The Hen Peckers

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The Hen Peckers didn’t stumble into the streets. We hatched in lock-ups.

Prison was our incubator. Long days and longer nights taught us patience, cunning, and how to survive when the odds were against us. While others broke, we grew sharper, tougher, relentless.

When the gates finally opened we stepped out as a flock.

The streets didn’t give us anything. We hustled and pecked our way up. Every job is done with precision. The world sneers at the weak, so we learned to laugh last.

Then came the masks. The rubber chicken masks.

Not a gag, not a joke. A calling card. They mock the system, taunt our rivals, and warn that chaos doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it pecks quietly before it lands the first hit. You see that mask staring at you, and by the time you blink, it’s too late.

We don’t crow for attention. We don’t strut for glory. We peck with focus and determination. Loyalty is sacred. Betrayal is deadly. Once you’re in, you’re in for life or until you get plucked.

We came from nothing.

We survived the cages.

We aren’t heroes.
We aren’t victims.
We are The Hen Peckers.

 

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Since we cracked our shells and claimed the concrete as our coop, the city’s learned we’re truly free range scratching out opportunities and keeping our eyes on the pecking order.
Allies have flocked to us along the way, egged on by our eggcellent work ethic and the promise that loyalty here isn’t chickenfeed.
Not everyone clucks with approval, though a few rivals are shell shocked to find themselves walking on eggshells whenever our feathers ruffle the air.
Carefully hatched plans keep us one step ahead, because we never count our chickens before they’re paid and we never leave a mess in the coop.
There’s no yolk when we say precision matters; every move is hard-boiled, every response measured, every threat met before it has time to crow.
Under those rubber chicken masks, we keep cool heads and warmer hearts for our own, refusing to get scrambled by noise or fear.
Across the city, friendships are incubated and grudges left to rot, because we know when to egg-sit and when to peck first.
Remember this chaos doesn’t always come with a bang sometimes it clucks softly, tilts its head, and strikes before you can blink.
You’ve seen us before and you’ll see us again, feathers unruffled, shells unbroken The Hen Peckers, moving up the roost and never going back to the cage.