A foray

Lawrence was a chicken, as he was the first to admit. This was more of a calculated ploy than anything else; best to be upfront with clients, and beat them to the punch in the process. "My name is Larry," he'd say, "and I am a chicken." And he'd offer them his right wing in greeting, unless we were dealing with clients from the Far East, in which case he'd bow a little, always pulling it off with dignity and only conveying the vaguest impression that he was pecking after a kernel of corn on the ground. Sometimes, when he'd feel the need to break the ice he'd squawk a bit, but only comically, and not because he couldn't help himself (he could; he hardly ever squawked around the office), and more often than not the ice would find itself broken.

Lawrence was a good guy, remarkably so for a chicken, and a heck of a salesman. We were all sorry when they ate him.


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