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Joe crossed the street, chickens bumping along beside him in the burlap pillowcase he had borrowed from his sister, who had too many, anyways, being the town's pillow mistress. The chickens were definitely a bonus to the deal. Especially the live ones. Live chicken in a pillowcase was cheaper than the whipped cream flagpole trick, but still brought a hefty fee - especially on the black market. The squawking increased dramatically, and bits of beak and feather poked out of the oversized stitches. Joe wiped the dust of the road off his tubesocks, trying to feel like a 'procurer' should. A 'procurer' should feel dark, dirty, powerful. He needed a feather duster. Green. Fluffy. Like he'd dressed at the holiday mixer on the sternwheeler, but no one had talked to him.
