The eleven herbs and spices had become a major concern for the government. To put it plainly: they didn't like being in the dark on shit. Any shit, much less a fast food sensation such as this one. The Colonel would be ousted, and during a time of national mourning, the powers above would slide their way in and take the franchise by the reins. The Making Chicken Great Again banners and pins were already in production.
* * *
The CIA contacted you through the usual channels with instructions on money and weapons and when and where. Reagan would announce on a public broadcast a National Day of Fried Chicken & It's Affiliates in the coming weeks. It would be the first and last of its kind.
You had a tight group of operatives running this thing, and on your side of things the orchestration was to a T. That T was trauma causing death by organ failure, accidental enough not to raise eyebrows, but graphic and enough of a public spectacle that it would leave the nation paralyzed with horror. It would be relayed by future generations across telepathic media airways, that frail aging body squashed under a massive bucket of fiberglass chicken bearing his own grinning facade. His head gushing blood from every hole, his protruding polished boot throwing sunlight across the crowd with the final twitches of his lower extremities. You had the wiring all sweet. You had the low profile explosive charges. But when you don't work alone someone always fucks it up.
The Colonel had more bodyguards than anyone could have anticipated. And they seemed to come out of nowhere, but more accurately the float itself rode atop a bullet proof limo filled to the brim with his own private mercenaries. Maybe he'd caught wind of this strike against him. Maybe he was just a paranoid old coot. Not surprisingly you found yourself the last of your men left alive as you took shelter inside a foam Gravy Boat and fired the last rounds from your side piece. They returned fire with automatic weapons and you found yourself truly outclassed, with no choice but to take down as many as possible as they filled your body with magazine after magazine. You killed nine of them, including one that was drowned in a puddle of your own blood.
You had a tight group of operatives running this thing, and on your side of things the orchestration was to a T. That T was trauma causing death by organ failure, accidental enough not to raise eyebrows, but graphic and enough of a public spectacle that it would leave the nation paralyzed with horror. It would be relayed by future generations across telepathic media airways, that frail aging body squashed under a massive bucket of fiberglass chicken bearing his own grinning facade. His head gushing blood from every hole, his protruding polished boot throwing sunlight across the crowd with the final twitches of his lower extremities. You had the wiring all sweet. You had the low profile explosive charges. But when you don't work alone someone always fucks it up.
The Colonel had more bodyguards than anyone could have anticipated. And they seemed to come out of nowhere, but more accurately the float itself rode atop a bullet proof limo filled to the brim with his own private mercenaries. Maybe he'd caught wind of this strike against him. Maybe he was just a paranoid old coot. Not surprisingly you found yourself the last of your men left alive as you took shelter inside a foam Gravy Boat and fired the last rounds from your side piece. They returned fire with automatic weapons and you found yourself truly outclassed, with no choice but to take down as many as possible as they filled your body with magazine after magazine. You killed nine of them, including one that was drowned in a puddle of your own blood.
* * *
You were as dangerous dead as you were alive, since you had amassed intel on hundreds of covert ops and the CIA weren't taking any chances. They firebombed dozens of houses that they believed may have belonged to you, although most of them were places being rented by women you had dated in college. The rest were crack houses frequented by your long lost twin brother who incidently died from electrocution after attempting to unload a faulty crack house washing machine.
They also took your dog Sputnik and removed a portion of his brain for analysis after a video surveylance team recorded you supposedly teaching the animal to communicate by barking in morse code, when all you were really doing was trying to surprise your girlfriend by teaching him to bark in time with Lost in Love by Air Supply.
They also took your dog Sputnik and removed a portion of his brain for analysis after a video surveylance team recorded you supposedly teaching the animal to communicate by barking in morse code, when all you were really doing was trying to surprise your girlfriend by teaching him to bark in time with Lost in Love by Air Supply.
