Imagine you’re driving on a road trip and your car breaks down in a weird little Midwestern town. The mechanic says it’s going to be a couple of days, so you get a motel room.
At dawn, you get woken up by screaming. You rush outside. On a park bench near the sidewalk is a loudly dressed man, standing on the table. He has his hands on his hips as he walks back and forth. He is yelling. “GOOD MORNING, LADIES. THE SUN IS UP AND SO AM I. GOOD MORNING, LADIES.”
While he’s strutting, another man comes down the sidewalk on his way to work.
“HEY BOB. HEY HEY. HEY BOB. YOU GONNA GET A LADY TODAY?”
“hell damn yeah im gonna get a lady today”
“YEAH. GOOD MORNING, LADIES. THAT’S RIGHT.”
This is a little weird, to be certain, but you shrug it off as the local drunk or something of the like.
To pass the time while you wait for your repairs, you wander around main street and find a craft shop. You head inside, admiring the supplies, when you notice that the shop has a room set up for group craft work. There are tables by the walls and a big circle of chairs. It’s full of women holding knitting, all standing around, waiting their turn in one specific chair.
In that single chair is a large woman, knitting needles working in a blur, as the other women shift their weight from foot to foot and occasionally sigh.
“Where’s Clarice?” one of the waiting women asks.
“She was in my chair when I got here,” the seated woman says. The clicking of her needles stops briefly. Her head cocks to glare around the room through one wide eye. “Don’t ever take my chair.”
And that’s when you finally realize it. You’re trapped in a town of werechickens.