“Tyreece, you bitch,” screams the grit-mouthed juice sucker through a set of lips all nicotine-stained and stinking of the night and the day after. Stink like night and stink like day and it all wells up like a great reeking bath of death and life rolled into one. “Tyreece, you dumb bitch, you gotta' throw me the car keys. Don't you know that?” Head is pounding from all of the night but the day is here, don't ever forget it.
Tyreece leans out the door, wearing just a towel and fuzzy slippers and a familial set of lips with the same stains and the same stink of night and day and a heart all dropped and rolled around in the flour of passion that turns into hate that turns into violence when that floured-up heart hits a pan full of hot oil. Fry that sucker up and force-feed it to that asshole, thinks Tyreece. Shove it down his throat when he yells at me like that. Fry it up all good and hot in all that good hot oil, get it nice and crispy, the way he likes it. Shake a load of salt on it too. Shove that damned floured and fried heart, shove it whole. Shove it down his throat. Choke the bastard on that heart – hold it right in my fist and shove it down his stinking hole. Past those nicotine-stained lips, into that grit-mouth and right down his pipe. Shove it like a great big deep-fried and over-salted chicken, a whole chicken, hot and crispy, the way he likes it.
Shove that fried-up, over-salted heart right down his throat, over-fried and over-salted so that in case the choking don't get him then at least the oil might give him a heart attack or the salt might send his blood pressure through the roof, shooting blood right out of his melon like crude oil out of the top of an oil well, like we saw on TV. Something's got to get him.
And just watch that big bastard choke on that fried-up, over-salted heart. Watch his eyes bug out of his head as he struggles to get some breath. Listen to his dry heaves as your balled-up fist triggers his gag reflex. And those veins in his neck start to bulge, until his eyes and his veins make him look like something out of that cartoon, like we saw on TV. That should do it.
Watch him flop around on the gravel of the driveway, scrpaing the back of his bald head on the little stones and leaving little bits of skin and smears of blood on the dry gravel. Feels good, doesn't it? See that big old deep-fried and over-salted heart stick like a whole fried chicken in his throat, all balled up and making a big sickly bulge in his fatty neck; balled up and swollen – like a python swallowing a baby goat, like we saw on TV.
Tyreece throws the keys to the grit-mouthed juice sucker. “Have a good day, honey,” she calls out.
“And I want damn fried chicken tonight,” he shouts before he closes the car door.
You'll get your damn fried chicken.