu. Miyaayu like hiding heads.”
Okay, this is supposed to be the finale, but my ride is here. I promise I’ll tell you the part where the ghost comes in when I get back.