by Bill White
I live in grease.
Standing, hands furiously scratching
my swollen member, staring intently at acne swelling
my face, cheeks, chin.
New found knowledge, maybe old, tripping
over the dog half kicking her on the way over. Arrogant
fury for such a trivial annoyance.
I pick up my work clothes, buttery grime
of cooked chicken corpses, not corroding, but infusing.
Once theyre on it takes time to adjust.
Black Jeans, tight. I borrowed them
from a metal head friend, (I procrastinated getting
work pants until the day of) they didnt fit
him in high school. They didnt fit me now.
Thirty five tries to get the car started.
It may just be a good day after all. I speed down
the drive way with a tenacity known only to college
football players warped into a steroid bender in front
of a pussy buffet.
Total disregard for public safety. Death
of a civilian would keep me from quartering chickens
for ten hours.
I scanned the neighborhood for prospective
Not even a dog or at least a small child.
Yuppie scumbags. Valium and Scotch enclosed in a Visa
Platinum picket fence. Fuckers.
Here I was living in grease.
The toll of labor. I entered the Chicken
Shack. The sign on the front overhang only had five
working letters. It really said:
There were many jokes about this subject.
None of them were funny.
Slam through the door like a mother-fucking
bad ass! My blue Chicken Shack shirt (also too small)
slung over my shoulder. I hadnt bothered to
put it on yet. Drove my boss fuckin nuts.
I did it every day.
Made it a point to slap the heels of
my big-ass black combat boots on the tile floor as
I made my way across the dining room, turning the
heads of patrons scarfin down slimy wads of
chicken skin and instant mash potatoes.
They didnt think I was very bad
Past the cashiers and into the kitchen.
Swinging open the door let the steam rush out and
slapped your face like an obese woman fuming about
her last Twinkie.
Everything coated in a thick greasy
paint, timers blaring, Ritchie scrubbing pots over
a steaming sink.
Vicious cycle: Ritchie fills sinks with
boiling water. Ritchie leans over steaming sink to
wash pots. Steam rises into Ritchie. Ritchie pours
sweat into sinks.
Vicious cycle no. 2: Ritchie gets bored
washing pots. Ritchie goes into bathroom to masturbate.
Ejaculates on floor. Goes back to pots without cleaning
up ejaculated semen.
Ritchie was a little slow.
In the shit now. Five steamers going,
two ovens, giant goddamned vat of instant mash potatoes.
My manager, Dan, enters kitchen unbeknownst to me.
Jimmy! Stop eating the fucking
Fuck Dan, sorry man.
I need you out in front quartering
Patrons whirl around me in a frenzy
as I stand, looming over charred carcasses of once
Hector stumbles through the front door.
Hectors story is short: Crack-head.
note: (Crack-heads are always good for
My manager, Dan, comes back to tell
us all Luther is coming, and we better not be fucking
around. Luther is the owner. Luther hates Hector.
Hector hates Luther.
Quartering chickens is the main reason
for living in grease. Standing over oily, fatty steam
for hours on end. It slithered into your pores, forming
zits, on top of zits, on top of
I looked like the last person you would
want to serve you dinner. No one seemed to mind.
Three hours and twenty-seven seconds
later, Luther is here, with his son. Luthers
son is some sort of local baseball hero. He is also
a tremendous dick to anyone who works at the Chicken
Shack. Especially me.
Luther is in the background pointing
out to Dan all the things that are currently pissing
him off. It seems to be a long list and I actually
begin to empathize. Luthers son is in front
of me with the Devils grin. He thinks my job
is funny. He thinks my life is funny. He thinks living
in grease is funny.
Give me a quarter chicken, dark
Make it a quarter white
No wait, wait
just take a half.
I cut the chicken. Place it on a serving
Yeah, ya know, I think Ill
just have a chicken sandwich instead.
I hold my stare before turning to let
him know that I am fully aware that he is fucking
with me. His grin widens. I ask him what kind of roll
he would like.
What kind of roll would you like?
I slice a wheat roll.
Nah, you better make it white.
Veins begin to kick through my skin,
temperature of my blood is now rising rapidly. I struggle
You want anything on that?
What are my choices chicken-boy?
Swinging around rabidly, I face my attacker.
Look mother-fucker, I dont
need any fuckin shi-
Interrupted by a lone wail from the
kitchen, Luthers Mongoloid son and myself turn
to see Ritchie storming out of the kitchen followed
by Hector. Hector has a pan of freshly steamed mash
potatoes hung directly below his zipper. The head
of his long brown member, is dipped in the steaming
taters. Apparently, he has a message for Luther.
Luther! Luther! For $4.25, you
can suck my mutha-fuckin dick!
A second cry is heard, now from the
ladies room. A woman comes floundering out,
shrieking in horror, holding her right hand in front
of her. A long milky stream of jizz is sliding off
her fingers and on to the blue tile floor. Ritchie
see this, and letting out his own horrid bellow, begins
to slap the woman violently about the face.
Luther and company stand dumbfounded.
I clench the rubber handle of the quartering
knife and head up over the counter, my sights intent
on Luthers sons neck.
Let em all live in grease.
About the Author
Bill White lives in Orange County, NY
where he is a local writer, painter, and musician.
His words are as bold as his personality. Sarcasm
and cynicism rabidly run through his veins. A result
of bitter experience. Fare thee well.