Those Bad Old Days
'POOR LITTLE CHICKY!' Jasmine Wong wailed, hiding her eyes behind a cushion on the sofa. John elbowed his sister out of the way.
PLOP! On the TV, a masked and goggled man dropped another chicken into a large black bin. The killer was covered from head to foot in a shiny biohazard suit.
The bin was already brimming with birds: a dangling foot here, a droopy head there. Was that blood dripping from a beak? YUK!
'Switch it off!' Mum cried, plonking the iron down on the ironing board. She marched towards the children as they watched two white-gloved hands reaching into a cage and pulling out another flapping flurry of feathers.
'Squawk, squawk,' squawked the hen.
SNAP! snapped its neck as the hands did a twisty kind of Chinese burn on it.
'Click!' clicked the off switch of the TV. Mum swung round, hand on hips, and glared.
'That's quite enough now. Go and do your Chinese homework and I'll come and test you in ten minutes.'
The two children jumped off the sofa and scurried into their rooms.
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