Flappers is the third-best charcoal chicken in my neighbourhood.
The basting lacks the sour tang of Muhammed’s Cock and Moist Hot Birds, although it is better than that listeria hotspot known as ‘The Chicken Palace’.
I only ever order whole chickens because I want to see as little of the inside of the chicken as possible. When a “half bird’ comes out with that bony Jurassic park cross-section, I immediately stop eating and call Lifeline. So whole birds are the best for me.
I generally don’t like my chicken with a side of wanking homeless guy.
So I was pretty disgusted when a homeless tramp came up to the window next to me during a busy Friday lunchtime and started wanking. I blocked out much of the event, but distinctly remember that his cock was shiny and yellow and that there was a half silver cube of Lurpak butter melting in the sun nearby.
There were families in the restaurant, and the parents had the good instinct to cover their kids’ eyes quickly. Unfortunately, I could not avert my eyes quickly enough to avoid seeing the man ejaculate onto the window and his stinking brown, toothless mouth open wide like an ecstatic toad.
I should have looked away at that point, but something caught my eye. The spunk looked fuzzy like one of the old television sets from the eighties. I looked closer and saw that it contained many ants.
I turned around to the restaurant and announced loudly,
‘This man’s spunk has ants in it.’
Most people looked away. One gentleman in a cowboy hat and sunglasses looked like he wanted to fight. But I didn’t have time for that.
I ran outside immediately with a notepad, offered the man some chicken and asked how the ants got into his spunk. It turned out, he was an avid eater of soil and plants. Every morning he would wake up, steal a plant pot from the neighbourhood, then eat the contents for breakfast: soil, plant, everything.
But that doesn’t explain, I continued, how the ants got into your spunk.
Have you considered interviewing the ants? he said.
I hadn’t considered it.
I shuffled up to his spunk art, which was now dribbling down the window in four distinct lines.
I took out the tiny microphone I had designed for this purpose. Then I pulled out my tiny megaphone.
Attention, Spunkants. Who is your leader? Alternatively, do you have a communications officer or media coordinator that might offer me a moment of your time?
A small brown one piped up.
‘Shut the fuck up, you cunt. We are watching the final of ‘Real Antwives of Spunkville’, and your big yeti-like voicebox is ruining the experience.
I was utterly shocked. I had no idea that ants could speak English or watch TV and I began laughing hysterically.
The doctor stood over me with a gentle face that reminded me of Hitler but without the moustache.
‘How are you, Mr Bird?’ he asked.
‘Fine, what happened?’ I asked, realising I was in a hospital bed.
“I’m afraid you ate some poisonous chicken and had an episode of hallucinatory chicken poisoning or HSP”.
I commented that HSP also stood for Highly Sensitive Person and Halal Snack Pack, but the doctor just shook his head like I’d offered to finger his granny.
I noticed a police officer standing behind the doctor.
‘Mr Bird’, he said. ‘You were arrested for indecent exposure. Several families reported you masturbating and ejaculating on the window at Flappers. Do you have anything to say?’
I hadn’t exposed myself in public since Mrs Simpson’s history class in 1982.
Public masturbation was considered educational back then since information on the subject was simply non-existent. But not these days. I was in trouble. But I felt different. Something at the heart of my being had changed. Somehow, I knew what to do.
I sat up in bed, smiled at the Officer and took a deep breath. Then, snapping my fingers, I opened my eyes and whispered,
and everything went black.
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