Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Finger-Licking God

The weary traveler pulls into the cracked and craggeled grounds of the Colonel’s temple of sacrifice. Peckish, perhaps even famined, he lowers the glass barrier of the vehicle door to beg to the electric gods.

Pictographs depicting desecrated corpses of fowl, buckets of flesh and bone, vegetation obliterated and slathered in the rendered paste of the dead enshrine tablets of metal and polycarbonate. The grotesque display terrifies the poor traveler, but his stomach grumbles in pain.

His voice trembles as he beseeches the gods: “Do… Do you have chicken sandwiches?” He shoves his digits into his mouth and bites at his nails, scraping away dirt and debris with every nibble.

“We have chicken littles,” the tone croaks in an almost human voice. The travelers teeth draw blood.

He fears his question has angered them, but he can’t turn back now. His hunger too strong, he must make this plea work. “I’ll just have a bucket… of chicken.”

They hear his request and pause before saying anything. He licks the blood off his fingers before it drips onto his hand. “What would you like to drink?”

The traveler has had nothing but water for what seems like a lifetime. His mind wanders back to his youth when the harsh bubbles of Coke hit his tongue for the first time on a hot summer morning. “I’ll have a Coca-Cola.”

“WE HAVE PEPSI,” it responds.

The memories of a time before the bitterness of the Earth had eroded its way to the surface must have clouded his judgment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. A Pepsi is fine,” he grovels.

Another pause draws more blood from his gnarled phalanges. “Pull forward for your total.” The last request from the metal voice. He must now face the things that should not be.

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