Sometimes when Tesla was having a bad morning and he'd been working all night he wouldn't send the boy out to collect the eggs from the hen house. He'd walk out back in his underpants and level his death-ray at the fattest old bird in the yard and vaporize it in a mass of feathers and radiation beyond spectrums known to man in that age (or any since). The super-heat emitted from the death-rays would poach the egg in it's shell and leave it lying alone amidst the dust and smoke of what had formerly been a grand matron of the hen yard. Tesla would hold the egg up at the first rays of the sun and mock Ra with it, chuckling, "What came first, indeed?" There was no cosmic pecking order involved in this madness, it was a chaos which was only controlled by the aim of Tesla's mighty cosmic rage from which none were free. When Tesla longed for fresh milk and had no time to bother with the pail or the milking girl the cries of the cattle could be heard throughout the once silent valley as a reminder of how precious the day would be for those not waking in Tesla's cross-hairs.
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