Current mood: Knackered
Mike the headless chicken hopped to the goals, and empty stadium but for him and a human man. In Algiers they were, half a century ago. The goalkeeper was famous but reasons not obvious on a great football pitch. Albert Camus was his given name, pronounced cam-ooooh, like what happens after sex.
Mike hopped to Albert, his intentions to join the team, a ferocious supporter and a damn fine player for one without a head. But Albert, though a wise man, perhaps the wisest of his time, could not understand the complicated motions the chicken was making. A dance devised to communicate with man, but the man must have knowledge of the dance first, which was it's major failing.
"Oh little chicken, what is the matter? I cannot understand you."
Mike continued with as much effort as he would put into the sport.
"Dear chicken. I'm sorry but I cannot understand you."
But Mike pressed on, flapping his wings and stomping his feet.
"Me. Play. On. Team? Please."
Camus sighed and picked up the headless wonder.
"Forgive me, but you seem to be in pain and I am hungry, due to the aftermath of the war."
And so it goes, the smartest man of his time ate the greatest wonder of its time. But for a lack of communication, they could have been a team.