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Fried Chicken

Mack made the fried chicken in the back room where he could listen to the radio. When the orders came in, he would pull another bag of frozen chicken parts from the freezer. He'd drop them into the flour, sifting and churning before dumping the legs, thighs, wings and breasts into the batter mix. Once the pieces were coated, into the vat of scalding hot oil they would go.

The radio helped with the monotony. He liked rock n roll the best because it kept him motivated. Sometimes he thought the DJ was picking songs just for him. "Fry That Chicken Faster, Mack" he thought he heard. "Keep On Cooking" was another toe-tapping tune.

It got lonely in the backroom with only the occasional visit from the manager to tell him to fry more chicken. And one day in particular, Mack was in a bad mood. He thought he would amount to something more than just a chicken fryer, but a letter in the mail from the University told him he would never amount to anything more. At least he still had the radio.

"And now for our very special listener, we have a song just for him," the DJ said and Mack turned up the volume. "This song is called... Kill Them All, Mack."

The electric guitar roared to life with a head banging riff. Mack instantly liked the song, but he didn't think anyone else would care for it as he retrieved the butcher knife from the knife block.

Story by:

Josh Schwartzkopf

joshschwartzkopf.blogspot.com

29 July 2014