Now, lads. You all know that we're coming up to the end. And I don't mean the end of the month, or even the end of my potatoes. This is the end of everything. Sean the scorpion showed me his book, written by one late Paddy Nostradamus. I couldn't make heads nor tails of that git's English but Sean said it was very clear to him.
Next year, a chicken will escape from farmer Murphy's run and make his way to the post office. There, he will cluck three times and scratch the dirt a bit with its foot. A meteor will then strike the post office, ending the postal service as we know it forever.
Needless to say, that scared the bejazus out of me. No more letters, Sean? We'll lose contact with the outside world. Anything could happen and we wouldn't know about it. Sean just nodded his head grimly. There must be something we can do, I pleaded.
There could be, one thing we could do. Sean said. What if Murphy had no more chickens? I spent the next ten minutes pondering the implications of what Sean had said, indeed, what if Murphy had no more chickens. There'd be no more eggs, that much was for sure.
No more chickens, no more prophecy. Sean said. What was on my mind was the day only two weeks before when the Murphy kids pelted me with a salvo of those apocalyptic chickens' output. What can we do, then. I asked Sean.
Well, if we take his chickens and sell them on, we'll have saved the world Arby.
And, coincidently, that's also the story about how I ended up with Murphy's Buckshot in my posterior.
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