+Story+ Fancy for some Food?

It was a dark, stormy night, and I was stuck with a bucket of chicken bones from KFC and no umbrella on hand. I should have brought it from my apartment when I left for the mandatory meeting, but I was late already.

Silly commercials, drawing people in with colorful pictures and lies.

Anyways, stuck with chicken bones and no umbrella. None of my colleagues had a spare unfortunately, or maybe they did. I'm not exactly the most popular person on the floor, or even the entire building. They think i'm stuck up for not saying anything and keeping to myself. There's a lot more to the way I act, but no one really cares to know so it doesn't matter, I suppose.

The bones came from the surprise "Fried Chicken Party" that the boss threw at the end of the meeting. He was a cool boss; popular with everyone. I even liked him a bit, but he always gave me this peculiar look in the mornings . . . something I just didn't recognize . . .

I keep getting off track! Narrating my own life as it's happening . . . I keep going back to the past, as if I hadn't already narrated it! My mind has never had a very long attention span. Moving back on track!

I walked slowly under the little overhanging roof-bits that shelter pedestrians from the rain, clinging to my pathetic bounty . . .or trash . . . junk . . . whatever. I think it's safe to say i'm not exactly drenched to the bone, but definitely soggy. The clothes I mean. Not the skin. It was getting pretty cold after 20 minutes of my scurrying. I hated living far, and when you live in such a big city like I did, all the traffic made it quicker to walk than drive. Kinda wish I had a car then though, but that desire will fade away with the next day. As did the last time it rained. And the time before that. And the time before that . . . I got ice cream last time-- I keep getting sidetracked. Stop it, you silly person, you!

Well, I decided that for my trouble, why not treat myself to some good food? I finally came across an open pizza store. It was one of the small ones; just a tiny room with a few tables and several chairs. You could tell easily that they were the cheaper kind, for when I walked in and got a closer look, I could see the shine that only comes off of plastic on the chair. Tables were metal, but ones that had a glass surface and one metal column holding it up, with a fairly wide base. I saw it at Target once. Almost bought it, but after struggling with the outrageous cost and not very attractive design, I decided not to purchase it. Glad to see it got a happy ending. Setting my bucket of chicken remains on it wouldn't hurt, would it? That's what tables are for after all! Being . . . tabley I guess . . .

For a decently lit shop with meager decorations, no one was in there which stupefied me. It was pleasant enough . . . maybe the shop was new? That had to be it, but I had to say, not having any employees at the front desk didn't help their case. I walked over to that front desk and looked around. They were fully stocked with cups, straws, and plates. That was good. Suddenly, I noticed the door probably leading to the kitchen was cracked open. I've always been a curious person, so I tiptoed over to investigate. One little peek wouldn't hurt, right? Well, there was that one time where one little peek ended up with me dealing with my two sisters bringing me into an arguement involving brightly colored socks and My Little Pony. I highly doubted that would happen in this case, but you never know . . . I looked anyways.

I wanted to be sneaky, like those spies or secret agents in those movies from the 80's or something. However, I couldn't get the best look through the crack in the door; it was too small! All I could see was that it was a dimly lit room with a small metal table in the middle. A shiny metal table. Maybe it was some kind of new, advanced table that you could cook pizzas on--

. . .

I think I blacked out for a bit. Opening my eyes hurt, and my head was simply killing me-- ow! Ah . . . must be quite a bump back there. Hope it doesn't last too long--

Where was I? I couldn't get sidetracked now . . . oh no. I suddenly found after a few seconds after my wakening that I was bound to that shiny itty-bitty table I saw earlier by yarn tied around my wrists and ankles . . . it was incredibly itchy. Extremely itchy. I didn't even KNOW yarn got this itchy! It was the kind of brownish grey kind with strands poking out of it that only people that make crafts for a living use . . . or is that called string? I didn't know. . . but I also frankly didn't care. Well, the first minute of being awake I did, but that wasn't the point! . . .I was honestly kind of surprised by the size of the table I was laying on; my limbs didn't dangle off the sides of it, but they did go over the edge a bit. Really uncomfortable. . . Oh.

