Clay took the first chicken, white-knuckled its neck until there was no chicken voice left, just the whir of feathers.
Three, four, five propeller rotations and the body splashed across the yard. He tossed its head on the front porch and went for another.
I poked at the flap of neck, the moving beak, and did not flinch when it gave its last scream, a brain stem reflex.
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