I swear Officer, she was dead when I found her. Over by the docks (The Ferry Building Farmer's Market, specifically). She was lying face down in a box of ice, wrapped in a plastic bag, naked and drained of blood. Poor Bird. If a crime has been committed here, it has been a crime of passion. When I am done disposing of the body, you will find her stripped bones in a compost heap."
I might possibly contract chickenella, or end up cooking some of the bits that weren't supposed to make the cut, as it were. It won't be the first recipe I have butchered, and most certainly not the last, but it will be the first chicken.
I like to take pictures, see, of the bodies. After pulling their guts out and breaking their joints, I cut them, with almost surgical precision (almost). I ritually soak them in salt water and anoint them with olive oil and precious herbs. Then I make them burn. Or at least brown to a golden finish. It makes me want to eat them. With potatoes.
Stop me before I cook again.