Only I could get distracted in the middle of a terrible scenario, I supposed. I blacked out a minute ago. Woke up tied to a table. There was an annoying flickering light above me, and the rest of the room was unbelievably dark . . . this could've only meant one thing. Some crazy, old, ugly guy was going to walk up to me, say something incredibly creepy, and do some kind of strange, irrational torture before I died . . . and then the next victim would end up getting him imprisoned and get to have a happy ending till the next serial killer decides that wasn't cool and aims for them in the sequel. Yeah . . . that's how it was going down.

I really didn't like the idea of being dead, though. I seriously didn't, so I did what every other person would have done; I tried to get free, but man that string-yarn-thing is scratchy! I could feel it cutting off circulation on my hands . . . oh, hello~! I didn't know my hands were clenched into fists. When did that happen?

Ok, I found it tons easier on my veins when I relaxed my hands. Still kinda found it a hopeless case for me though. I was no Superman; I can't break through yarn-string with my own strength! That was silly! . . . well, I did try. Better than not, I supposed. No one was even there to see anyways . . .

I was pretty sure the door in the corner cracked open a bit. The dark, scary corner with the rusty metal door . . . wait. Wasn't that a violation of the food-health code for restaurants? However, I stopped caring about that when a man in a giant, bright yellow chicken suit emerged from the scary door. Normal chicken suits are funny. They make you laugh. This particular chicken suit had very unnerving eyes . . . the kind that would give you nightmares and make you too scared to get out from underneath the covers to go the bathroom and you end up wetting the bed and sleeping in it. Those kinds of eyes.

The man in the scary chicken suit slowly waddled toward me like a drunken penguin in Texas, the suit slowly shedding feathers. That would take forever to clean up. Within about a minute, the scary chicken loomed over me. . . and stared. He stared at me for a long time, that chicken. I was starting to think he fell asleep. He then moved and I yelped. I wasn't expecting him to move! He then showed me something I didn't notice he was holding before; that KFC bucket from the party. The chicken dumped the greasy bones all over my torso . . . I do admit at this time that I was pretty confused. He dumped chicken bones all over me, and he was wearing a chicken suit. Maybe he was angry that his brethren were consumed . . .? I didn't know.

He then proceeded to start playing with the bones . . . like a toddler would play with cars. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen in my entire life. He would pick up two bones and move them in the air and make strange sounds in his throat, as if he was pretending they were people. Then he'd set one down and make the other fly around like superman. It was like watching a baby in his own little world, completely forgetting I was even here. Well . . . I was kind of glad he forgot about me. I really wanted out though; this psycho chicken didn't need me to play with his find.

After awhile, I thought I was going crazy. I kept hearing police sirens in the distance . . . maybe I was going crazy too, like the chicken man. I turned my head to try and see if I could hear it any better, to see if I WAS going koo-koo, but the chicken slapped me with his wing, and hissed at me. Don't think me odd; I know birds can hiss. He then scratched at my head lightly with a sharpened chicken bone, as if he was drawing something. I moved my head in annoyance; maybe his earlier display of being childish made me less fearful and more defiant. He hissed again and started pecking my face with his plastic beak. What was with this guy!?

And suddenly, everything ended almost as quickly as it began . . . well, quicker I suppose. Within seconds of the pecking, police officers stormed into the small, dark room, bearing their pistols. Probably loaded. I think I was just as afraid as the chicken. Within a flurry of feathers and 'bok's, two of the heavier police officers had tackled chicken man down and taken away the chicken bones. I expected the chicken to start crying like a little kid who just got grounded, but he was eerily silent . . . Even among all the noise that suddenly exploded into my head of sirens and shouts, that's what I focused on the most. Just a minute ago, this chicken was on cloud nine it seemed. Now . . . well, I just couldn't tell. He was probably ticked off, I thought.

