I just ate some fried chicken. The breasts were juicy, and the buns were soft
and warm.
Afterwards, the division manager of Popeyes came up to my table and
asked me how the meal was.I said I was satisfied, but the meal lacked a certain
je ne sais quoi.
He apologized profusely, and said he had something to show me
that would make up for it.
He lead me to the back of the popeyes, to a room soaked from floor to ceiling
in blood.
In the center of it was a live horse, chained by all four legs to the
structural supports of the warehouse like room.
As I watched, employees of the popeyes cut large sections from the horse, which
was whinneying and screaming in horror, the remaining sections of its body
covered with festering sores and a froth of sweat. The popeyes employees took the chunks of horseflesh and sliced them into
pieces, then they rooted around through the bags of trash
strewn around the
room to find discarded chicken bones. They quickly tenderized the meat with
sledgehammers and fed it into a machine which formed the horsemeat around the
bones,
then they breaded and deepfried it.
I asked the division manager why he had led me back to this place, and he
pointed at the steed's rump, the diseased asshole puckering rythmically
with terror, squirting pus with each convulsion. "We're just about to use that
section, would you like a crack at it first?"
I quickly unzipped my pants and wasted no time jamming my erect penis into the
stallion's defenseless asshole. With each thrust, I donkey punched the horse in
the back of the head, making it clench its ass even tighter. I came just as the
horse died. I was delighted. Popeyes definitely went the extra mile to make me
a satisfied customer.
Always nice to hear about excellent customer service, you can make a mean cup of broth from that froth.
