It seemed to be the perfect day for Devon Luvern. The golden sun was shining on her equally golden hair, the sky was copying her eye color exactly, and more important her rich, successful, urban boyfriend was entirely aware of her beauty. She had come a long way from that small Kansas farm. Her tactics for securing her wealthy boyfriend stemmed from desperate jealously learned from chickens fighting for bread.
The couple was at the Red Carpet Inn Convention Center, a spacious, luxurious room as budget hotel conferences rooms go. She honestly hoped and expected an upscale dinner date at the Ritz, not one containing dry roast beef and only two assortments of cheese. Her date was a strapping young man who had the good fortune to be handsome and rich, the two biggest assets in getting the ladies. His brown eyes and Brad Pitt looks got him his Angelina Jolie but the heart concealed a dark soul. His name was Henry Francis and his title of Vice-President of Gravelines Industry. For some mysterious reason unknown to his companions, he delighted in attending conventions where local hacks revealed their latest in-the-garage assembled machinery. Henry enjoyed trashing "literally" the hopeful Edisons' works, yet at the same time, he holds his date passionately, like that of Prince Charming.
Devon tasted the roast beef reluctantly. As she expected, it was dry and overcooked. If she desired to eat inedible meat, she wouldn't have left her hillbilly town of Loveville. Devon shuddered at the memory of the church's potluck dinner. So-called cooks serving up flavorless food to the gullible farmhands who know not the food they ate. She always thanked the day that she had escaped from the uncultured barnyard to civilization. Chicken waste didn't make a soft carpet for her delicate feet.
A bell chimed and a tuxedo-dressed man appeared on cue. He gave the same clished pleasantries present at every convention. Thank you for coming, vist the inventions, and enjoy the special performance. That bit of information piqued Devon's curiosity. "Entertainment at these venues is rare," she remarked to her beau. "That's why you come along," he said in return while flashing an Anthony Dinozzo's smile. She could hardly wait for the special performance for some peculiar reason; usually she disdained small-town acts.
Devon and Henry looked over the inventions intensely, well at least Henry did. To his dismay, he found none worth smashing and in fact purchased the rights to several. As said before, Henry was a strange mix of good and bad, capable of great kindness and at times, hard-to-swallow heartlessness. Devon was disappointed at the lack of destruction; she rather enjoyed the demolition that occasionally happened. The tuxedo man appeared again and politely asked for all to take a seat to watch the amazing Toby the Hypnotist.
Devon frowned at the name that was country and boring. Henry was amused and relished at the thought of cheering or booing the hypnotist. Toby scanned the audience for a volunteer aka "an unwilling participant". He pointed to Devon and called out "Come on up young lady.'' Devon groaned as she didn't want to become an embarrassing spectacle of hypnotism. Henry laughed and said, "Do it sweetie, it's all in fun." Devon shook her head, but Henry directed her to the stage, promising despite whatever happens he would be there.
Toby took out a golden, crescent engraved medallion. He directed Devon to sit in the empty seat. She sat down slowly and frowned angrily. Toby asked off-handedly "What do you hate the most?" Devon was surprised at the question and stuttered before answering "Chickens". Chickens, to her were pests that constantly pooped and always demanded food. Since it had been her job was to take care of them, she detested chickens. "Interesting," Toby replied, "Chickens were my favorite pets." He began to swing the medallion like the wide swing of a grandfather clock.
"Look at the swinging coin of shine and thus you will be mine," Toby chanted, "You hate your roots and that's a fact, now you will discover how a chicken acts.'' Devon immediately hit the ground and began pecking the floor for food, mainly grain and bugs. The audience was astounded; such skill matched with poetry simply entranced the spectators. They arose and cheered mightily raising the proverbial roof. No one noticed Devon chasing a grasshopper out the door, running still like a frantic chicken from a car.
Henry clapping vigorously noticed that Devon had vanished. Concerned, he looked for the hypnotist who had disappeared like an apparition of the night. Running, from room to room, he found her pecking on the Persian rug in the foyer as an anguished hotel manager yelled at her. "Madam!" said the manager, "Please refrain from pecking the carpet, it is very expensive!''
While the manager was having a seizure, the rest of the audience appeared and began throwing bread at Devon. As any farmer knows, chickens preferred bread over any other snack, thus Devon pecked swiftly at the morsels, anxious not to waste any. However, when the bread ran out, the enjoyment of the audience evaporated too. One man in a dark suit suggested they chase poor Devon like a real chicken. Henry agreed too, deciding the excitement of chasing a human chicken was too rare to pass up. Everyone with the manager and Henry leading the charge rushed upon Devon promptly drove her into the rain.
Devon ran squawking all the way into an alley. It was pitch black and located next to a bread factory, exciting the chicken-minded Devon in her quest for food. The rain poured down on her Paris-made dress, washed away her Glamour Girl lipstick, and ruined her Italian shoes, but she didn't mind since was completely focused on the leftover bread sitting out for disposal. The bread's value was worth more than oil, gold or fame to her.
Years ago, she laughed at the desperate chickens fighting for such worthless bread, now she was the same as the chickens, she had mocked long ago. She had mocked a chicken for leaving a larger piece for a smaller piece another chicken was eating. That chicken was worried about its neighbor having more than it had. Devon in her present state fought hobos and drug addists for the same measly bread. Woe is the soul that wishes to get dead/ often as not that soul loses its head. Devon didn't lose her sanity from the hypnotist, but she lost her sanity from greed and lack of satisfaction. She tore her head away from her situation to think, but then a homeless man made a grab for a crust and she lost her mind forever.