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Spain
He’d once conducted symphonies of clucks, but now his feathers twitched with madness.
At night, he’d wield a splintered baton, forcing the flock to sing—a cacophony of shrieks.
Those who faltered vanished, their bones later found pecked clean in the hay.
His coop was a nightmare of smeared yolk and claw marks, reeking of rot.
One stormy eve, a farmer approached, only to hear a guttural “BAWK!”—then silence.
By dawn, the barn stood empty, save for a baton dripping red in the dust.
Maestro Cluck was gone, but the wind still carried his insane, feathered tune.