His Royal Highness, King Cluckington

Sir Reginald Cluckington III strutted across the barnyard with his beak held high, his magnificent red comb wobbling with each deliberate step. In his mind, the manure-spotted dirt was finest marble, the rusty tin roof of the barn a grand cathedral ceiling, and the old tire swing his royal throne.

“BUCKAWK!” he announced to his subjects (three elderly hens, a half-blind rooster, and a very confused goat). “The morning court is now in session!”

The elderly hens, Martha, Bertha, and Gertrude, exchanged weary glances. They’d long since given up trying to explain to Reggie that he wasn’t actually royalty. The young rooster had gotten these ideas ever since Farmer Joe’s granddaughter had dropped her toy crown in the barnyard. The plastic crown had lasted approximately three minutes before being pecked to pieces, but its effect on Reggie’s ego had proved permanent.

“First order of business!” Reggie declared, puffing out his chest until he nearly toppled over. “Someone has been leaving unauthorized eggs in unauthorized nesting boxes. This is clearly an attempt to establish a rival kingdom, and I will not stand for it!”

“Those are my eggs, dear,” Martha clucked patiently. “Same as they’ve been for the past three years.”

“Ah-HA!” Reggie spun around so fast his feet tangled, and he had to pretend the resulting stumble was an elaborate royal dance move. “So you admit to the treeason! Wait, no — TREASON!”

The half-blind rooster, Old Pete, pecked absently at a piece of corn. “Kid, you need to calm down. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. And besides, that’s my girlfriend you’re accusing of treason.”

“SILENCE!” Reggie commanded, though his voice cracked mid-shout. “Guards! Seize him!”

The goat, Bernard, who Reggie had apparently designated as his royal guard, continued chewing on an grass.

“Bernard! I said seize him!”

“Mehhhh,” Bernard replied, not bothering to look up.

Reggie huffed and straightened his imaginary crown. “Fine. I shall deal with this insurrection personally.” He began pacing back and forth, his claws clicking importantly on a flat rock. “As your divinely appointed ruler — “

“Divinely appointed by a plastic crown from Dollar General,” Bertha muttered.

“ — I hereby decree that all eggs must be laid in my royal nesting box, which I have graciously constructed for the good of the kingdom.”

“You mean that pile of twigs under the leaky gutter?” Gertrude asked. “The one that’s currently home to three mice and a very angry toad?”

“How DARE you question the structural integrity of the royal nesting facilities!” Reggie’s comb turned an even brighter shade of red. “This is exactly the kind of dissent that leads to chaos! Anarchy! Revolution!”

Just then, Farmer Joe’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, slinked around the corner of the barn. Reggie let out a most unkingly shriek and bolted behind Bernard the goat.

“Tactical retreat!” he squawked. “Protecting the royal personage! Guards! To arms!”

Bernard continued chewing grass.

Mr. Whiskers rolled his eyes and walked past, clearly having no interest in chicken for breakfast.

Once the cat was gone, Reggie emerged from behind Bernard, straightening his feathers and clearing his throat. “An excellent drill, everyone. Your king is pleased with your performance in this simulated crisis.”

“Reggie, honey,” Martha said gently, “don’t you think it’s time to give up this whole king business? It’s not good for your blood pressure.”

“GASP!” Reggie actually said the word ‘gasp’ out loud. “You dare use my common name? I am His Royal Highness, Sir Reginald Cluckington III, Defender of the Coop, Lord of the Lower Barnyard, Protector of the Sacred Grain Bin, and First of His Name!”

“You’re named after my uncle Reggie,” Old Pete pointed out. “So technically, you’re not first of anything.”

Before Reggie could respond to this latest attack on his sovereignty, Farmer Joe appeared with the morning feed. Reggie immediately forgot all about royal protocol and joined the mad dash for breakfast, squawking and shoving just like any common chicken.

After breakfast, he climbed atop his tire swing throne, bits of corn still stuck to his beak. “In light of your loyal service during the recent cat invasion, I have decided to be merciful. All charges of treason are dropped, and you may continue using your substandard nesting boxes.”

“How generous,” Bertha clucked, rolling her eyes.

“Furthermore,” Reggie continued, warming to his theme, “I hereby declare today a national holiday! There will be feasting and revelry and — “

His grand speech was interrupted by Farmer Joe’s granddaughter entering the barnyard with a new toy — this time a plastic wizard’s hat with stars on it.

Reggie’s eyes went wide. “Wait! New decree! I am no longer your king!” He rushed over and began pecking at the dropped hat. “I am now your Mighty Wizard! BUCKAWK! Fear my magical powers!”

The hens groaned in unison. Bernard kept chewing his can. And Sir Reginald Cluckington III, former king and newly self-appointed Mighty Wizard of the barnyard, spent the rest of the day trying to turn Old Pete into a toad, much to everyone’s continued amusement and exasperation.

The only one who seemed impressed by any of it was the angry toad in the royal nesting box, who was just happy everyone had finally stopped trying to lay eggs on him.