"Where can I get some chickens," the teenage town dweller asked his friend with a mischievous grin on his face?

"Chickens, what do you want chickens for," his country friend questioned?

"The Virus is having a dance next Friday and they want a buck and a quarter or a chicken to get in." the first boy said.

"They're not even worth the price of a chicken," his friend replied.

But as fate would have it, the farm boy was summoned to help his neighbor cull chickens before the wing ding was to occur. Culled chickens were generally older, scrawny specimens that coyotes would turn their noses up at, in short perfect candidates for the job. A dozen such doomed cluckers were chosen; the only thing left was to allocate chickens to a limited number of friends.

It was decided the city boy's house would be used as a rendezvous point the evening the social event was to transpire because his parents were both gone to work. The whole affair was kept on a strict need to know basis; and parents definitely did not need to know.

Carloads of excited youths began to arrive, more teens than chickens. Some unfortunate individuals had to be turned away because they hadn't spoken for a chicken earlier. Several vehicles left with their occupants vowing to return with their own chickens.

The dance was well underway when the group of laughing youths sauntered down the hall, proudly displaying chickens in their arms. Parent sponsors collecting money at the door were not informed about chickens being accepted as payment; so the whole idea was preposterous to them. Upon further inquiry it was found to be true. The chickens were unceremoniously plopped into the band's equipment van and the chuckling youths were admitted into the dance.