“Quince...put down that chicken!” Stippy was hollering and wavin' his arms over his head like a madman. I dunno...do madmen wave their arms? Who can tell?
Stippy waved and waved and hollered across that field, but Quince sure as hell did not put down that chicken. He held the chicken's head close to his mouth and then stuck out his tongue and licked that chicken but good – giving rise, eventually, to that nickname of his - “Old Chicken Licker.” The chicken didn't seem to care for it and Quince had to give it a good shakin' to settle it down. What happened next was just plain wrong. Stippy couldn't get to him in time and right after he licked that chicken, old Quince started pluckin that chicken – live. The chicken started going all crazy, as you can imagine, and Stippy started hollerin' again, “that's a layin' chicken – not a eatin' chicken!” Stippy finally got across the field and tackled Quince. He hit him like a professional tackle, and popped that chicken right out of his hands. The chicken bounced once and then took off runnin' and Quince started tryin' to lick Stippy's face. Stippy hauled off and clocked Quince a good one. That shut him up for a minute and at least stopped him from licking.
Stippy got up to go back across the field to the house and Quince got up and started takin' his clothes off and flinging them around the field. Stippy stopped and turned to look at that damn fool who was standing half naked in the field and looking around for the half-plucked chicken.
“Quince, you're just plain damn dumb, you fool.”
“I gonna' lick you, Stippy,” replied Quince, his mouth foamin' like a bar of soap was lodged in there somewhere.
“Go lick your damn chicken then,” said Stippy, turning again and heading back to the house.
Quince sat down right there in the field and I suppose eventually got dressed again. Stippy asked his momma if they could just have some of that leftover pulled pork for supper that night.