It was a most pleasant day out in the wild West.
On Mr McDuffin’s farm, Foghorn Leghorn, was going about in his usual pride and joy.
At that moment, the hens, all of whom admired him, were watching him sound his morning crow on the chicken enclosure fence.
Then suddenly, something happened, which was going to change things completely.
Farmer McDuffin brought in an enormous Rhode Island Red rooster. It was even larger than Foghorn.
The rooster captured the attention of all the hens.
“Wow!” one of them said.
“He’s enormous,” said another.
“Who is he?” a third asked.
“Good morning to you all,” the rooster said in a jolly voice.
“Who are you?” asked a fourth hen.
“Roland, the Rhode Island Red.”
Foghorn didn’t like what was going on.
He jumped down and stood before Roland with anger in his eyes.
“How’d you do partner?” Roland asked.
“Don’t how’d you do partner me, buster,” Foghorn fumed in reply.
“Take it easy partner,” Roland said with a slight note of concern in his voice.
“DON’T YOU TELL ME TO TAKE IT EASY, BUSTER,” Foghorn shouted in rage.
“Whoa, steady on,” Roland said in a voice of both concern and nervousness.
“I WON’T STEADY ON,” Foghorn continued in rage. “EVERYTHING WAS JUST FINE UNTIL YOU TURNED UP, BUSTER.”
Now it was Roland’s turn to get annoyed.
“You go too far partner,” he said crossly.
“DON’T CALL ME PARTNER, BUSTER. MY NAMES FOGHORN.”
“Fine,” Roland snapped. “Foghorn.”
“YOU DON’T BELONG HERE, BUSTER,” Foghorn said with clenched fists. “THIS PLACE ISN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR THE TWO OF US.”
That, was the last straw for Roland.
He seized Foghorn by the neck, lifted him above his head, spun him around and hurled him high in the air.
Foghorn went flying into a cow field, where he landed in a trough of dirty water.
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA,” Roland laughed. “A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.”
“I’ll get rid of him,” Foghorn said angrily. “Somehow, I’ll get rid of him.”
He went to a tool shed and got a huge, double-barrelled gun – totally unaware that Roland had seen him.
“This should fix him,” he said in a sneaky voice. “This should fix him.”
Foghorn was just about to head back to the enclosure, when he was seized by Roland and wrestled to the ground.
“Nice try, Foghorn,” he said with total sarcasm in his voice.
“Let me go,” said Foghorn, who squirmed. “Let me go I said.”
It was no good.
Roland tied a large bunch of balloons around Foghorn’s legs.
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA,” he laughed, as Foghorn was lifted off the ground.
“Get me down, at once.”
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.”
“I’ll get you, you rotter.”
Foghorn writhed as he was carried higher and higher, until he was out of sight.
Later that day, Foghorn climbed onto the roof of the chicken shed, holding the gun. He positioned himself to shoot Roland when he joined the hens.
It turned out to be a very long wait.
Then suddenly, there came the sound of a match being lit.
Foghorn looked down behind him and saw Roland standing there with a huge firework pointing right at him, ready to go off.
“Oh no,” he groaned.
The rocket went off like a shot, taking Foghorn with it.
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA,” Roland laughed, as the firework went higher and higher. “A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.”
The rocket exploded.
Later on, Foghorn went into the hay barn, gun in hand. He pointed the weapon through a hole, in perfect range of the enclosure.
“I have him this time,” he said in a cunning voice.
He had spoken too soon.
Roland seized Foghorn and dragged him out of the barn by the neck.
“Get off me,” Foghorn said. “Let me go.”
“No way, buster.”
Roland shoved Foghorn into a cannon.
“Oh no,” said Foghorn.
Roland lit the cannon and his rival was sent flying up and away.
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA,” Roland laughed. “A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.”
That evening, Roland was pacing about in the chicken pen, to make sure that Foghorn didn’t stir things up even more.
“Blast!” Foghorn fumed to himself when he saw his rival. “There’s no going in there tonight – unless.”
Foghorn suddenly had an idea.
He went to the tool shed and covered himself with luminous white paint, in order to make Roland believe that he was a ghost.
What he didn’t realise, was that his rival had seen him.
Foghorn went to face Roland, who wasn’t in sight.
“Blast!” he fumed. He must be in the shed.
“No, I’m here.”
Foghorn turned round and saw Roland standing behind him, holding a large pale of water.
“Oh no,” Foghorn said.
Roland threw the water over him and most of the paint came off. He then grabbed Foghorn, raised him up over his head, spun him around and hurled him into the cow field.
Foghorn landed in the trough again.
"A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA," Roland laughed. "A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA - A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA."
Not long after that, farmer McDuffin shut the chicken shed. All the chickens were inside, all but Foghorn, who was biding his time in the barn.
The following morning, Foghorn left the barn and looked over at the chicken pen. He clenched his fists in anger, when he saw Roland crowing on the fence, in front of all the hens.
“I’ll have you this time,” he seethed. “I’ll have you.”
Foghorn had a most cunning plan.
He crept away and headed for one of the stables – unaware that Roland was on his tail again.
Once inside the stable, Foghorn filled a large flagon – one half with ale and the other with a whole bottle of shrinking potion.
“This should fix him.”
He blended the ale and the potion together with a spoon and went to the chicken pen – totally unaware that Roland had witnessed the whole event.
“Roland, I admit defeat,” Foghorn lied, taking a fake sigh. “You are indeed the greatest rooster here.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you say it,” said Roland, who knew that Foghorn was lying.
“Out of deep respect, I give you this flagon of ale,” Foghorn lied.
Now was his moment to show Roland, who was truly the greatest – well so he thought.
The moment he had been waiting for, never came.
“Thank you,” said Roland. “But no thank you.”
“Because, I don’t drink. Why don’t you drink it instead?”
Foghorn wasn’t expecting that.
“I er – don’t drink either,” he said with a tone of panic in his voice.
“Go on,” Roland urged.
“I’m not thirs –“
Roland pulled out a large double-barrelled gun and pointed it at Foghorn.
“Drink it,” he said angrily.
Foghorn knew the game was up.
He drank the ale and the shrinking potion.
Then it happened.
Foghorn shrank slowly to the size of an ant.
“A HA HA HA HA HA HA,” laughed Roland, who pointed his finger at Foghorn. “A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.
THAT’S ALL FOLKS.