Free The Last Manly Man by Sparkle Hayter Page A

these were understandable, deaths of children, Princess Diana, etc.
    But the last story that surprised me by moving me to tears … it’s odd, I guess, but it was the death of Mr. Chicken. Mr. Chicken was this chicken whose legs froze off, and so a doctor made him little prosthetic legs, with square wood platforms for feet. Mr. Chicken adapted, and managed quite well on his little legs, until one night when he died defending his henhouse from some marauding carnivore like a dog or a raccoon. There wasn’t much left of Mr. Chicken, except the little legs.
    Before his death, the Mr. Chicken story was a “squirrel on water skis,” a cute animal with talent and chutzpah doing something unusual—on videotape. It’s an “evergreen” piece that can run anytime. But his tragic death defending his hens against a bigger, stronger rival elevated that story. Boy, did Mr. Chicken valiantly refute the stereotype of the chicken. I know I wasn’t the only hardened, cynical, ego-driven journalist who had a good nose-blower over that one. RIP Mr. Chicken.
    But I didn’t tell Jason this. Something about him brought out my contrary side.
    â€œWho has time to care about all the people who live and die in the world except in a global, abstract way, let alone every last lab rat or chicken? Unless it is a special lab rat or chicken,” I said.
    â€œThat’s so Nazi …”
    â€œYou know, Hitler was a vegetarian who tamed baby deer at his Berchtesgaden retreat. Makes you think, don’t it? Hypothetically speaking, I’d give every baby deer in Berchtesgaden and plenty more if it meant Anne Frank, for example, or any other person, didn’t have to die. I’d give every Ted Bundy type and maybe a few Al Bundys—and maybe you too on a bad day—to save one baby deer. This is known as the Baby Deer/Bundy formula. In the future, before you jump on me, do the math.”
    He started to say something to challenge this argument, which is admittedly simplistic, but I shushed him in my best schoolmarm fashion, which I’ve found is often effective with young men.
    â€œWell, Jason, thanks for the information. I have work to do. If there’s nothing else …”
    â€œLet me give you my emergency number. It reaches our beeper central. You can leave a message with them. Don’t call on a cell phone. Use a pay phone whenever possible if you’re leaving a message.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOther phones aren’t safe.”
    â€œOh. Okay. Or, you could just call me if you have some new information, real information.”
    â€œYou don’t care,” he sneered. “For some reason, I thought you were a human being beneath that corporate uniform.”
    â€œEnough. I am a really busy person right now, okay? I have a story, Man of the Future, FYI, and my job and the jobs of my staff depend on its success.”
    He swallowed the last of his penurious allotment of beer and left. From my window, I watched to make sure he actually left my building.
    He seemed self-righteous enough to be a real animal rights person, but that didn’t let him off the hook. I’ve played my share of pranks, and I’ve fallen for my share, and one big one involved some rotten animal rights nuts.
    So, maybe I was being set up, the way I was set up on a mad cow beef hoax story earlier that year, a story that ran on a day that would later be known downtown as “Meat Is Murder, Dairy Is Rape, Day.” On that day, animal rights activists launched an all-night campaign of mischief and vandalism during which those words, Meat Is Murder, etc., were painted on a number of grocery stores, BBQ joints, kosher dairies, and ice cream parlors.
    The mad cow non story led to my humiliating on-air retraction: “I was completely mistaken when I reported that mad cows from Britain had been brought to this country and insinuated into herds bound for the New American