Enter nimrod Yaffle, chief organizer of the hunt and gridverse-wide champion puker.

So what transpired in present-tense?is this: I head to Cordova, my sound level's soft (as it usually is), but just loud enough to register with me when I hear the blood-curdling sound of Tarzan going apeshiznit… and the horrendous, warbling noise is being pitched out of the bowels of a GORILLA. Enter nimrod Yaffle, bow and arrow in arm, informing me in no few words that tonight we shall not starve, for there will be a FEAST!?A FEAST OF CHICKENS! Apparently there is some nearing-midnight-induced hunger for this fine prim poultry, and nimrod hands me bow+arrow of my own. It commences.

The chickens get noisy, they're oh-so-very peckish, but that's OK-OK, 'cuz we're hungrier than that. I remind nimrod that we must not starve; we must fetch a most glorious bounty in these desperate, disparate times of deprived stipends and mysterious build bugs, so the least we can do is stock up on meats. It dawns on me after a few shots that?there will not be enough, so nimrod multiplies the chickens by a factor of approximately 100x (give or take a few), and the sim grinds to a sluggy halt, the time dilation dropping to 0.02, 0.01, 0.00 but still not crashing. We promptly IM each other, "uh oh", and the gentle gorilla graciously hands me a milk and cookie while waiting in the balance of sim-purgatory. Our motions aren't frozen, the avs continue to move in repetitive cycles, my hands swirling in oblique cycles like I'm typing out some quality imitation of Immanuel Kant. I plead with nimrod to del some so the sim doesn't crash and make us very bad residents of SL, and –

Then. It hits us. Again. (pause for emphasis)

J

MORE CHICKENS! BAWK BAWK BAWK! BAWKBAWK-FREAKIN'-BAAAWK!!! Everywhere. A faux tree with willowy swoops casts an imaginary shade, and then the onslaught begins anew.?Many more chickens, even giant ones of Godzilla-snacking proportions. My IM switchboard lights up as I alternate between?being a good plucker and communicating with chums on the other side of SL. And then, one conference call comes in, from Orhalla Zander and fellow former denizen of The Hobo Railroad along with nimrod. Without hesitation, we reach out and grab him, clad in barrel, and pull him into the zone. TP!

nimrod Yaffle: we could feed china with all these chickens!
Torley Torgeson: yes! and russia too!
nimrod Yaffle: lol

It dawns. More friends join us, and more folks come into the area, perhaps perplexed: Lightwave Valkyrie, BelGarath Stern, Dougal Jacobs, Evan Oud, Baba Yamamoto (wearing appropriate attire), and more. There's even a day-old new Resident fresh in a daze, looking at a checkerboard nearby. And guess who else joins us? Really, guess.

Hamlet Linden,?Mr.?New World Notes. A friendly man who is fundamentally responsible for me being in Second Life in the first place through some very trippy temporal sequencing. IMing me?and?arriving (albeit, in a surprised state) for his duty shift as a true team member of The Great SL Chicken Hunt '05, he at first causes some consternation by bellowing, at the top of his av-lungs:

Hamlet Linden shouts: TAKE THEM CHICKENS DOWN! NOW NOW NOW!

But really, he's here to help, and help he does:

Hamlet Linden: BRING ME MY BURNING BOW OF GOLD!
Summer Camp Bow whispers: Enter Mouselook to shoot me, Say 'pickup' to pickup arrows, say 'id' to identify yours.
Evan Oud: nice chick mobile!
Orhalla Zander: I thought they had us!
nimrod Yaffle: lol
Summer Camp Arrow - Attach to right hand: armed
nimrod Yaffle: more chickens?
nimrod Yaffle: one sec
Dougal Jacobs: I hear them..
Hamlet Linden shouts: BRING ME MY ARROWS OF DESIRE!

?<— Hamlet took this pic. Really. Hehehe.

And as Dougal listens for the stampede, I throw a set to "teh Ham", and we draw our strings, our slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and unleash hell. Er, heck. THIS IS WAR!!! Hurrying into position like a bastardized Everquest party, the chickens rush forth as we're determined to push back hard, to strike a victorious blow, to trample them asunder our prim footwear, to gut the enemy's morale and decapitate their beaks… ultimately,?to win this decisive battle on such an honorable moment in digitized, accelerated spacetime!

Then. Trouble . . .

The oncoming waves of hens have been quelled and our thirst for particle blood slaked, but like any good video game, there's a last boss:

HERE
COMES
THE
ROOSTER.

And they are formidable beasts, not moving a pixel and certainly not yielding to our advanced weaponry. More than just bows and arrows are pulled out at this point — I have a Saedaku Flamebringer in my hand, miniguns and cagers and even?lightsabers ('cause the Force is soooooo with us)?are pulled out to attack with full force, live and direct from the source, y0. A little rabbit by the name of RacerX Gullwing comes to observe, a picture of him bound to make the cover of Time magazine, and that's one thing we don't have enough of — TIME. We fall back, retreating to a defensive position as more hens cawk and cackle, I almost swear they're about to launch egg plasma cannons at us, but why would they endanger their young when they can BREED?!?

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MoRe

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The battle rages on, and my time becomes short. We're assaulted from the rear by some randy?Lemmings, but they are quickly dispatched and sent back to?the can-can land from whence they came.?It thankfully appears victory is now confidently within our grasp with General?nimrod storming?back forward ("back forward?" WTH?)?and I must head to another engagement to… try on some new clothes. I wave goodbye to my comrades, heading off in?my Cubey CLAWW, sit pose colliding with my rollerskating anim but that's okay, that's okay –

This is Second Life, after all.

Special thanks to: Sion Zaius, maker of hens; Cailyn Miller, maker of?cocks.