jake - Rocky The Rooster Says Goodbye

“I always knew it would end this way.” Duke mused, his back pressed against the wall, three bullets in his chest as he reached his hand out in a futile attempt to stop this. He looked like a wounded imitation of Adam and Michael was his God, His divine finger the gun ready to throw His creation out of the Garden.

“Nah, Duke.” Michael sneered. “That’s your problem. You didn’t know enough.”

TO BE CONTINUED, Ben Sampson typed in big block letters, depressing his caps lock and centering the text, bolding it for that finishing touch that he had found himself craving to experience over the past two months. He collapsed back in his chair, feeling the plastic frame bend under his full weight. He insisted on using the most uncomfortable chair he could stand. “It keeps me from getting distracted,” he would tell his overly concerned mother when she first saw it.

He had done it. He had done it! He had finished The Road to Chicagoan Hell: A Duke Dickinson Story, the first of what he hoped would be many books following its titular character, a stone wall of a private eye who did not treat hardasses with kindness. Ben had spent years developing the idea, from when he was living in his prison cell of a Chicago apartment, nearly going blind from sodium overload fueled by his endless stream of cup noodles, to now, eating semi-healthy in his single-floor suburban. It was his dream. It was why he became a writer in the first place, the idea of Duke standing tall with a sawed-off slung over his shoulder, rain lightly beating down the tip of his fedora coming to him when he was fourteen during Mr. King’s history class, his adolescent brain jacked up on visions of Heat and Goodfellas.

And yet–

He stood from his chair (a move his ass and back silently thanked him for) and wandered to the corner of his room, kneeling down to thumb through the books on the bottom of the small bookshelf that was dutifully stationed there, as if they kept guard over him while he slept. He pulled out the book farthest to the left, a slim volume that was wider than it was tall and had a cover (designed by his ex) that displayed an impossibly large rooster pecking at the grass beneath its feet. Despite the size, its beak had its sharp edges softened to make a smooth yellow triangle, its eyes were white with wide brown pupils, and its feathers were more like fur, as if it were a household pet. “ROCKY THE ROOSTER” was emboldened in big brown letters under the illustration, and further below were the words “A story by BENNY BARNES”.

Ben sighed with an emotion he couldn’t place, turning the book over to read the cheery summary he, like his Rocky pseudonym, had written with the help of his publisher. He shelved it and then pulled out the follow-up, Rocky the Rooster and the Big Race, with a cover that showed Rocky driving a car. He had written a birthday-themed one, a Christmas one, a Thanksgiving one, a St. Patrick’s Day one for good measure. Ben chuckled lowly at the absurdity of some of the books that had been made and some that hadn’t—he had gotten into a shouting match with his publisher about writing one that sent Rocky to the Moon, and had managed to work it down to merely learning about the solar system–and he sighed again, a mix of catharsis and quiet regret as he held the final chapter in his hands.

Rocky the Rooster Says Goodbye had been published two weeks prior, and he still didn’t know how he felt about it. His mind drifted back to two months ago, where he would write and rewrite the very simple story for hours at a time before taking a break to go work on Chicagoan Hell, which he found came much easier. But he finished, and once he got it back with illustrations included, he had properly vetted it, finding himself much less picky about which drawings stayed and which had to be redone. Ben flipped it over, then back on its front as he stared at the cover, which depicted Rocky walking across a flat plain with the sun hanging low, followed by fellow Rocky characters Sam Squirrel, Fiona Fish and Rick Raccoon.

He hummed to himself and walked a circle around his room, the final book now in one hand, his other running a thumb over the plastic blade-guard of the paper cutter that Mo Willems had sent to him after the third Rocky book had been published. “Us bird-men have gotta stick together” the note attached had read.

“So, are you really going away forever?” Sarah asked, as Rocky kneeled down and let them jump off his back.

“Maybe I won’t be, but I don’t know.” Rocky said sadly, knowing that he wasn’t telling the truth. “But if I never see you again…” he looked at Sarah, then David. “...you two were the best friends I ever had. Goodbye.”

