Learn about how Sal-Manila's granddaddy rescued the chicken feed from Siegfried and the Nazis

Sergeant Gunther’s Battle for the Chicken Feed: An Anti-Heroic Romp Through Poultry Anarchy

The year was 1942, and the rustic calm of the French countryside had been brutally interrupted by the mechanized clatter of Nazi occupation. Sergeant Gunther, a rooster of impeccable breeding and insurrectionary zeal, found his coop under siege. This was indeed a full-blown assault on avian autonomy and the townspeople’s survival.

Colonel Siegfried, a cold-blooded butcher with a penchant for operatic villainy, had commandeered the region’s precious Chicken Feed. This wasn’t mere sustenance; it was the key to Gunther’s unyielding resistance. But more crucially, it was the only available food for the American soldiers and the townspeople. The Nazis, in a strategic move to break the spirit of the occupied, had destroyed all of the town’s stores and food supply storages, leaving the land barren and the people starving.

Strutting across the barnyard, Gunther gathered his flock under the cloak of night, their eyes gleaming with the fire of rebellion. In the flickering shadows, Gunther addressed his comrades with a rhetoric sharpened by countless skirmishes. “We shall NOT cede our future to these fascist scum,” he declared, his comb a crimson banner of defiance.

Cosette, the French saboteur giraffe with legs like stilts and eyes like dark pools of wisdom, stood by his side. Her elegance masked a mind as sharp as any blade. Along with them was Corporal Bill, the brash young chick with a knack for subversion, nodding in grim determination.

The stakes of their mission were apocalyptic. The storehouse, a fortress of feed, stood guarded by soldiers and snarling dogs, a testament to Siegfried’s paranoia. The Chicken Feed was everything. It was the sustenance that kept the American GIs strong enough to continue their guerrilla efforts against the occupying forces. It was the lifeline for the townspeople, who had nothing else to stave off starvation. Without it, the entire region faced annihilation.

Under a crimson moon that hung like a guillotine’s blade, Gunther’s squadron advanced through the tall grass, a whisper of revolution rustling in the night air. As they neared the perimeter, Cosette executed her diversion with feline grace. She sauntered forward, her long neck and supple limbs moving in an entrancing rhythm. The guard dogs, mesmerized by her presence, followed her into the woods, their barks turning to howls of frustrated longing. Meanwhile, Corporal Bill, the epitome of youthful insouciance, slipped through a gap in the fence, his nimble beak working the lock with a burglar’s finesse.

The interior of the storehouse, dimly lit and oppressively silent, was a temple of avarice. The golden sacks of Chicken Feed shimmered with forbidden allure. Gunther, his heart pounding with anarchic fervor, led his team to the prize. They moved with the urgency of those who knew the cost of failure.

But fate, ever the sadist, had other plans. The door burst open, revealing Siegfried and his men, their faces twisted with malice. “So, the legendary Sergeant Gunther has honoured us with his presence,” Siegfried sneered, his voice a hiss of venom. “You truly believe that you can outwit the Third Reich?”

Gunther, feathers ruffled but spirit unbroken, met Siegfried’s gaze with a defiant crow. “We are fucking reclaiming what is ours by right, you Goddamned Sauerkraut Piece Of Shit!” he retorted, his words a manifesto of insubordination.

With a signal to Bill, the pre-arranged line of gunpowder ignited, a pyrotechnic declaration of war. The explosion rocked the storehouse, a cacophony of liberation. Amidst the chaos, Gunther, Cosette, and Bill made their escape, clutching their precious bounty.

Back at the barnyard, the flock greeted them as conquering heroes. The stolen feed was their lifeline, a tangible victory against the encroaching darkness. For the American soldiers, it meant the continuation of their covert operations. For the townspeople, it was the difference between survival and despair. Gunther, ever the strategist, knew this was but one battle in an ongoing war.

Decades later, in the anarchic venues of a new era, Sal-Manila, the neoist punk rock chicken, would channel his grandfather’s defiant spirit. Onstage, beneath a barrage of lights and sound, Sal-Manila’s electric squawks would pulse with the energy of a legacy steeped in resistance. His songs, raw and uncompromising, would echo the rebellious heart of our heroes, Sergeant Gunther, Corporal Bill and the cunningly elegant Cosette, the giraffe who had dared to defy tyranny and helped reclaim her town’s destiny. And as such, in every powerful peck of his beak against the microphone, Sal-Manila would honor the struggle that had once saved a generation from the brink of oblivion.