Chicken Little Fingers

by Maveness



Title: Chicken Little Fingers
By: Maveness (mavenessdelight@yahoo.com) Rating: PG-13 (for a couple of cuss words) Disclaimer: Pete, his mom's sofa, Chloe, Clark, and Lana do not belong to me. And I do not make any money off of them. Now the chicken, it's my nice creation. So if anyone tries to make any money off of it, I will sue. g Summary: Pete reaps the benefits of partying with the soccer crowd. A benefit of the fowl variety.

"There's a chicken in the living room," Chloe stated calmly.

Pete glanced up from the garbage bag he'd been shoving paper plates and other trash into. Chloe was standing in the doorway, staring into the living room with this...look on her face. Like she was contemplating running away. Or what recipe she could use the chicken in.

"Don't tell me you're scared of a chicken," Pete asked, grinning.

Chloe glanced over her shoulder at him, disbelief clearly written on her face.

"You're teasing me about a chicken? Pete, you don't even have chickens. Where did this thing come from? And...my god! It's a chicken! In the living room. On your couch even."

His reaction was instantaneous.

"Get it off the couch," he yelled, hurrying toward the doorway. "Do you know what my mom will do to me if something happens to that couch?"

Chloe grinned and stepped to the side, giving him a view of the offensive bird. Sitting there. Smugly. On his mom's brand new, highly expensive, much protected sofa. "Oh, I'd say the chicken wouldn't be the one having to worry about being fried."

Pete glared at Chloe, then focused his glare on the chicken. Great. Just what he needed. First a party, sanctioned by his parents, gets out of hand. Thus large amounts of clean up at 3 am. And now this.

Damn bird.

"Okay, Chloe, you open the front door, then approach the couch from the right. I'll take the left. What we'll do is, we'll heard it out the door. Just...shoo it that direction."

Chloe shrugged and opened the door while Pete slowly crept up to the couch. The chicken clucked and cocked its head, staring at him with those beady little eyes. Chloe moved into position and assumed a battle stance.

"Chloe, we're not playing football here," Pete murmured.

"Hey, that thing has claws and a sharp beak. This is war. Now, how do we shoo it?"

Pete thought for a moment. Just because he lived in Smallville, Kansas, didn't mean he knew much about farm animals. Actually, he probably knew less about chickens than Chloe.

"Um, just wave your arms and yell? That should work," he said doubtfully.

"Oh yeah, this is gonna work," Chloe snickered. "Okay, on the count of three then."

"One..."

Pete took a step toward the couch, his entire body tense and ready.

"Two..."

Chloe shifted her stance on the balls of her feet and did this funny little butt wiggle thing that was distracting. What was she doing wiggling her butt? It was cute, but...

"Three!" Chloe yelled as she jumped toward the chicken, waving her arms and bouncing up and down. Unfortunately for Pete, his contemplation of Chloe meant that there was no yelling and jumping from his side of the sofa. And so the chicken flew directly for him, squawking frantically.

Of course there was only one logical response when a chicken is flying at you - scream and start batting it away.

The batting did result in the chicken flying away from him, but it also resulted in Chloe collapsing in hysterical laughter on the couch. The chicken though was actually heading in the right direction, so Pete gave chase, flailing his arms and yelling.

"Get! Go! Out the door you dumb bird!"

The bird's response was to light on the back of an armchair. Pete ran at it and the bird took flight again.

"You are not any help lying on the couch. Come on Chloe! It...it...damn it! It was right there beside you! Not 3 feet away! Stop laughing and chase the bird!"

Of course Chloe just laughed even harder.

The chicken chose then to make a beeline for the doorway to the kitchen.

"Oh no you don't!"

Pete hurdled the back of the couch and Chloe and planted himself between the bird and the doorway. Man, this was tiring. Football practice was never this strenuous.

Chloe had gotten her laughter under control - barely - and finally stood up to help. She made a move at the bird that seemed to get it going in a direction toward the door.

"Hey, how'd you do that? It just flies in circles for me," Pete asked, baffled. Stupid bird. They weren't even supposed to fly.

Chloe snorted and grinned. "I have no clue what I'm doing. Maybe I just have a gift for chicken herding."

"Oh yeah, Chloe Sullivan, Chicken Whisperer."

Chloe giggled again. "Better than girly screamer. Now shut up and start...doing whatever I'm doing."

Pete started imitating Chloe, which involved something akin to guarding in basketball and air traffic control.

"You know, we really should have gotten Clark for this. He's the farmboy," Pete observed as they inched closer and closer the open door.

"Yeah, well, I guess that blows that theory out of the water," Chloe muttered as she made a defensive move to the right. Sneaky bird, Pete thought. A sneaky bird that was starting to look like a prime candidate for his Grandma's Sunday lunch.

"What theory?"

"That Clark Kent is always around when you need him. To save the day. Or your mom's sofa."

