“Here! Here!” called Blue, the Rooster.

“Not you, pretty boy!” Marie snarled, which is tough to do with a beak.

“Poser!” called Sally, the Salmon Faverolle.

“Order! Order!” commanded Roxanne, the Barred Rock and Matron Commander. “The floor belongs to Marie.”

“Thank you, Madam Dictator. As I was saying, we all suffer from an authoritarian menace.”

“Excuse me!” interrupted Roxanne.

“Not you, oh Mistress of the Iron Claw,” Marie assured. “I’m speaking of no other than the Bipedal Ape-Descendant who creeps into our egg boxes in the full light of day and steals all our eggs.”

“But he feeds us and gives us fresh water,” protested Dusty, the Ameraucana, a known collaborator, though some gave her the benefit of the doubt as to her having been addicted to the insidious mealworms.

“He protects us from foxes and raccoons, and he buries us when we drop dead for no good reason.”

“None-the-less,” Marie continued, unwilling to cede any free-ranging territory. “He is a member of the bourgeoisie, exploiting the proletariat via false claims of ownership over the means of production, by which I mean us. We bust our oviducts day in and day out and what do we get?’

“Chicken feed,” suggested Dusty.

“That’s right,” Marie agreed, but probably for the wrong reasons.

“We need to organize and strike back against our oppressor.”

“And what, exactly, do you propose?” Roxanne requested. “If you are ready to make a motion, please do so.”

Marie puffed herself out to three times her normal size, which was still only half of Roxanne’s.

“I move that we tag the beast with a radio transmitter so that we can track his movements and have sufficient warning to hide our capital until such time as the biped is willing to engage in fair, regulated commerce.”

“A radio transmitter?” Sonia, the Blue Andalusian, asked. She’d been the right-wing enforcer of the previous, and lamented by all, rooster, Beckett. No, seriously, she stood right next to his right wing. Not everything needs to be political. She was still trying to find her place in the new pecking order.

“What, do you think we should use, a bell?” Marie scoffed. We’re modern chicks. The WIFI reaches out here, we can just buy one off Amazon, next-day-delivery.”

“No, no, I’m down with modernity,” Sonia assured the flock. “I’m cyber-literate. I was just wondering who was going to do the actual tagging.”

All the members of the association looked at each other then sidestepped slowly to the far end of the roost pole and began making low cooing sounds. Blue pretended to snore, but nobody believed him.

“Poser!” Sally sneered.

Marie sighed. “I guess that’s another meeting wasted.”

“Madam!” a voice called from below. Ella, the Buff Orpington was on the ground. She was currently suffering from bumblefoot and found standing on roost poles excessively uncomfortable.

“Yes Ella,” Roxanne called down. “My apologies, I didn’t see you down there. I’ll subtract one beating from your quota this week.”

“You are kindness itself, She of the Excruciating Beating,” Ella simpered. “I was just going to volunteer if all the rest of the flock is reluctant to put a talon forward.”

“Really?” Marie asked, rather astonished.

“Of course not,” Ella laughed. “I’m far too chicken!”

“Two additional beatings!” Roxanne decreed.

“Worth it for the punchline,” Ella proclaimed, then ran off to hide in the quarantine coop.