The Triumph of the OCD Chicken

We used to give him a lot of crap about the way he was.

He had to pace out the walls of every room he entered, and then he’d work his way through every vacant space in the room. Sometimes you’d hear him muttering “rank and file, rank and file” while he moved through a room. He’d climb over and under furniture, and walk back and forth with his arms out like he was trying to take flight – and if you opened a door or a window, he’d demand you closed them, and as soon as you did, he’d start his little ritual all over again.

He was okay after that – he’d sit or stand or dance, he’d talk and even occasionally drink, just like a normal person.

We called him the OCD Chicken because that’s what he always looked like when he did his signature move, and he took it in pretty good part.

But we never called him that again after the night there was a weird squelchy sucking noise from his direction, and when we all turned to see, he was holding a knife at chest level in front of him, and lowering a slowly-fading-into-visibility man to the ground.

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