Pete grinned. Couldn't help it. The mental image of Clark using his heat vision on the bird...

And the bird was there. At the door. On the verge of being out. Just one last step and...

"Hey you two, what's with all the yelling?"

Clark. Standing in the doorway. Between the bird and freedom.

The chicken found the sight of an overly large, flannel-clad teenager to be quite frightening and took flight again, clearing Pete's head by inches and coming to land on the grandfather clock.

"Nooooooo!" Pete bellowed.

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Why is there a chicken in your living room?"

Chloe glared at Clark.

"Die. He has to die. A torturous, ghastly, bloody death," Pete muttered.

"What? What did I do?" Clark asked, befuddled. Like he didn't know.

"We almost had the stupid bird out the door. You have no idea what we've been through trying to get that...thing...outside."

"But what's it doing inside? Chickens aren't indoor animals. Unless you're the Beverly Hillbillies."

Pete grit his teeth. No hurting the dense alien. Well, like that was possible. But still. The violence would be soothing.

"We don't know why the chicken is inside. And frankly? I don't care. I just want the thing out of this house before it does any damage. Or my parents get home. And where were you? We've been making enough noise to raise the dead. We thought you would have been in here to save the day long before now."

"I was cleaning up the beer cans in the yard. Now, what are we going to do to get that thing out?"

Chloe had given up and collapsed on the couch again.

"Look, I did my part. If Clark hadn't gotten in the way, birdbrain over there would be history. So come on farmboy. Show us those finely honed animal herding skills."

Clark stepped up to the clock and stared at the bird. The bird stared malevolently back and fluffed its feathers, clucking in a manner that Pete was sure meant that it was laughing at them.

Clark gave an exaggerated shoulder roll. "Okay, when I give the signal, I'll go for the chicken. You make sure it doesn't go the opposite direction from the door, okay? I'll try to grab it."

Chloe snickered. "Make sure Pete's paying attention to your signal. Otherwise he'll do another girly scream."

"Shut up Chloe. At least my battle stance doesn't resemble a lap dance."

"Guys. Chicken. Focus already. Are we getting rid of this thing this century or not."

"Okay, okay, let's do this," Pete grumbled. This was the last time he was going to throw a party and invite the soccer team. They were more trouble than it was worth.

Clark got in position and extended his arms over his head, less than a foot from the chicken. Pete was poised, ready...

"Now!"

Clark reached quickly for the bird. Unfortunately, because he couldn't use his superspeed with Chloe there, the bird was able to make a mad dive over his hands and away from his captors.

Pete dove for it, hands sliding over feathers. The bird gave an offended squawk and lit briefly on the coffee table, only to take off immediately, circling the room. There was a mad rush of flailing arms and a few muffled curses as Clark and Pete tried their utmost to capture the chicken.

It finally decided to light on the floor. Right in the middle of the living room.

Pete crept up from one side and Clark from the other. The chicken looked back and forth between the two of them.

"I really don't think you guys are going to catch that thing. And Clark? Your chicken catching skills suck," Chloe observed from the couch.

"Hey, the chickens are my mom's thing. Me? I handle the cows. The cows, they make sense. Chickens are just crazy."

Great. That would have been a nice fact to know, that Clark had just as much experience as they did with chickens.

"I give up," Pete grumbled and sat down on the floor. "We're never catching this thing. It's going to live here forever. My brother will probably name it. Mom will give it it's own bed. It'll get Christmas presents and when it dies of old age, Dad will bury it in the back yard. I just have to accept that this bird is going to be a permanent part of this household."

Clark sat down too. "You're such a fatalist Pete. The bird will leave eventually."

"Before or after my mom gets home and decides to snap my neck?" he asked glumly.

"Probably after," Chloe piped up. "But look at it this way. At least the couch is okay. Your death will not have been for naught."

Pete rolled his eyes. The chicken just sat there, alternating between preening and pecking at the carpet. Dumb bird. Who would have thought that a chicken would end up getting him grounded for what would probably end up being most of his sophomore year?

"Guys? I finished cleaning the bathroom."

Everyone looked up as Lana walked into the living room. In all of the excitement, Pete had forgotten that Lana was upstairs cleaning. She had nicely taken bathroom duty, even knowing what was probably in store.

"Um, why is there a chicken in the living room."

Pete sighed. "Long story."

"Well, it's pecking at the carpet. Your mom probably wouldn't like that. I'll just take it outside," she stated matter of factly.

And walked over, picked up the chicken and walked out the door with it.

"Did she just..."

"That chicken..."

Pete blinked, then shrugged. In all of this town's weirdness, he didn't know why it was surprising that Lana Lang would be the one the chicken behaved for.

Lana walked back in and shut the door, dusting her hands off. Everyone stared at her.

"What?" she asked, slightly paranoid.

Pete grinned, got up and threw his arm around her shoulder.

"Lana, let me be the first to say. You're my hero."

THE END



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