Free First Time Killer by Alan Orloff, Zak Allen Page B

side roads, making sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d dumped his car at Dulles airport—Green economy lot—and rented a nondescript family sedan. Finally, he’d checked into an airport motel. Hope you have a nice stay, Mr. James Munrow. Tin Man wasn’t backing down, but there was no sense taking chances either. And there was no chance in hell he was going to postpone this contest he’d come up with, just to appease a madman. As Tin Man liked to tell people, his momma didn’t raise no dummy.
    Two more chickens bustled through the front door and Tin Man felt his pulse quicken. Their Chicken Killer contest was going to be a good one: funny, caustic, outrageous. Just the thing to grab some big ratings. He wanted—needed—to beat Rick Jennings. This was his future, and he planned to ensure it any way he could. What better way than going after First Time on-air? Especially now that he’d gone underground.
    The rules of the contest were simple. You had to dress up like a chicken and recite an original poem with the theme, Why the First Time Killer is a Giant Chicken. Other embellishments were fair game. You could juggle, tap dance, or eat a banana while reciting. Tin Man, Tubby, and the station’s newest celebrity, J.T. O’Connor, would judge each contestant. Winner got $666 and a year’s supply of Popeye’s chicken.
    Tin Man did a quick head count: eighteen. Eighteen nutty—greedy—listeners had donned chicken suits to participate. Some people’s embarrassment knew no bounds. He and J.T. had wagered on the number they thought would show up. J.T., always the pessimist, had predicted nine, while he’d guessed sixteen. Guess tomorrow’s dinner would be on J.T. The one stipulation for their little bet: neither was allowed to order chicken.
    Tin Man examined the costumes. About half appeared to be store-bought and resembled the San Diego Chicken mascot. Big heads with oversized beaks, scads of yellow feathers, and big, floppy, three-toed feet. The rest of the get-ups were homemade, inspired by each individual’s interpretation of what a chickenshit the killer was. A tall skinny guy in pale yellow tights had glued construction paper feathers directly to his torso. On his head, he wore a football helmet garnished with more feathers. A metal funnel for a beak and yellow bunny slippers completed his ensemble. One young lady sported a bright yellow thong and a bikini top. She held a yellow Mardi Gras mask up to her face. On her feet, black stiletto-heeled boots with brass buckles. Must be what all the well-dressed hens were wearing. Tin Man had a feeling she would be a favorite for the crown.
    Someone tapped him on his shoulder. Behind him, J.T. whispered, “Two minutes, Tin Man,” then squinted through the crack into the lobby. “Wow. You sure do know how to throw a party.”
    The first six contestants were mildly entertaining. Decent poems, adequate costumes. But nothing truly outrageous. Tin Man could sense Tubby drifting off beside him. The pace needed to pick up. “Okay. J.T., let’s bring in the next contestant. See if you can find one with a little spunk.”
    A moment later, a large man ambled into the studio wearing a rented model. Full chicken. J.T. handed him a microphone and took his own seat. The chicken stuffed the mic down his long beak. “Hi. My name is Chuck.” The voice was muffled, which didn’t really surprise Tin Man. Stuffing a mic down a chicken’s beak will do that.
    “Chuck. How’s it hanging?” Tin Man said.
    “It’s a hen outfit, so I guess it’s not hanging at all,” Chuck said, then gave a woeful impression of a chicken clucking.
    “What do you do for a living, Chuck? I’m guessing you’re not a comedian.”
    “Grocery business. I’m a butcher.”
    “Well, I suppose that gives you an advantage. Being around real chickens all day long.” Tin Man took a swig of water, waited for some innocuous comment from Tubby. But his partner remained mum, staring at the tabletop in