SALEM, Ore. -- The Chicken is barking. His breath comes in short, loud bursts, straining to escape the narrow opening in his foam beak. He sprints through the warm night, off the faded field, into a windowless concrete storage room, plopping down on a folding chair. Outside, in the aluminum bleachers that ring this tiny baseball stadium in the Northwest woods, the laughter dies. Inside, the Chicken gasps. "Was it funny?" he asks. Full story here.