The Chickenborn

Was listening to SGU when the subject of dino-chickens came up — a scientist in Canada with an intention to go flipping the genetic levers in chicken fetii to call up portions of the beast’s dinosaur ancestry.

Chickenosaurus Rex next, sure, investigating whether we taste like chicken — but that’s not my worry.

For some reason my first thought was an older chicken-born reptilian nightmare creature.

No, not the former US president. That’s too Icke.

Does anyone remember just how effing bad an idea it is to mess around with the offspring of chickens, traditionally? Though the traditional messings have been cocks laying eggs and toads hatching them, not incubators and chemo-blasts. And then basilisks and cocktrices!


And I’ll leave you with a pretty quote from Bartholomew Anglicus (PG link) (c. 1200–1272), and leave towards a pet shop.

The cockatrice hight Basiliscus in Greek, and Regulus in Latin; and hath that name Regulus of a little king, for he is king of serpents, and they be afraid, and flee when they see him. For he slayeth them with his smell and with his breath: and slayeth also anything that hath life with breath and with sight. In his sight no fowl nor bird passeth harmless, and though he be far from the fowl, yet it is burned and devoured by his mouth.

But he is overcome of the weasel; and men bring the weasel to the cockatrice’s den, where he lurketh and is hid. For the father and maker of everything left nothing without remedy.


And he presseth not his body with much bowing, but his course of way is forthright, and goeth in mean. He drieth and burneth leaves and herbs, not only with touch but also by hissing and blast he rotteth and corrupteth all things about him. And he is of so great venom and perilous, that he slayeth and wasteth him that nigheth him by the length of a spear, without tarrying; and yet the weasel taketh and overcometh him, for the biting of the weasel is death to the cockatrice. And nevertheless the biting of the cockatrice is death to the weasel. And that is sooth, but if the weasel eat rue before.

And though the cockatrice be venomous without remedy, while he is alive, yet he loseth all the malice when he is burnt to ashes. His ashes be accounted good and profitable in working of Alchemy, and namely in turning and changing of metals.

Both scary (“Pretty chick—aaaargh—it hurts—I died.”), and exceedingly unsuitable for an action movie. Action comedy, maybe.

“We need a weasel!”

“Quick, to Frankie the Weasel’s place!”

And soon after:

“So you wants me to hit this death-on-sight chicken?”

“No, Frankie, we need you to bite it. The book says we need the Weasel to do it.”

“Some effing prophecy, huh? What, were all the good destinies taken already? Besides, ain’t that animal cruelty?”

“It’s an animal that makes all flying things within fifty yards burst in flames.”

“Flames? You didn’t say me anything about no flames.”

“No time. Here’s your blindfold.”

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