Deep fried


Colonel Sanders was fired late in the day. The official reason being that his business plan was antiquated, quaint, pointless. Truth be told, though, Colonel Sanders had taken against chicken. Never wanted to see another chicken again as long as he lived. He’d spent more than one horrible night in the slaughterhouses, up to his armpits in giblets and chicken feet. He began to have nightmares of claws and beaks and wattles flapping, gobbling in his face. Colonel Sanders was fried.

They owned his face, his image, his snowy white beard, his ice cream suit. Colonel Sanders was fried. His words clumped together like lumpy gravy, his thoughts were murky and thick with transfatty acids. He was no longer the glib young Kentucky boy with the way with the ladies, the smooth girlish skin, the seventh grade Casanova who even then had a dream of hot crunchy thighs.

Colonel Sanders was fried, searching his myelinated neurons for words like translucent, like persimmon, like blasphemy, like gelato. He was fried, like potato bits at the bottom of an unwashed frydaddy.

Mrs. Sanders took pity on him, gave him coleslaw in vinaigrette, dressed his grilled salmon in pesto, with shredded daikon and light dry whites. But it was too late. Colonel Sanders was fried, and then he was fired, and then he was retired, and then he died, and then he was cremated, and then he was sent up to foot-washing heaven, where he made his peace with the fast food gods and returned to his slow-cooking mother, with her bowls of grits and greens, and there he was able to rest honorably at last.

(Afterthought: this little piece was completed in 13 minutes, on my laptop. Funny what the brain can do with a deadline.) 

4 Responses to “Deep fried”

  1. 1 Tek September 1, 2006 at 8:21 am

    imagine that! you did, that was a very nice short

  2. 2 mothergoose September 1, 2006 at 3:14 pm

    Thanks, Tek. It was a fun write, and had that tasty poetry-slam rhythm when I read it for the group.

  3. 3 Kenny Mann July 6, 2008 at 4:07 am

    “…bits at the bottom of an unwashed frydaddy.” You know.

    I want to think this piece was a “living in the moment” moment for you.

    Maybe even The Colonel was lost in the moment when he came up with his lick-finger recipe, before he got it all franchise-ified.

    We could all use a moment like that on real regular basis, right?

    (BTW: Way back, some kids where I used to live kidnapped the four-foot-five-inch translucent plastic statue of Colonel Sanders out of one of the local places. Gotta wonder what kind of party they took him to.)

  4. 4 Teresa July 6, 2008 at 8:01 am

    “Living in the moment” indeed! Looking at the date (I posted it the day I wrote it), I see that I had just had surgery, quit my horrendously abusive university job, started my private practice and was wobbling about in a state of utter uncertainty about my life and future. The Colonel was fried, absolutely.

    Hey, I’ve been lurking around on your site, thinking about character and plot development. Thinking about longer work once again – short fiction is like breathing for me, but I keep getting drawn, at least desire-wise, to the goal of a full-length novel. For me, it’s the time and discpline aspect, you know? Well, and fear.

    Thank you, Kenny! I think I may have been at that party back with the Colonel back when.

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