The red chicken

I’m on the sidewalk. It’s hot and cold at the same time. A red chicken is staring at me from the other side. It’s not a brown chicken, like you might think, but a really red one, the reddest red your eyes could ever experience. The chicken is not alone. It’s on a leash with her master by her side. A guy who does or doesn’t have a Hitler moustache.

- Hey, why is your chicken red?, I asked.
- Oh, common dude, it’s like the fifth time today someone asks me that. No, actually, it’s the fourth time. This colourblind dude asked me why my chicken is green.
- So, why is it red?, I insisted.
- I don’t know man. I just woke up this morning and I thought: I wanna do something new today. So I painted this chicken red and put it on a leash. There’s no reason for that.
- Well, everything has a reason, dude. Maybe your subconscient is trying to tell you something.
- Like what?
- How the hell should I know? You’re the one who painted the goddamn chicken.
- Her name is Linda.
- Oh, sorry. I didn’t know your little girlfriend has a name.
- She’s not my girlfriend anymore. I mean, she’s not my girlfriend.
- Oh, ok. You should look into that, dude. I mean who decides out of nowhere to paint a chicken red and walk around with it?

I woke up from my sleep in a rather weird mood.