The Hen Peckers

[S|N]

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.

 

[S|N]

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.

 

[S|N]

The Fox didn’t just watch.

He wrote.

Messages started coming in at odd hours. Unknown numbers. Burner phones. Always the same rhythm. Always a rhyme.

“Feathers flutter, chickens hide,

Smile for the camera, nowhere to hide.”

At first, we ignored it. The cage teaches you that silence hurts more than words. But the texts kept coming. Closer. Sharper. Like he was counting steps.

Pictures followed. Masks caught under streetlights. Reflections in puddles. Our own shadows staring back at us. He thought poetry made him clever. Thought rhymes made him untouchable.

“Rubber beaks and plastic cheer,

When the Fox is close, the end is near.

Then came the invitation.

A meet. A setup. An underground bunker dressed up as a joke, a deal, a game. He thought he’d finish the poem there turn heat into punctuation, seal the doors, and let the fire write the final line.

One last text before the doors slammed shut.

“Henhouse closed, the oven’s on,

By morning light, you’ll all be gone.”

He forgot something.

Cages don’t scare us.
Dark doesn’t scare us.
Fire doesn’t scare us.

The bunker didn’t end the story.

It rewrote it.

Now the texts have stopped.

No more rhymes.

No more pictures.

No more clicking in the dark.

We don’t know if the fox ran.

We don’t care if he hides.

Because if the messages ever start again, the rhyme won’t be his.

It’ll be ours.

We aren’t prey.

We aren’t punchlines.

We are The Hen Peckers.

 

[S|N]

LET US TAKE YOU BACK TO WHERE IT ALL BEGAN!

Three kids grew up on the same block in Los Santos: Billy, Brian, and Charlie. Their parents all worked long shifts at the Paleto poultry slaughterhouse, a place the city depended on but pretended not to notice. The smell clung to everything. Their clothes, their ruck sacks, their lives. At school it made them easy targets.

people laughed. Whispered. Pointed. “Chicken boys.” They heard it so often it stopped feeling like an insult and started sounding like something they were born into. Teachers told them to ignore it. Their parents told them to keep their heads down and work hard. But Los Santos does not reward quiet kids from forgotten ends. It teaches you early who matters and who does not.

By high school the bullying got uglier. The city around them got louder. Gangs wore colours, symbols, masks, things that demanded fear instead of mockery. Billy started to notice something. The people everyone underestimated were usually the ones who snapped the hardest.

That was when the joke changed.

A chicken is not weak. It survives anywhere. It fights when cornered. It protects its own. And by the time people stop laughing, it is already too late.

They called themselves The Henpeckers, a name meant to sound stupid until you understood it. They wore chicken masks not to hide in shame, but to make a point. This is what you laughed at.

Their rules were simple. Loyalty first. Never forget where you came from. Never let Los Santos decide your worth. They did not want chaos. They wanted recognition. Respect. Control over the areas everyone else ignored.

Word spread fast. People stopped using “chicken boys” as a joke. The masks became a warning.

Los Santos learned something it should have known all along. The animals you underestimate are usually the ones that survive the longest.