We first encountered Harold in the inaugural post of our Festival of Cruelty feature. Unbeknownst to us, Harold has been busy since then, amassing a sizable body of work. We have therefore chosen to showcase Harold and his chicken-hating ways in this, our 13th installment of the Festival of Cruelty.
For those of you who are still blissfully ignorant of this hateful little series, an explanation: the Festivals of Cruelty afford us the opportunity to enjoy some plainspoken anti-animal sentiment. Instead of the usual suicidefoodist fare, with its obfuscation and misdirection—its perversion of obvious truths—we get to experience unadorned candor. It's like hearing the whispers out of range of cameras and microphones. (Revisit the previous edition, won't you?)
Which brings us back to Harold. Here is a monarch who just loves killing (or at least chasing and menacing) chickens throughout Chicago and points beyond. He can't get enough of it.
Sometimes Harold keeps his regal status under wraps. But whether he's in his crown and ermine-trimmed jacket or the humble garb of the short-order cook, whether he runs to the left or the right, whether his quarry scampers or, legless, flaps in fright, the constant is that insatiable hatchet. Those damn chickens will feel the sting of his singing steel!
(Thanks to Debora Drower for her photo of the frantic neon Harold.)