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Chicken Shack
by Bill White



I live in grease.

Standing, hands furiously scratching my swollen member, staring intently at acne swelling my face, cheeks, chin.


New found knowledge, maybe old, tripping over the dog half kicking her on the way over. Arrogant fury for such a trivial annoyance.

I pick up my work clothes, buttery grime of cooked chicken corpses, not corroding, but infusing. Once they’re on it takes time to adjust.


Black Jeans, tight. I borrowed them from a metal head friend, (I procrastinated getting work pants until the day of) they didn’t fit him in high school. They didn’t fit me now.



Thirty five tries to get the car started. It may just be a good day after all. I speed down the drive way with a tenacity known only to college football players warped into a steroid bender in front of a pussy buffet.

Total disregard for public safety. Death of a civilian would keep me from quartering chickens for ten hours.

I scanned the neighborhood for prospective kills.


Not even a dog or at least a small child. Yuppie scumbags. Valium and Scotch enclosed in a Visa Platinum picket fence. Fuckers.

Here I was living in grease.



The toll of labor. I entered the Chicken Shack. The sign on the front overhang only had five working letters. It really said:


There were many jokes about this subject. None of them were funny.

Slam through the door like a mother-fucking bad ass! My blue Chicken Shack shirt (also too small) slung over my shoulder. I hadn’t bothered to put it on yet. Drove my boss fuckin’ nuts.

I did it every day.

Made it a point to slap the heels of my big-ass black combat boots on the tile floor as I made my way across the dining room, turning the heads of patrons scarfin’ down slimy wads of chicken skin and instant mash potatoes.

They didn’t think I was very “bad ass”.




Past the cashiers and into the kitchen. Swinging open the door let the steam rush out and slapped your face like an obese woman fuming about her last Twinkie.

Everything coated in a thick greasy paint, timers blaring, Ritchie scrubbing pots over a steaming sink.

Vicious cycle: Ritchie fills sinks with boiling water. Ritchie leans over steaming sink to wash pots. Steam rises into Ritchie. Ritchie pours sweat into sinks.

Vicious cycle no. 2: Ritchie gets bored washing pots. Ritchie goes into bathroom to masturbate. Ejaculates on floor. Goes back to pots without cleaning up ejaculated semen.

Ritchie was a little slow.

In the shit now. Five steamers going, two ovens, giant goddamned vat of instant mash potatoes. My manager, Dan, enters kitchen unbeknownst to me.

“Jimmy! Stop eating the fucking corn bread!”

“Fuck Dan, sorry man.”

“I need you out in front quartering chickens.”



Patrons whirl around me in a frenzy as I stand, looming over charred carcasses of once cheerful chickens.


Hector stumbles through the front door. Hectors’ story is short: Crack-head.

note: (Crack-heads are always good for a laugh.)

My manager, Dan, comes back to tell us all Luther is coming, and we better not be fucking around. Luther is the owner. Luther hates Hector. Hector hates Luther.

I waited.

Quartering chickens is the main reason for living in grease. Standing over oily, fatty steam for hours on end. It slithered into your pores, forming zits, on top of zits, on top of…

I looked like the last person you would want to serve you dinner. No one seemed to mind.



Three hours and twenty-seven seconds later, Luther is here, with his son. Luther’s son is some sort of local baseball hero. He is also a tremendous dick to anyone who works at the Chicken Shack. Especially me.

Luther is in the background pointing out to Dan all the things that are currently pissing him off. It seems to be a long list and I actually begin to empathize. Luther’s son is in front of me with the Devils’ grin. He thinks my job is funny. He thinks my life is funny. He thinks living in grease is funny.

He speaks.

“Give me a quarter chicken, dark…No wait…Make it a quarter white…No wait, wait…I’ll just take a half.”

I cut the chicken. Place it on a serving plate.

“Yeah, ya know, I think I’ll just have a chicken sandwich instead.”

I hold my stare before turning to let him know that I am fully aware that he is fucking with me. His grin widens. I ask him what kind of roll he would like.

“What kind of roll would you like?”


I slice a wheat roll.

“Nah, you better make it white.”

Veins begin to kick through my skin, temperature of my blood is now rising rapidly. I struggle to maintain.

“You want anything on that?”

“What are my choices chicken-boy?”

Swinging around rabidly, I face my attacker.

“Look mother-fucker, I don’t need any fuckin’ shi-“

Interrupted by a lone wail from the kitchen, Luther’s Mongoloid son and myself turn to see Ritchie storming out of the kitchen followed by Hector. Hector has a pan of freshly steamed mash potatoes hung directly below his zipper. The head of his long brown member, is dipped in the steaming taters. Apparently, he has a message for Luther.

“Luther! Luther! For $4.25, you can suck my mutha’-fuckin’ dick!”

A second cry is heard, now from the ladies’ room. A woman comes floundering out, shrieking in horror, holding her right hand in front of her. A long milky stream of jizz is sliding off her fingers and on to the blue tile floor. Ritchie see this, and letting out his own horrid bellow, begins to slap the woman violently about the face.

Luther and company stand dumbfounded.

I clench the rubber handle of the quartering knife and head up over the counter, my sights intent on Luther’s son’s neck.


Let ‘em all live in grease.



About the Author

Bill White lives in Orange County, NY where he is a local writer, painter, and musician. His words are as bold as his personality. Sarcasm and cynicism rabidly run through his veins. A result of bitter experience. Fare thee well.