It was a crisp autumn morning when a city lawyer decided to escape the noise of skyscrapers and sirens for something quieter — duck hunting in the countryside.
Dressed in a spotless jacket and shiny leather boots, he looked more like he was heading to court than into the mud.
After an hour of waiting, bang! — his shotgun cracked through the cool air. A duck fell gracefully from the sky, landing in a nearby field.
Smiling proudly, the lawyer climbed over a wooden fence to retrieve his prize.
But before he could take another step, a rusty tractor rumbled toward him. Behind the wheel sat an older farmer — grey hair under a wide hat, a calm look on his weathered face.
“Morning, stranger,” the farmer called, voice steady but friendly. “What brings you onto my land?”
The lawyer brushed off his coat. “I just shot a duck,” he said confidently. “It fell over here, so I’m taking it.”
The farmer squinted toward the duck and slowly shook his head.
“Afraid you can’t do that, son. That duck’s on my property now — which makes it my duck.”
The lawyer frowned. “Listen here. I’m a top attorney in the city. If you don’t let me take that duck, I’ll sue you for every inch of this farm!”
The farmer chuckled, the kind of laugh that came from years of hearing foolish talk.
“Well,” he said, stepping down from the tractor, “around here we don’t bother with lawsuits. We’ve got our own way of settlin’ things. We call it The Three Kicks.”
The lawyer blinked. “The Three Kicks? What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s simple,” said the farmer. “I kick you three times. Then you kick me three times. We take turns ‘til one of us gives up. Winner gets the duck.”
The lawyer looked at the farmer’s thin frame and thought, This will be easy.
“Fine,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s get this over with.”
The farmer nodded once. Then — wham! — his boot connected with the lawyer’s shin.
Before the lawyer could yelp, thud! — a second kick slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
The third — a mighty crack to the shoulder — sent him tumbling into the dirt.
Groaning, gasping, and covered in dust, the lawyer staggered to his feet.
“Alright, old man…” he wheezed, “my turn!”
The farmer smiled, tipped his hat, and said with a grin,
“Nah, that’s alright, son. You can keep the duck.”
He climbed back onto his tractor and drove away, chuckling as the lawyer stood there — bruised, bent, and holding the bird — finally understanding that out here, the countryside had its own kind of law.
