Fozzie stared miserably at the foamy rapids. He’d asked them three times to drive him by the condo or at least a liquor store or something, but no.

He tugged at the radio collar. Damn thing itched and he couldn’t figure out how to take it off to save his life.

He’d always prided himself on being a good fisherman, but it was becoming increasingly obvious to him that catching swordfish from the back of Sean Combs’ yacht and grabbing a salmon out of a creek with your teeth and bare paws were completely different skill sets, one of which he had somehow neglected to learn. And he had no clue how he was supposed to start a fire to cook the damn thing if he caught one, nor did he know where to find asparagus spears in the woods.

His tummy growled.

He was cold. He was wet. He was hungry. And, though he didn’t know it yet, he was being hunted by the most dangerous chicken on Earth.