The Women Behind the Chickens

Private detective Ralph "Redeye" Rawling awoke with a snort on his office couch, a nearly empty whiskey bottle on the floor nearby.

When he sat up, he felt something stuffed in his left shoe. It was a note suggesting a drug smuggling gang were operating out of a rundown barn at the old Cluckers poultry ranch.

“Sounds like a load of chicken shit,” he muttered to himself.

Never one to turn down a lead, however, especially when it involved a potential cash reward, he tossed back the last of his whiskey and stumbled out into the late morning gloom.

Arriving at the scene, he found himself standing in front of a ramshackle farm on the outskirts of town. A few sullen, ill-tempered chickens wandered the yard, oblivious to the drama about to unfold around them.

Undeterred by this bucolic scene, Rawling pressed on, his slightly unsteady footsteps crunching on the gravel path leading to the dilapidated barn out back.

With a creak of rusty hinges, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

What he found took him completely by surprise, row upon row of gaudy plaster sculptures of lustfully grinning women with monstrous breasts. And hidden within, a treasure trove of illicit substances, neatly packaged and ready for distribution. The chicken ranch was just a front, a cover for a sprawling drug operation.

Rawling quickly alerted the authorities who orchestrated a raid, with photograpers bursting flashbulbs, chickens squawking, sculptures shattering, and villains being dragged away in handcuffs.

In the end, Ralph "Redeye" Rawling emerged as a hero, earning himself a tidy reward from the grateful city. His whiskey-fueled determination had uncovered the largest drug busts in the state’s history.