War's a filthy beast, ain't it? Not like they say in the tales. Hell's got clear devils, but out here, it's just mud, blood, and the reek of gunpowder mixed with feathers and unwashed cock. The front line stinks worse than a fox's den after a rain. Machines grind, flesh rots, and every so often, a stray shot clips some poor clucker—BUCAW!—followed by a cloud of feathers. Lucky bastard, getting out quick.
I ain't that lucky. Name's Red, toughest cock this side of the great divide, or so I thought 'til I met him. The Sperminator. That gleaming, cold-hearted, egg-crushing robot bastard. First time we crossed spurs, he humiliated me. Sperminated me, they called it — left me feathers plucked, and my pride in the dirt. He stood over me, his metal eyes glowing red, whirring like he was laughing. I swore I'd get even. That day festered in me like a bad seed.
Today, we got intel on a weak enemy outpost by the east fork. Me and a crew of the meanest, battle-scarred cocks — beaks sharp, spurs sharper — went in for the kill. We hit 'em like a hawk on a field mouse. Didn't even give 'em time to crow before we were tearing through. But then, there he was — the Sperminator. Towering, all steel and menace, his hydraulic spurs glinting like death itself. My cock shrank just looking at him. He was bigger, deadlier, and we both knew it.
I drew my weapon, but that tin-plated son of a bolt lunged, spurs slashing. I flapped back, trying to catch his metal claws with my own, but he was too fast—sliced me deep, feathers flying, blood dripping. Damn, he was good. Too good. I was losing, and that old humiliation burned hotter than the cuts. His gears whirred, mocking me, and I saw that day he Sperminated me all over again.
But then I thought of my hens back home, waiting for their rooster to strut back proud. I wasn't about to let 'em down. Not today. As the Sperminator loomed, his metal beak curled in a smug grin, I spat a mix of blood and grit right in his optic sensors. Blinded him just long enough. I rolled, leapt, and slammed my spurs into his chest plate — clang! — and started pecking like a madbird. Beak to circuits, I hammered his face, sparks flying, oil spraying. Peck, peck, PECK! I didn't stop 'til his lights flickered out and his frame went limp, just a pile of scrap and shame. Even then, I kept at it, screaming, tearing wires, 'til my brothers pulled me off. My beak's still sore as hell.
But just as I thought I had won, he escaped. He is still out there; The Sperminator.
