Kentucky Fried Chicken

Kentucky Fried Chicken

By IceMan

 

>Day 11 herbs and spices in Equestria.

>You are Colonel Anonymous, a master chef of Southern cuisine, especially for your famous fried chicken.

>Unfortunately, the ponies around here won’t let you use any of their succulent, fat poultry for any form of food.

>Damn vegan hippies.

>They always ruin blessed nations with their “animal rights” and “non-GMOs” and their “anti-DDT laws.”

>But, having spoken of your master dish for over a year now, Pinkie Pie was dying to try it out, despite her normal reluctance for consuming meat.

>Now, all you have to do is acquire a chicken.

>You march up to Fluttershy’s in your overalls and plaid button-up shirt, hoping the quiet yellow pegasus just happens to be out.

>You sneak behind the chicken coop, but, by the ungraciousness of the Almighty, Fluttershy is there, tending to her flock with a bag of bread crumbs.

>You’re almost certain she can just sense you coming, and she’d probably notice if one of her hens go missing.

>So, you trudge back to town, hoping to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve tofu.

>You fucking hate tofu.

>Food of the Devil himself it is.

>You don’t want to give Pinkie Pie such a disgusting blasphemy against good eats in place of the real deal of soft, juicy chicken.

>As you walk home, mulling over your predicament in your slow-moving mind, you accidentally kick a small orange pegasus.

>“Hey, watch where you’re going buddy!” Scootaloo shouts from her position sprawled on the dry dirt road.

“Sorry, missy. Didn’t see ya there.”

>She glares at you for a bit, but then softens.

>“It’s okay, Anon. Just . . . be a little more careful, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

>You slowly scan over body of the petite creature.

>She has just enough meat on her . . . no, no, NO!

>You are not killing harmless sentient creatures just for . . .

>But what if she tastes . . . even better . . . fried in vegetable oil.

 >You’ve never had horse meat before, but if there is one scientific rule you follow other than the Ten Commandments, it is that everything is better fried.

>Everything.

>“Anon, why are you licking your lips?” Scootaloo asks.

“I’m not. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

>Gears begin to clear off the cobwebs.

“Say, in apology for kickin’ ya, why don’cha come back to my house and I’ll make ya some fresh cornbread?”

>Your cornbread is the second best dish you can make, and everyone in town has tasted its deliciousness at the Summer Sun Festival and other holidays.

>“You’d do that for me, Anon?” Scootaloo asks.

“It’s nothin’. Anythin’ to make up for kickin’ ya.”

>Scootaloo grins.

“Come by my house in ‘bout an hour, and I’ll have it ready for ya.”

>You pull out all the ingredients and a big metal mixing bowl, and begin pouring corn flour, sugar, eggs, milk, and butter into it.

>Meanwhile you boil an ear of corn in a pot and cut off all the kernels, placing them in the bowl.

>You pour the batter in the pan and place the pan in the oven to bake.

>In no time at all, you have the corn bread that won the county fair for 8 years straight.

>Supposedly it was brought down from your great great-granpappy who served in the Civil War, or at least that’s what granma said.

>Whatever its history, it was the best.

>You set it out to cool on the window sill, letting the delicious corny odor waft out over the town.

>“I . . . I can have the whole pan?” Scootaloo asks once she arrives.

>You merely nod and cut her a slice.

>Horse meat could work as an excellent chicken substitute, but this one is going to need a little more meat on her bones, so to speak.

>Scrawny as a starving cow, this one is.

>Granma wouldn’t stand for it; she’d be nagging this one all the time.

>And so begins your master plan.

>It’s not the Manhattan Project, but you think it’s pretty good.

>You start frequently bumping into Scootaloo, or just being friendly and asking her over for lunch.

>Her parents, if she even has any, don’t seem to mind.

>And, little by little, she grows ready for slaughter.

>The day finally arrives.

>After accidentally tripping the now-obese pegasus for the fifteenth time that month, you ask Scootaloo over for some cornbread that night.

>You also sharpened your meat cleaver last night.

>“This might be . . . munch munch . . . the best batch of cornbread you ever made, Anon!” Scootaloo exclaims between bites.

“I sure darn hope it is,” you reply, wiping off the blade of your knife.

>Just one quick slice, and it will all be over.

>You tie an apron around your stomach and raise the blade over Scootaloo’s neck.

>Like a guillotine, you slice the young pegasus’s head clean off.

>She doesn’t even have time to scream.

>A fountain of crimson blood spews onto the kitchen table.

>You’ll have to mop that up later.

>And dispose of the table cloth, now stained bright red.

>You grab a shovel from your closet and begin digging a hole in the blackest corner of your backyard to dump the waste body parts in.

>The inky darkness hides your dirty deeds from any unwanted observers.

>Can’t have anyone finding out you murdered an innocent filly, no-siree.

>You then get to work cleaning the corpse like your dad, an avid hunter, bless his soul, taught you.

>You cut open the ribcage and scoop out the internal organs, then throw them in the hole.

>After that, you carefully cut the pegasus’s skin off and throw it in the hole.

>Finally, you start cutting off good bits of bloody meat, placing them on a wooden cutting board for now.

>Even in her obese form, little Scootaloo didn’t have that much meat on her.

>You could have gone for a bigger pony, but they might not have been as easy to fool.

>Not that you ever considered yourself particularly clever anyways.

>Your string of straight Cs in school attests to that.

>You’re still wondering how you got this plan to work.

>With the corpse picked clean of any edible meat, you dispose of the bones and the table cloth and cover the hole with dirt.

>You place all the meat in the freezer for tomorrow.

>Pinkie is coming over for dinner, and you told her to bring friends for the first batch of your world-famous fried chicken made in Equestria.

>The next day, you make two mixtures: one of buttermilk, eggs, cornstarch, pepper, and salt; and the other of flour and your secret blend of herbs and spices.

>The blend has been a family secret passed down from father to son for generations, never spoken of outside the family kitchen, and kept in a locked box in the master bedroom of your family mansion back on Earth.

>Fortunately, you have it memorized.

>You chop up the horse meat into smaller parts, then begin dipping it first in the wet mixture, then in the dry mixture.

>It all goes in a skillet of hot vegetable oil to fry.

>Once the meat is golden brown, you set it on a plate covered with a paper towel to cool.

>You pick up one of the flaky pieces and take a bite.

>It tastes exactly like the fried chicken you made back on Earth, right down to the texture.

>Not a minute after, you hear a knock at the door, and receive your guests.

>Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie (Fluttershy was defiant about eating any of her animal friends) sit around the table as you reveal the steaming chicken with a flourish.

>“That looks delicious, Anonymous,” Pinkie Pie says.

“Dig in, everyone. There’s plenty more.”

>“Hey, has anyone seen Scootaloo today? Anonymous, I know you’ve been hanging out with her. Have you seen her?” Rainbow Dash asks.

“Nope. Haven’t seen her lately.”

>Today was a finger-lickin’ good day.