The police finally noticed me, pitifully tied down with grease stains on my shirt. It was a shame it was one of my nicer shirts; it really pained me to look at it in such a condition! I mean, I only wear the nicer shirts on days I have to dress to impress at meetings. If it were my normal everyday clothes, I wouldn't have really cared.  At last they released me from my bonds, so I did what everyone else who just got captured by a guy in a chicken suit would do; I asked them what that was all about. I had already secretly guessed in my mind that it was just a poor man gone coo-coo and need help from professionals. Poor guy.

Now, when the police told me what was really going on, I laughed. I just couldn't believe it, but they looked dead serious . . . apparently, the man was a psychopath serial killer, who not only dressed up as a man in a scary chicken suit, but also attempted to perform demonic ceremonies with the bones of chickens, praising his 'satanic master'. He would then eat the skin of his victims and leave the remains to rot where ever he left them. . . and I had not been aware of this at all. Had I been aware, I know I definitely wouldn't have been nearly as bold as I was around him. I immediately felt for the scratches on my forehead, and felt the beginnings of a near perfect circle. Whatever that weirdo was carving into my face, he didn't finish thank goodness! He did a really nice job with the proportions, though. Even I couldn't draw circles worth the life of me.

I was scooted into a corner of the room as they escorted the chicken man out in handcuffs. I wondered what he looked like behind the mask . . . could he be crying, or maybe fervid with rage? . . . Perhaps envy for the other sick killers out there that still had their freedom. I leaned over a bit to watch what happened to the chicken. He kinda waddled out of the pizza parlor, it still looking the same way that I had seen it just a little while ago, other than the fact that hordes of people were trying to get a glimpse through the glass windows. The police were trying their hardest to get them away. I had to give them credit. The scene reminded me of crowds of fans trying to get their hands on a celebrity, but the bodyguards prevented them from getting anywhere near. It was really silly of me to compare the two things, but that was what it looked like to me.

Then it was my turn to be taken out of this place. A really tall police man tapped me on the shoulder and gave me a nod. He asked me if I was ok after such an experience. . . and I couldn't feel it, but I think I was giving him a blank look. Looking back on it, what could I classify this experience as? I wasn't scared much in all honesty; I almost laughed a few times, watching that chicken act like a toddler. Sure, I know now that it was some kind of evil ritual, but it certainly didn't have that aura about it. . . and I was brought back to the present by the officer shaking me by the shoulder lightly.

As I was slowly lead out of the parlor, I noticed it was still raining, but it had lightened up a bit to a light shower. The mob had backed up a bit, to my pleasure. I was a bit people-claustrophobic. The officer pushed open the door  with ease, and I was flooded with the flashing lights of cameras. Stupid paparazzi. I walked forward a few feet, a bit dizzy. Didn't know why I was dizzy. Within minutes, I was surrounded with people, all asking me questions and the tall, blonde officer was gone.

It took me a few minutes to realize they weren't reporters, but instead the people who worked with me back on the floor. All their questions blurred together, along with expressions I didn't see often from them. They seemed worried about me, but it was way too sudden and for all the wrong reasons, it felt. I guess having someone you know attacked by a serial killer in peculiar attire changes the way you look at a person. I found it strange, though, that even though I was the one who went through the ordeal, I didn't feel any different. These people were still the same jerks in my eyes, so it was so odd for them to treat me any differently. It was like they were switched with alien invaders but had the same bodies, like in that black and white movie The Body Snatchers.

In the end, I just kinda filtered out the noise. Someone I hardly recognized handed me an extra umbrella, and I just clung to it in the rain. Officers told me I would go in court as a witness against the chicken. I just agreed to it all . . . for some reason I was feeling down. After a second, though, I thought I found the reason; the world I was so used to suddenly looked at me in a higher standing, and I didn't feel like I did anything to deserve it. It really saddened me; nothing felt right if you didn't work for it. I suddenly wasn't hungry anymore . . .