Cock tales

In which a man in a chicken suit wings it and finds Montreal nightlife to be finger lickin' good

by ARISH A. KHAN

Cluck-cluckin' all over Montreal to find where the real party is at. That was the job of one funky chicken on a soggy Friday night. Let me tell you, life ain't easy when you're a six-foot-tall chicken lookin' for love in all the wrong places. However, the impending fear of getting chased by pitbulls or gang-banged by a bunch of hungry jocks was definitely overshadowed by the joy that a bird can bring into the hearts of so many.

Friday night

11:30pm

The voyage began with an uneasy cab ride to Crescent street. The sidewalks were freshly littered with drunken boys in plaid shirts and baseball caps. "Yo, dude! You're like... a chicken, right!?"

Escaping these Neanderthals was simple: with a little shuffle I entered Sir Winston Churchill Pub (1459 Crescent). Security took one look at me and almost punched out my companion photographer for taking a photo. I insisted that I was just a harmless chicken, but there was no way the bouncer was going to let this fly. I finally played the good old race card and was allowed in.

If you're looking for a place to unwind where portly bald men lick their lips and call you "peckerhead," then come on down. After spending exactly two minutes on the dancefloor it dawned on me that there is no place for a funky chicken of my calibre in this joint.

11:50pm

Back on the street. The bald drunks gathered on the terrasse to yell, "See ya later, peckerhead!" as I waved my fist in the air. A bum asked me, "Hey buddy, can you spare a wing?" I stupidly answered yes and he proceeded to bite me.

12:10am

I was accosted by two beautiful French women who said they'd like to "French with the Chicken." We embraced passionately and headed for High Bar (1635 St-Laurent, corner Ontario). I was frisked by a smiling bouncer who seemed to have no qualms with the chicken, even when I told him that I was just a pervert who likes animals. We were greeted with open arms.

The atmosphere inside resembled a space-age Buddhist temple, complete with flashy lights and smoke. I proceeded to the dancefloor to shake a tailfeather with a few women doing that crazy new "drive the little car" dance. My heart was broken after one girl told me to get away from her because I made her feel "disturbed."

My broken heart was quickly mended at the bar, where I met the beautiful Sabrina, who accepted my invitation for a drink. We talked a while and she really ruffled my feathers. We basked in a warm atmosphere of electronic beats and gin. After refusing countless invitations to go back to her place, I realized it was time to hit the next hot spot.

12:40am

Outside on St-Laurent, a limo pulled up carrying a man who looked like a WWF wrestler. He invited me in for a drink. I tried smoking a Cuban cigar through the mask, which filled up with smoke and nearly choked me to death. I ran out of the limo with smoke billowing out of my chicken head, convinced that the sky was really falling.

12:50am

Kokino's (3556 St-Laurent) was our next stop. I had heard rumours about a place where sugar mamas and papas wait with pockets full of candy. This was certainly not the place. The doormen were ecstatic to see the funky chicken. They flexed for the camera, gave me high fives and smiled a thousand smiles. I was quite bewildered at their enthusiasm, until I noticed that nobody was there. However, I'm sure they would have greeted me the same if I would've had 12 midgets riding my coattails.

However, I was very impressed at the sound of Rob Base's classic "It Takes Two" pumping out of the speakers. "I wanna rock right now!" And so I did, attempting a few breakdance moves and landing on my chicken butt. With the embarrassment of my chicken feet waving in the air, I decided to get the cluck outta there.

1am

Jaï Bar (3603 St-Laurent) had no problem accepting a chicken. Inside, there were a few people in suits who were dancing with no shoes or socks on. Had they had the decency to at least put on some rubber feet, I might have stayed longer.

1:15am

It looked like the night had taken a downer. I walked further on, longing for a taste of the Orient. Low and behold, an oasis--Tokyo (3709 St-Laurent, below Pine) greeted us like royalty. Not only was I rushed to the front of the line, but their gracious host, Lamine, made sure the chicken and his camera cow were given libations out the wazoo. In Tokyo, the chicken is king.

