Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

KFC (The Pack; Poofless-ish)

If you have any triggers, please don't read this one-shot. This story is very, very loosely based on "The Fast Food Song" by the Fast Food Rockers (see above).

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It's been a while since Benj and I have had the boys down to Florida for a long weekend of food, fun, ping pong, and poking Mitch. Damn, when you stop to think about it, it's been way too long. A couple of months now, right? Time flies when you're flying halfway around the world every month and runnin' around like a fuckin' maniac every day to get videos up on time. I've been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along for a while now and I ain't just gonna let it pass me by, not when Preston managed to drag Choco along for the ride. Things couldn't be more perfect.

Noochems couldn't make it this time - not with that car repair bill of his. And Icky Vikky's at some overnight psycho Brit game convention with the Sidemen so he won't be coming. That means Lachy and Pressy are the only ones who might cause a little bit o' trouble. I think Lachlan has an idea about what goes on around here after hours. He just pretends he's playing Five Nights at Freddy's and stays in his room after ten at night. That leaves Preston. If he finds out the truth, he better hope Rob can get a hold on him before he does somethin' stupid. Heh, then again, when doesn't Preston do something stupid? Speaking of stupid...

"Hey, Chocobocoloco! Wanna come take a ride with me? I've got candy." I peer into the living room to see Choco chillin' on the couch, watching the other four squabble like little kids over the two PS4 controllers. That'll keep 'em busy for a couple hours. He looks up at me and back at them before giving a dramatic sigh and getting up to follow me out to the garage. If they managed to get on his nerves, you know it's gotta be bad. I stand to the side to let him pass and glance back at the other four one last time. It doesn't look like any of 'em noticed he left. Perfect.

"So where are we headed, good sir?" I grab my car keys off of the table by the garage and unlock the door, holding it open for him to pass. He doesn't have a clue.

"I need to get some chicken for dinner. You know what Mama Bac always says: it's only good if you can still hear it screamin'." I unlock the car doors and he heads over to the passenger side of my car, not even bothering to look back to see where I am. And they said he was smart!

"Mitch said something about-" He doesn't get a chance to finish - he's already down on the ground before his hand reaches the door. I prop the dented baseball bat back up against the wall and grab the peeling knife out of my pocket, plunging it into the side of his neck before he has the chance to wake up and start screechin'. The things a Bac's gotta do to make a nice dinner for his friends...

It takes a couple minutes to drag him over to the plastic tarp on the other side of the car and clean up the miniscule trail of blood dripping from the hole in his neck. At least he didn't suffer. You've gotta give me that much. Not a lotta people would understand, but they can't say I'm cruel. With that in mind, this isn't just any ol' chicken we're making here today. Nah, we're making Kentucky Fried Chocobo, fresh outta the plane. You can practically smell the Fresca and the little bags of airline peanuts on him. Now that's quality!

I cut off his clothes and get to work, pulling on my butcher's gloves and my gas mask before I grab Betty from her perfectly centered spot on the wall, gettin' ready to start carving up the beautiful bird. Wouldn't wanna get caught red-handed if Pressy did somethin' stupid. I set up my two steel bins: one cleaned and ready for the good cuts, and the other halfway full of pure hydrochloric acid to take care of the bones and the grody bits. No one wants chunks of mush or pieces of gristle in their chicken strips. That's just nasty.

It takes about half an hour to get everything prepared and cleaned up, and I toss the tarp and the rest of the bloody tidbits in the acid vat and listen to it sizzle while I dig out the funnel Mitch hid behind the mounds of boxes from the move. I line up a row of empty glass liquor bottles and carefully pour the liquid slime into 'em through the funnel. The acid can't eat through the glass. I top 'em all off with glass corks and put 'em in a plastic trash bag I gently bury at the bottom of the trash can with my blood-stained butcher's gloves. This ain't my first rodeo, kids. Now let's get this bird cookin' and shakin'.