Setting: A cozy kitchen in a small apartment in Freiburg, Germany. It’s late evening. Lukas is sipping chamomile tea while Max paces nervously near the window, wrapped in a hoodie despite the mild weather.
Lukas: (glancing up from his cup)
Max, for the tenth time, I don’t think the rooster is plotting your doom.
Max: (wide-eyed)
You heard it too, right? A rooster crowed. At night. Not at dawn. That’s a sign. Oma always said it means something terrible is coming.
Lukas:
Or maybe Helga next door just bought a confused rooster from eBay Kleinanzeigen. Honestly, chickens don’t come with built-in clocks, Max.
Max: (serious tone)
It’s not just Oma. It’s old German folklore. Wenn der Hahn nachts kräht, wird jemand bald gehen. “If the rooster crows at night, someone will soon die.” People have believed this for centuries. That’s not nothing.
Lukas: (grinning)
People used to believe that sneezing was your soul trying to escape. Should I start blessing you every five minutes again during pollen season?
Max:
This is different. There’s pattern. Last time I heard a rooster at night, my cousin in Hamburg broke his leg two days later. Coincidence?
Lukas:
Correlation, not causation, my friend. That’s like saying every time I wear my lucky socks, we win pub quiz — maybe we just have a good team?
Max:
But why would a rooster crow at night unless something’s wrong? It’s unnatural!
Lukas:
Well, actually… (leans forward, mock-dramatic)
Roosters can crow at night due to stress, artificial lights, or just being territorial. I Googled it after your last apocalypse alert. They’re basically feathered drama queens.
Max: (snorts)
Drama queens?
Lukas:
Yep. I read about a guy in Bavaria whose rooster crowed at 2 a.m. every night. Turns out the neighbor had installed a motion-sensor light in his garden. The rooster thought sunrise was happening every time a hedgehog passed by.
Max: (pauses, considers)
Okay, that is kind of funny. Still — what if these signs are just the universe’s way of warning us in subtle ways?
Lukas:
Max, if the universe had something to say, I doubt it’d use a rooster. More likely a push notification. Or a very pointed horoscope.
Max:
You laugh, but Oma used to carry a potato in her handbag to ward off curses. She never got sick.
Lukas:
And I wear clean socks and rarely get hit by lightning. Doesn’t mean my socks are magical. Just good hygiene.
Max: (laughs, reluctantly)
I just don’t want to tempt fate, okay? If there’s even a chance the rooster’s right, maybe I should just… lay low for a few days.
Lukas:
Sure. Lay low. Hide from the poultry mafia.
Max: (mock stern)
Don’t mock the poultry mafia. That’s how they get you.
Lukas:
Look, I respect your traditions. Really. But maybe we could strike a balance? Keep your potato talisman and let science explain the odd midnight rooster?
Max: (smiling)
Deal. But if I suddenly vanish, tell the police to interrogate that rooster.
Lukas:
Noted. I’ll tell them the suspect is about 45 cm tall, red comb, highly suspicious, answers to “Karl-Heinz.”
[Scene ends with both laughing and the distant sound of another rooster crowing, to which Max immediately freezes. Lukas just sighs and pours more tea.]
Science Vs Superstition 
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