The decor was absolutely fabulous. One room had hot tub couches for that luxurious feel of being immersed in hot bubbling water with all your most beautiful friends. The dancefloor was hoppin' to the funky stylings of the house band. Everyone was feeling alright.

The chicken was soon being followed around by a gaggle of beauties in tight, revealing dresses. They brought me to the dancefloor and pawed at me like five felines purring for some birddoggin'. I bumped and grinded with my kittens as they shared their prize bird with much joy. My mind was completely fixed on the harem that awaited me with devil trumpets and screamin' saxes.

All of a sudden I heard a deep, hoarse voice yell, "Hey Chicken, get the fuck outta here!"

I looked around and couldn't tell who had said such a harsh thing to such a wonderful bird as I. One of my female companions told me it was the guy behind her who, at that precise moment, was grinding his huge fat ass into hers. Being the rooster that I am, I slipped in between them. The greasy-gelled cannolli casualty didn't notice a thing until I tapped him on the shoulder. Upon realizing that it was my bony ass that he was rubbing he yelled, "I thought I told you to get the fuck outta here, you fuckin' chicken." My lovely companions laughed in his face and he was forced to leave the dancefloor. I'd never thought I could arouse such jealousy dressed in a furry chicken costume.

The rest of the night was spent mixing martinis behind the bar, smokin' cheeba with the reepah and drinking with a gal named Barbara. She thought I was the most adorable chicken man she had ever met. She sat in my lap and told me about how I might have changed her sexual preference. "Could it be that the chicken is the most sexy animal of the farm?" We pecked for a while until I felt the fever coming on like a heart attack. Maybe it was the gin, maybe it was her, but something deep inside the recesses of my soul made me wanna do the robot for six hours in a dark gymnasium filled with the glow-stick gang.

It was time for me to head to after-hour land where nothing is free unless you look like a fuzzy wuzzy bird.

3:30am

Our next stop was Stereo (858 Ste-Catherine E.). As we walked down the blue Christmas staircase we got many a strange look from the b-boys who were hiding little Chinese refugees in their fat pants. The dancefloor had scattered posses of people and was entirely painted black. This minimalist box of dance was not really jumping yet, so I decided to venture on back to my nest. The booze was wearing off and I did have the suit for one more day, so I called it a night.

Saturday night

12am

Since Tokyo was definitely an undiscovered hotspot where the libations were abundant I headed back there with my trusty photographer cow. There were definitely more men this time, but even a chicken can get dig a sausage party now and then.

2:30am

The manager of Tokyo approached me and politely said that we had drunk $200 worth of drinks and would have to stop now. He was genuinely concerned about my health and I thanked him kindly and headed for the door. It was time to hit Sona, the infamous high-security den of sin.

3:30am

The staff at Sona (1439 Bleury) were polite and let the chicken in with no hesitation. They tried confiscating the camera, but I hid it in my chicken-head and no one noticed a thing. The place was filled to the brim with sticky bodies squeezed together in a haze of moisture and ecstasy.

I was accosted by many space cadets who "just love the way you feel, Chicken Man." I was sweating profusely in my costume as I danced with half-naked body builders with glow-sticks in their mouths, latex rave queens, silicone Bessie and her boyfriend Lucy. This was a world far away from my own. I was lost in a sea of energy and found my self saying "vibe" and "dope" all the time. After taking a few "illegal" pictures, we were escorted out by the beefcake security company.

Sometime near dawn

The ride back home was a long, arduous journey. As I departed from my camera-man, I looked back and saw one of god's own prototypes. A simple man trapped in a wide world of excess.

The chicken had made many friends this last weekend. He was finally on top, but what next? Where to from here? As dawn's early light crept across the land and I rolled home to my roost, I made a mental note: on Monday morning, I would do a comparative price check on hot dog suits.

All photos by Jason Felker/Costume courtesy of Joseph Ponton Costumes