Once upon a time, in a land far, far from my heart, a headless chicken stalked a hapless fox.
None of the villagers really knew from where came the chicken, or how she happened to be in such a state. All that was known, as far as they’re concerned, was that the chicken arrived at the village gates in a bronze chariot pulled along by eighty-two robed fleas. The bizarre arrival was made even more disturbing when the chicken first spoke, which, because of her headless state, was of course nothing more than a spurt of blood rushing from severed veins.
And the fox, well the fox too was quite, if not equally, disturbing. Thousands of years worth of evolution has made their species among the fiercest, most independent, and shrewd hunters –being hunted themselves by humans. But this particular fox, alas, seems to have diverted from the natural road of foxiness. Though he too has sixty-nine teeth, clawed paws, an unerring sense of smell, and the innate predilection towards blood, he somehow lacks the will to hunt. He prefers instead to live the life of a scavenger, often raiding garbage pits and backyards where old women gather shooting sultry looks at passing young men.
So now we have a mystery-ridden chicken and a mentally disturbed fox in one place. What happens next, as the cliché goes, is fate playing into the hands of history.
I know. There’s no such cliché, you’re saying. Tsk, touché.
Nevertheless, what happened next was this. As the fox went about his scavenging forays, the chicken happened to be on a tree branch fanned by an adoring horde of overeducated fleas. As the chicken gazed down at the fox, as only headless creatures can do, she felt a tug in her sensible yet nearly senile heart.
It was neither pity nor concern. Neither curiosity nor empathy. It was almost indescribable. It was glorious. It was a tug.
As the fox went about from garbage can to garbage can, the chicken stealthily went down the tree and followed the fox. From a distance of only a few clawed feet, she observed how the fox seem to be looking for something in particular. He would pick something up, sniff it, murmur something then shake his golden-red head before throwing it down and resuming his search. Now the headless chicken was intrigued. What, she whispered to herself, on god’s red earth could that capricious fox be looking?
It wasn’t until about a few grimy and smelly garbage cans later that she had an answer.
As the fox zeroed in on the last garbage can of the last single man at the last house of the village on the last village on earth, he cried in joy upon seeing something squirming at the very bottom.
“Found it! I found it!,” cried the fox in ecstasy.
Even more intrigued now, the chicken edged closer to see what it is the fox found. She noticed the fox slowly unwrapping a bloody lump wrapped in mounds of paper it seems. Unknown to the fox who was so engrossed in unwrapping the bloody pages, the chicken was already standing so close to him that she could clearly see his painted clawnails. It wasn’t until the fox peeled the last of the paper that he noticed the chicken behind him.
“Eeeeeek!,” –or in this case, gurgle, splatter, blob, splash– as the headless chicken screamed in horror.
“Is that a heart? (gurgle, splatter, blob),” asked the chicken.
The hapless fox, unable to understand what the chicken was saying, merely shook his head and started to walk away.
But as he did so, he felt a tug.
It was neither pity nor concern. Neither curiosity nor empathy. It was almost indescribable. It was glorious. It was a tug.
So he turned around and said to the chicken.
“All these years I went about heartless. All I had was a brain, but there are two things wrong with it. One, it thinks. Two, it feels nothing.”
The chicken, having been headless for so long, let out one last sincere spurt from the bottom of her heart and dropped dead.

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