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Chicken Palace

I was standing at the Chicken Palace on Friday night, fondling my balls and waiting for the green-headed punk rocker to yell ‘63’

I was fucking starving and had ordered a whole chicken with the mild basting. The prick had asked me if I wanted chips, and I told him chips were shit.

He squared up to me because he thought I was insulting their chips. But I explained that I was speaking generally about the current state of chips in the world.

Potatoes don’t freeze well. You have to cut ’em fresh, and no one can be fucked peeling potatoes fresh. So what do you get? A world full of shit chips.

My wife doesn’t believe me. She rolls her eyes whenever I complain about chips. But what can ya do? Once you have tasted fresh British chips cooked in animal fat in the eighties there is just no going back.

What the fuck did he care anyway? He wasn’t the owner, just some twenty-year-old prick living forty years too late with his fucking leather jacket and kilt and facial piercings. No doubt he had a bullring in his scrotum or through the head of his cock. Maybe conflict was a part of his punk rock image and I was just filling that quota.

I held back on my urge to shove my hand up his kilt and yank down hard on his scrotum bull ring. I took a deep breath and took my number quietly instead.

Peter Chen was the owner of the Chicken Palace

He took your order like you were ordering hookers and choosing different flavours of lube. This overexcitement came from the fact that Peter thought his chicken and chips were the best in town.

Peter imagined that people flocked from miles around with their mouths watering like paedos in a daycare centre.

He was like one of those delusional restaurant owners on Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares that can’t believe anyone could dislike their forty-day old fish or their thrice reheated chicken fillets.

In reality, people went to the Chicken Palace cos it was near their shitty flats. And, at 2 am, there is fuck all open in this part of town except Kebab Central, a known heroin distribution centre for Uber drivers and a hotspot for salmonella.

The little try-hard punk prick yelled my number, and I snatched my chicken out of his hands like a market thief grabbing a granny’s purse. I wanted to tear open the bag cos I was fucking starving, but I hate walking and eating, so I picked up the pace.

About eighty-six metres down the road. (That’s ninety-four yards for you Americans), a man stepped out from behind a tree

He had green marbles for eyes and a trail of spew running from his mouth and scraggly beard. The spew trail led down his green German army jacket to a gap in his jeans where his frighteningly hairy cock hung free in the cool night air.

The smell of my delicious chicken was overwhelmed by the stench of thrush and piss and the freshly pushed warm shit that was undoubtedly coating the inside of whatever trace of underpants were glued to this man’s arsehole.

‘What yer eating there, Cobber?’ he growled.

‘Fuck off’, I replied, shuffling between him and a brick wall.

‘It’s chicken, isn’t it?’ he said sniffing the air like a deranged wolf.

I turned back to throw him one more look of disgust, but I noticed he was dancing, so I stopped to watch.

He was humming The Birdie Song and doing the appropriate movements.

Derderdadaderdader, derderdadaderdader, derderdadaderdaddU, derderderder.

He was doing the clapping and everything.

I sighed and opened the chicken box. I walked back to him, tore a good leg and thigh off my chicken and handed it to him. It’s the least I could do for a performance like that. He sat down on the brick wall.

‘Ya know,’ he said, ‘generosity will get yer a long way this world.’

He gave me a twinkle of his marble eyes.

‘So will putting yer cock away’, I said and he laughed manically between gruesome chomping.

I was keen to get home but I no longer wanted chicken.

The smell of his rancid underpants had put me off. I chucked the chicken in a bin. I never wanted to eat again.

I went home and had a cup of tea instead. Then I showered twice and went to sleep.

The next day, I saw a headline in the local paper,

Local Homeless Man Found Dead From Food Poisoning

I looked at the picture, and it was him, but he was shaven and looking very respectable.

Arnold Cummings, 63 is said to have eaten the contaminated food from the local restaurant ‘Chicken Palace’.

They had found him dead in the very spot I had left him, the filthy bastard.

The fucker had taken the poison chicken hit for me but the last words I said to him were, ‘so will putting yer cock away.’ I felt bad about that. Then I realised the last words he said to me were,

Generosity will get yer a long way in this world.

Since that day, I have tried to live by that creed, and also to stay away from dodgy chicken gaffs. And yeah, since no one else got sick I pinned that shit on the little punk bastard at the Chicken Palace. But that’s another story — a revenge story for another time.

And look, I know what yer thinking,

‘What the fuck does that have to do with the title of the article?’

Well, actually, fuck all.

It’s just like when you ask someone to buy you a coffee and they do, but you spend the money on cheeseburgers or the gas bill or taxes instead.

Doesn’t it make you feel a little violated?

Fucking scamming pricks

Image: Wiki

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