And with that, Rocky turned around and walked across the field, the kids waving goodbye to him as he left. And just before he went out of sight, he turned around, tilted his head to the sky, and let out one last–

Ben almost choked on his own rather undignified rooster sound, a staple of the Rocky books, and he narrowly avoided the gag that so often hit him when he practiced the noise alone. And with that, he folded the book’s cover closed and flipped it so it sat right side up on his lap.

“Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Barnes?” The teacher asked her first graders, twenty or so of them all sitting on the school library’s floor.

Most of them raised their hands, and the teacher gave Ben a “go on” look.

Ben looked at the sea of raised hands and asked “does anyone have a question not about why this is the last Rocky book?”

All but one of the children put their hands down. “Well, Rocky’s done a lot of things, right?” The kids murmured agreement with this. “How much more can he do? I mean, he’s won the Big Race, watched a rocket launch at NASA, he’s…” Ben trailed off, drawing a complete blank on the subject of Rocky’s various exploits.

“Saved Christmas?” One exceptionally short and skinny kid piped up.

“Yes.” Ben gave the kid a thumbs up, and continued. “He could do more, but he would have to run out of things eventually, right?” He got another murmur of agreement, but this time more hesitant, and he felt a pang of guilt for letting not just his creation, but their fictional friend, die like this. “So maybe it’s time for Rocky to do his own thing. Yes?” He directed the last part at a kid in a polo shirt with his hand still straight up in the air, having not bothered to put it down while Ben was talking.

“What’s Rocky doing now?”

Ben considered this. “I think whatever he’s doing, he’s happy. I’m sure it’s something he’s always wanted, and now he has time.”

“No, of course this is a good idea.” Ben affirmed, his neck wedging his phone tight in his shoulder blade. “It's what I want. I’ve already done what I need.”

His publisher was arguing with him, insisting that he could get Ben to change his mind if he just listened, if he stopped being so stubborn. Ben stopped himself from shouting by tapping his foot. He liked his publisher—well, kind of—but the man had the potential to get on his nerves easily, and his ability to tap into that potential was excellent.

“Can I—hey, I’m—listen!” He shouted, feeling his cheeks glow with effort and anger. “I’m trying to explain myself, god dammit! Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t we done enough? I’ve ea–” the car jolted. “Shit. I think I just hit something, call back.” He hung up as his publisher said something about “if it’s a kid, I’m not associated with you!”

He pulled over onto the shoulder and turned the car off, sighing with relief when he saw his accidental victim was small and fur-covered. He crept towards it, as though the twitching huddle would leap up and attack at a moment’s notice for his sin. As Ben got closer to the animal, he recognized it as a squirrel, a small one that was making little choking noises as blood streamed from its side.

Ben felt his throat tighten with sympathy. “Ah, jeez,” he murmured to the dying animal. “Sorry, little guy.”

The squirrel blinked back at him, its dark eyes glittering with an emotion he couldn’t place, as if it was asking him why before it stopped breathing. “Sorry.” He repeated sheepishly, before searching the side of the road for a stick to move it out of the way with.

Bang.

The front door jolted, its hinges screaming with counter effort. Ben’s eyes dimly flickered open and he groaned, pushing his head into the couch’s pillow as if this was just the couple two doors from his old apartment throwing things at each other again.

BANG.

Ben clumsily rolled off the couch, blinking sleep out of his eyes as they readjusted to the moonlight streaming through his window. What was making that sound? Did she throw a lamp at him, or–

The door exploded inward, blasting off its hinges with a loud shriek, landing at Ben’s feet. He jolted fully awake, springing to his feet and slamming his back against the wall. He barely had time to mutter a confused curse before a shadow appeared in the doorway, a massive one that eclipsed much of the light that created it.

“Beck-beck-beck.”

Ben froze.

“Beck-beck-beck.”

