The chicken is trying to make an impression on you. All his training has been for this moment. He learned the forms, the moves, the stances. He worked his tail feathers off—you don't see them there, do you?—earning his bloody red belt, all for the hope that you will pick him.
Like an orphan showing off his manners, his knowledge of multiplication, or his undeniable charm, the chicken wants to dazzle you with his martial arts skills. And his orphan eyes look up at you with longing, bravely hiding their fear of your rejection.
He dreams of winding up in a styrofoam or bucket-shaped cradle, going home. With you. To be given what he has always craved: a death fit for a karate-chopping warrior.
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