The Cook

“Maybe I c’n get the pastor over to your house too -- maybe some upset spirits got him all feisty ‘nd whatnot. Want me to hook you up, man?” he asked seriously, pulling his phone out now to text the exorcist before glan- cing up at Newt for confirmation.

“Boy, you can’t train a goddamn chicken. Have you trained yer cat to stop bein’ Lucifer incarnate? Best I can do is change the locks and hope she don’t pick them with her goddamn feathers I mean Jesus Christ...” he trailed off, mostly talking to himself by this point as he turns to put Maggie securely inside the house and making absolutely positive to shut the door tight behind him. “Nothin’ I can do if she walks through the goddamn walls or somethin’” he muttered, making his way back to where he was standing with Newt. “I need to get this house exorcised or somethin’, maybe a demon’s got a hold of Maggie or somethin’, I dunno man.”

Siggy leans against his porch railing as he waits for the track runner to get back. He still had no idea how she got out; maybe his ma had been leaving or somethin’ and left the door open too long or she was, in fact, a magic chicken that could teleport at random. Either theory seemed equally likely, as this was at least the fourth time this month this has happened. When Newt returns with his chicken, Fry stands to collect her and hugs her gently between his torso and the crook of his arm, shaking his head a little. “You call my chicken d-i-n-n-e-r again and I might just have to sic ‘er on you, you hear me?” He was joking, of course; Fry would likely cycle through threats until he stop- ped calling her food. He paused a moment, scratching the top of her head before looking back up at Newt, saying, “But hey, thanks man.”

“God dammit ---- Newt!” he called from the front porch of his house. Maggie must have gotten out again somehow and she was halfway down the street by the time he had noticed and hot damn she was moving fast. Fry would never understand why she liked running ar- ound so much when she was often content to sit in his lap watching TV or doing homework or something. “Newt, the chicken’s out again!” he continued cursing his pet under his breath as he waited for the other boy to get his damn skinny ass down here and get his chick- en god damn. Siggy was not a runner and Maggie would practically be Christmas dinner by the time he was able to catch up with her; Newt on the other hand -- that boy had some speed. And besides, this wasn’t the first time he’s had to recruit him in hopes of getting his pet back. “Newt, I swear to god...!”

“Listen!!” the cook shouted, balling his large hands into fists  at his side as his face flushed with heat, frustrated as all hell.  He didn’t get angry often, but when he did ----- ---- fucking hell,  you’d do well to let it blow over. “-- Listen to me, okay? You can’t  keep ignorin’ me like this!!” Siggy took a breath and found some  kind of calm, for the most part. “I know -- I know I ain’t as important  as some’a the others, but I got some ideas and it ain’t right’a you to  keep brushin’ me off like that, y’know??”

what in the fresh level of hell am i doin on this blog

Fry gave the Greenie a wide grin. “Sho’ did. Claimed you myself -- e’ry one else said yes, o’ course, so!! Anyway,      ----- you ready??”

“Well, you got’ta give ‘em mostly fillin’ foods, if you can -- potatoes,  nuts are always real helpful --- and then lots’o vegetables and fruit,  too, since that’s most all we got. Any Twinkies or whatever the Run- ners grab that don’t go bad -- we only give ‘em a few o’ those an’  save the rest for other days. Spread ‘em all out, you know? You get  good at it after a while; can pretty much go on sight.”

“Maybe if you can stop complainin’ and stallin’ for two seconds, we can,” he teased, smiling wide and starting up the stovetop. “Ready?”