You guys have never been drunk at 1am in the depths of dive bar philadelphia, when the Crown Fried Chicken store cuts through the drunken fog like a beacon on a rocky shore? You know it’s a bad idea but you can’t control your feet. It’s as some semi burnt, saturated bird lifts you on its wings and holds you up as you stumble into the door.
you don’t remember looking for traffic when you crossed the street...why did the chicken cross the road indeed, doesn’t matter, the chicken brought you safely here.
You sit on the city curb and stare at the dismembered animal before you. You devour the marshmallow texture flesh to the bone. Where did the bones go? You dont remember putting them in a trashcan, there’s one in your pocket.
You stumble in the direction you think is home, not feeling hungry but also not really satisfied, and somewhat sad about your fall into crispy temptation.
congratulations, you’ve earned your Crown my prince.