Backstory

Somewhere in a classified corner of the poultry programme, a chicken signed a waiver it could not read and became a firework test subject. The experiments were loud, frequent and never once successful in the way the scientists hoped. The chicken, for its part, emerged from every blast with the same look: a calm, egg-shaped acceptance of the inevitable.

It has accepted its fate. It has also accepted yours. That is the part the farm keeps forgetting to prepare for. The Exploding Chicken does not want to reach your door because it is hungry — it wants to reach your door because reaching your door is the loudest way to end the conversation. If you kill it first, the conversation ends anyway. Either way, there is a blast radius.

It waddles into battle like a philosopher carrying a suitcase full of fireworks: resigned, polite, and extremely dangerous to be near. The only mercy is that its fuse is short and its aim is terrible — it will happily detonate in the middle of its own flock, which is the one thing it does better than anything else.