Author's Note: I'm not sure what else to say besides that I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harvest Moon.

Chapter Zero

Jake scowled down at the watering can, opting that he would really rather kick the thing again before filling it with more water, you know, just so the helpless metal can could understand what a pain it was to lug it's big, fat butt back and forth everyday.

You see, Jake had discovered that kicking the poor can around could actually make him feel quite better about himself between watering his mother's abundant amount of crops. Which in this unfortunate season that everyone had come to call summer, meant that this particular chore had to be done three times a day.

Jake would swear on his great-grand pappy's grave that his mother had some sadistic nature about her. How else could she always have that smile on her face when she knew her one and only son was getting beat by the sun's pmsing summer rays?

He really didn't mind it so much during the other seasons, but every summer he would fight his mother to no end. He would send her guilt trip after guilt trip; he would complain, groan and slam doors where he felt need be. When those methods failed? (Which they always did) He'd bring out the bombs and threaten to call child protective services.

There are child labor laws you know!

Of course this never worked for poor Jake either, because:

A) They both knew he would never really call, and

B) His mother would always remind her ever forgetful son of the one thing he always forgot.

Just what phone do you plan on using, sweetie?

This would then end the argument with another door slam-- the noise made him feel better-- and him cursing their stupid small town that had no phone lines.

Never mind that if he really thought that doing chores for his mom would win his case with CPS, he could've just sent a letter.

So here he was, filling the hated metal can with water yet again, dragging it back to the place on the field where it had sweetly decided to run out of water before.

He cursed as he poured water on the drying plants; couldn't his mother at the very least buy a can that wouldn't run out of water after every couple crops? And just how could a can that carried so little water be so damn heavy?! I mean, sure the boy knew he was pretty small for his age but he wasn't weak.

Anyway, Jake was just about finished, on his last row of crops for the entire day when a certain sound rudely brought his mind out his thoughts of hating summer and life.

It was a chicken.

Well, more specifically it was a rooster.

Okay, so if we got even more specific it would be the rooster.

His mother's prized rooster, the apple in her eye so to speak.

It was the very first animal that she had ever bought for the farm and had very appropriately named Clucko. So of course said rooster Clucko and his mother were very close and if Jake ever did anything to it in anyway, well-- to say it nicely, he'd be in some of the biggest cow poop you've ever seen. And normal cow poop is huge, just incase you didn't know.

So, there was Clucko, with his almighty 'I own the farm' attitude, strutting around the tomato crops, living life to the fullest as he happily pecked at a ripening tomato here and there.

The expert escapee of the chicken pen was on the loose once again.

So the war was on and Jake was seething. Oh, no way was some rooster going to ruin the crops he'd been slaving over all summer. No way chicken. Not in this lifetime pal. Sorry, Clucko dearest.

The rooster, sensing he was being watched look up suddenly, narrowing his beady eyes and ruffling his feathers. (Translation: Bring it on.)

Now Jake, being the logical fifteen year old boy that he was, knew that there was no way that the bird had enough brain to even think the phrase 'bring it on'. So when he narrowed his eyes and glared right back at Clucko, it wasn't because he was being immature, it was just because he had mastered the art of glaring by the age of nine and finally had an opportunity to use it.

You see, before he had discovered how to take his aggression out by kicking watering cans around and slamming doors. He would just give everything that made him angry the evil glare, or the 'look of death' if you want to go by what he called it.

Many a night he would sit in his mother's tool shed, just glaring at that mean, mean watering can. Perfecting and practicing his 'look of death'. He thought that if he stared long enough, glared hard enough (with a passion so strong to put any aspiring drama major to shame) then maybe, just maybe that forgotten power somewhere in the back of his brain would unleash and show it's power and glory by lighting the damn can on fire, putting it to it's ironic, melted death.

This resulted in his mother burning all of his comic books, shaking her head and saying 'the darn kids these days, superpowers! Hah!' while doing so.

Honestly, finding her son in the tool shed like that scared the crap out of her.

So after she burned all of his prized comic books that she assumed he got this 'look of death' from, she absolutely forbid him to ever use it, ever again. Or be wary of the consequences.

It was one of the sadder days of his young life, but he secretly kept practicing his 'look of death' when no one was around. Burned comic books wouldn't stop him from unleashing his power, no sir!

In fact, don't tell anyone but he's been writing his own comic books for years; keeping them safely hidden under his mattress. He even coincidently titled them all 'The look of Death'.

So after so much practice, you can imagine how shocked he was when the bird just continued to ruffle his feathers and do some scary clucking toward his direction.

Obviously, this was going to call for drastic measures.

Having finished watering the last crop, he swished what water was left inside the demon can, smirking at the Clucko target.

"I told you not to mess with the tomatoes, bird." To this, the rooster just leaned in and pecked at another tomato.

'Mhhmm, juicy' may have crossed its mind.

Shaking his head and not doing a very good job at controlling his temper, Jake stalked over to where the bird remained pecking at the tomato, turned the watering can upside down and let the water fall down harder then Niagara Falls itself.

If you thought that pouring water on a rooster would work, you are an absolute fool.

Honestly, it might've worked if he had actually hit Clucko with the water. Instead, the bird ran between Jake's legs causing him to jerk and drown a whole tomato stalk in the process.

It didn't stop there, either.

Jake with his 'look of death' vanishing from his face, twisted around hoping to follow the rooster before it got to any more crops. Unfortunately for him, he slipped in the mud surrounding the poor, drowning tomato stalk and well-- to put it quite nicely, he fell.

The poor tomatoes were squished and he had his face in the dirt. Clucko then took it upon himself to do a chicken walk back over to Jake, victoriously climbing onto his back (claws and all) and cluck,cluck,clucking his roar of humiliation. (Translation: You eat chicken seed and tell me how you like it!)

This, my friends was the summer of 1997.

And while everyone one else in the world were trading in their walkman's for portable anti-skip CD players, Jake was quite literally face down on the ground eating dirt. Oh boy! Did he dig dirt! Dirt, dirt, dirt! The different soils! The fertilizer!

Dirt was life, his life and he hated it.