Derek chuckled to myself quietly as he pulled his jeep up to the guardhouse. An 18-foot electric fence stood across the roadway. The weathered sign on the guardhouse read “Wilkerson Farm. Authorized Entry Only. No Foods, Liquids, or Uncontrolled Animal Matter Past This Point”.

“Wow. These guys really are crazy. I can’t believe Lou talked me into this assignment.”

It took almost a full hour to get the guard to let him in. The 6-hour drive from the news office had resulted in a pretty deep pile of empty soda cans, newspapers, and fast food wrappers. The guard stood and watched with a satisfied grin on his face as Derek shoveled out everything other than his camera out of the car and into the dumpster behind the guardhouse.

Once the guard and dumpster had had their fill, he was allowed to proceed. About a hundred yards beyond, an earthen berm blocked the view to the rest of the complex inside. The jeep lumbered over the berm to find yet another checkpoint with another electric fence.

Finally inside, two men greeted Derek. One carried a cattle prod. The other had a large rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Welcome to my farm. I’m Alan Wilkerson,” said the man with the cattle prod, motioning me towards the first of a series of barns.

“Derek McIntosh, Kansas City Chronicle. Most farmers don’t have lab coats, or armed guards.”

“True. Most reporters have don’t have to play cameraman too. Let me guess… First assignment? It took me five years just to get a newspaper to send someone out here. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised they sent me the cub reporter.”

“Right, right,” Derek said, waving his hand dismissively, “So why couldn’t this ‘amazing breakthrough’ be discussed on the phone? What exactly are you doing here?”

Wilkerson stopped at the door of the first barn. He looked over his shoulder at Derek for a moment, with a sly grin on his face, and then slid open the large door.

Without warning, Derek was forced to the ground by a tidal wave of feathers rushing from the barn. Dazed, he rolled onto his back and looked up in terror as the head of a rooster stood almost five feet above him, eclipsing the sun.

Larger than an ostrich, the rooster looked down quizzically at the man on the ground before him, and bent down for an inquisitive nibble with its giant beak, removing his shoe. Two other large hens also moved in to investigate.

“Hey!” Wilkerson shouted, jabbing the cattle prod into the side of the rooster. The rooster let out an unworldly squawk and dashed over to the other side of the complex, where a large grain elevator stood. The hens quickly followed, milling around the base of the elevator expectantly.

Wilkerson offered his hand to Derek and helped him to his feet. “Sorry about that. They get a little jumpy around feeding time.”

Derek had no words. He just watched, transfixed. Another “farmer” emerged from behind the grain elevator, driving a front-end loader full of corn. The tractor hadn’t even stopped before being mobbed by the giant birds.

Finally, he remembered his camera, and began snapping pictures. Wilkerson picked up a foot-long tail feather that had fallen on the ground during the altercation, and held it out to Derek.

“So, was it worth the trip?”

Derek took the feather. “Mr. Wilkerson, I believe you just made this cub reporter’s career.”