Nobody knew where it came from; all they knew was that the other day they had awakened to a giant egg sitting in the middle of Main Street. It looked like an ordinary white chicken’s egg you’d buy at the grocery store, except it was about twenty feet long and fifteen feet high.
Despite Bill Colver’s half-jokingly stated wish to crack the thing open and make the world’s largest omelet, the townspeople agreed it was best not to touch it. They didn’t know what the heck might be inside it, and they were a little scared to find out. A police officer sat watch over it 24/7 to keep the vandals and ne’er-do-wells away, and the whole town just waited.
On the third day, when the egg finally cracked open on its own and a giant chick emerged—one of the cutest, least threatening possibilities for what could have come out of that thing, not to mention one that weirdly made sense (why WOULDN’T a giant egg contain a giant chick?)—everyone was relieved and pleased.
Everyone except Philip Krauss. No one knew what he expected from that egg—Jesus, Mork from Ork, magical rays of light that stopped you from aging—but for days afterwards, he couldn’t stop saying, “I don’t know, I just thought it’d be…different.”
And when the chick was shipped off to a ranch in Montana to live out its days, Philip left town himself a few days after that.
I like to think Phil also made his way to Montana, pulled by a force he couldn’t explain, and that he reunited with that chick and they became the best of friends. I like to think Philip fashioned a saddle for the chick. I like to think he sits atop that saddle, strapped to the chick, day after day as the two of them roam the ranch, herding cattle, inseparable.
But that’s just me.