The shadow was making a noise. It was clucking. It wasn’t the type of clucking one would hear from a chicken or rooster, the noises they made on his grandparents’ farm being one of the many things that inspired Ben to write the Rocky books, but it was more like a human’s laugh filtered through a crushed throat. The floorboards groaned as the shadow stepped forward, becoming solid, real, as it stepped over the threshold. His common sense coming back to him, Ben slowly walked backwards towards his office, his human mind telling him to make as little noise as possible, his writer’s mind wanting to get a look at whatever had come knocking.

It stepped into the moonlight, and Ben got his wish.

It was a rooster, one the size of a two-seater. Its eyes were a bleeding amber, flecks of brown penetrating the jet-black pupils. As it stared Ben down, he noticed that only the left one blinked, the right gummed with pinkish pus that had hardened into a half shell. It was not the regal blue and red that his favorite rooster from the farm had been, instead a vomit-grey, tainted with flecks of black and rust along its weathered coat where feathers hung loose and left a trail behind it with each step. The legs had retained their yolk yellow hue, but were skinnier, spindlier, its six toes now sharp-looking claws that glinted in the light. Its comb was mottled, turning from red to pink from the bottom up. The beak was almost as sharp as its toes, and it too reflected the moonbeams, a glaring spot of white gliding down its beak like a drop of water as it moved towards Ben.

He knew what it was, who it was, but he didn’t dare say it out loud because then it would be real, and something like this couldn’t be real.

Ben broke the moment by dashing for his office. The rooster let out a buzzing scream and thundered towards him, its massive frame slamming against the door as Ben shut it. He hurried across the room, grabbed his uncomfortable chair, and pressed it against the door. Ben muttered another curse and whirled around, looking for something, anything to keep him alive. The door rattled before suddenly going still, and it, like his front door, exploded as the rooster towered over it, every sharp and evil thing on its body reflecting the natural light.

“Stay back.” Ben murmured, before raising his voice. “Stay back!” he shouted, his breathing ragged as it took a step towards him, digging into the wood with its talons. “Stay back, you f–”

The talons came up and slashed his arm, narrowly missing his throat by virtue of Ben falling on his ass. He groaned in pain as he dimly felt the cut, already bleeding profusely. The rooster raised one talon again, standing over him and holding it at an angle as Ben put his good arm out, as if to say “wait.” It swiped its head down and he felt the beak close around his ankle, sharp, but not sharp enough to cut, and the rooster began to drag him backwards. Before he could guess as to where it was going to take him, it stopped and dropped him.

Ben picked himself up and turned around, mystified, until he realized what the thing was looking at. His blood. There was a line on the floor.

Ben sprung to his feet as the rooster leaned down to look at its own accidental creation, its good eye dilating and shrinking rapidly, its simple brain tantalized by this new pattern. He lurched over to his desk, doing his best to ignore his screaming arm as he grabbed the paper cutter, clumsily knocking into his shelf and making the Rocky books tumble to the ground.

He lifted it to hit the rooster over the head, before stopping himself and thinking what the hell am I doing? Ben dropped the paper cutter on the floor, pushing it with his foot under the rooster’s head, and placed his hands down on the rooster’s neck with all his strength.

To his shock, it went down for a moment before it started to struggle and seize under his foot, but Ben had already begun to push the blade down. The rooster screamed again as the tool dug into its tough, stony flesh, but after a moment, it started to give way. It looked at him with its bad eye like the squirrel, unblinking, asking “please” instead of “why?” Ben ignored it, groaning with effort as it slid in further. The rooster screamed again before the blade sank in deeper with a chunk, causing it to go silent.

Ben stepped back, not allowing himself to look as its head came off with a peeling sound like a band-aid clinging tightly to a fresh scab. It was his refusal to look that prevented him from seeing the headless body rise up and run right at him. It knocked him to the ground and stopped for good right on top of him, pinning him under its bulk. Ben groaned, struggling under its weight, his cut arm still bleeding. Its neck bled with him, but its fluid was dark and inky.

The oozing liquid covered Rocky the Rooster, staining the cover. When it washed away, the cover no longer displayed the gentle animal millions of children loved, but the rooster, the terrible one, its bad eye staring at Ben’s ceiling, asking “why?” instead of “please.”