Hi there, my name's Harry, but my friends call me Hen-house Harry on account of my profession. I'm a farmer and let me tell you, it's no picnic. You might think being a chicken farmer is easy, walking around picking up eggs like they just drop into your lap. Well it ain't. It ain't easy at all.
You see, not many people know this. All you city folk ever see is pre-packaged chicken breasts behind shiny plastic, nice clean eggs packaged in their little cardboard boxes. You don't see the blood, the rivers of it staining ever last one of your convenient products with the effort those poor farmers went to so you could eat.
It's a warzone out there.
Chicken aren't the friendly animals you here about in your city-slick story books. They're murderers; angry, savage and aggressive. They're lethal, can kill you as soon as touch you. And taking their eggs only angers them even more.
So called chicken huts are their war machines, huge barns full of perilous beams and crosswalks, pumping out yet more of their spawn under the watchful haze of the mother hen. They always have guards on patrol and it's a dangerous journey, entering their lairs for the prize of precious eggs.
In and out, that's the code. Run like hell, clamber up ladders and jump from one beam to the next, grabbing eggs before one of the beaked freaks peck your eyes out. Then run, run like hell and hope you damned city folk get tired of eggs so I don't have to do this any more. So I don't have to leave my wife without a husband and my children without a father. Death's the only guarantee in this business, it's just a matter of time. Every raid always gets that little bit harder until you can't go on.
Hell, you folk might as well take a liking to eating the hearts of farmers like me.
Maybe there'd be less casualties that way.