Brad S on Nostr: Because this The Curious Case of Ye Cursed Chicken of One Thousand Nine Hundred and ...
Because this
The Curious Case of Ye Cursed Chicken of One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety-Two
Hark! Gather ye round, good folk, and hearken unto a most peculiar tale, one that did unfold in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and ninety-two, a year most strange and bewitched, indeed!
In a humble village where great merchants did peddle wares of most wondrous make—ye may know it by its common tongue as "Ye Olde Shopping Mall"—there dwelt a fair maiden, Gwen of House Foodcourt, who did labor at the hallowed establishment of Kentuckie Fried Fowl. Verily, she did serve crispy delights unto the masses, yet lo! There arose a most grievous misfortune upon her watch.
One fateful eve, as the great metal cauldron did bubble with oil hot as dragon’s breath, a single piece of fowl—golden, crisp, and of unknown enchantment—did leap from the fryer and land squarely upon the noble steed of Sir Ronald the Jester (a most feared and painted-faced lord of the rival House of McDonald).
“Zounds!” cried Sir Ronald, his crimson locks flowing wildly as he did flail. “This fowl doth attack me most foully!”
The chicken, possessed of great and wicked spirit, did not merely rest upon his saddle but did dance most maniacally, flipping and tumbling like an acrobat at King’s Faire. It leapt forth, striking yon villagers in the shins, its power unmatched. Women screamed, men gasped, and a child, barely of five winters, did point and cry, “’Tis the cursed chicken!”
Yea, the townsfolk did flee in terror, ere the enchanted fowl did wreak further havoc. And lo, in the end, it was Gwen of House Foodcourt who did step forth, brandishing her mighty slotted spoon, and with one mighty swat, she did smite the demon-nugget into yon fountain of coinage, whereupon it sank, cursed no more.
Thus, peace was restored, and the people of one thousand nine hundred and ninety-two did rejoice, for no further poultry of supernatural origins did arise. And from that day forth, whene’er a nugget doth leap from the fryer, the elders do whisper in hushed tones, “Beware, lest ye summon the Chicken of Chaos once more!”
Now, good gentles, go forth with this wisdom and beware ye all enchanted fowl!
The Curious Case of Ye Cursed Chicken of One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety-Two
Hark! Gather ye round, good folk, and hearken unto a most peculiar tale, one that did unfold in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and ninety-two, a year most strange and bewitched, indeed!
In a humble village where great merchants did peddle wares of most wondrous make—ye may know it by its common tongue as "Ye Olde Shopping Mall"—there dwelt a fair maiden, Gwen of House Foodcourt, who did labor at the hallowed establishment of Kentuckie Fried Fowl. Verily, she did serve crispy delights unto the masses, yet lo! There arose a most grievous misfortune upon her watch.
One fateful eve, as the great metal cauldron did bubble with oil hot as dragon’s breath, a single piece of fowl—golden, crisp, and of unknown enchantment—did leap from the fryer and land squarely upon the noble steed of Sir Ronald the Jester (a most feared and painted-faced lord of the rival House of McDonald).
“Zounds!” cried Sir Ronald, his crimson locks flowing wildly as he did flail. “This fowl doth attack me most foully!”
The chicken, possessed of great and wicked spirit, did not merely rest upon his saddle but did dance most maniacally, flipping and tumbling like an acrobat at King’s Faire. It leapt forth, striking yon villagers in the shins, its power unmatched. Women screamed, men gasped, and a child, barely of five winters, did point and cry, “’Tis the cursed chicken!”
Yea, the townsfolk did flee in terror, ere the enchanted fowl did wreak further havoc. And lo, in the end, it was Gwen of House Foodcourt who did step forth, brandishing her mighty slotted spoon, and with one mighty swat, she did smite the demon-nugget into yon fountain of coinage, whereupon it sank, cursed no more.
Thus, peace was restored, and the people of one thousand nine hundred and ninety-two did rejoice, for no further poultry of supernatural origins did arise. And from that day forth, whene’er a nugget doth leap from the fryer, the elders do whisper in hushed tones, “Beware, lest ye summon the Chicken of Chaos once more!”
Now, good gentles, go forth with this wisdom and beware ye all enchanted fowl!