Kentucky Fried Chicken

Kentucky Fried Chicken
By IceMan

>Day 11 herbs and spices in Equestria.
>You are Colonel Anonymous, a master chef of Southern cuisine, especially for your famous fried chicken.
>Unfortunately, the ponies around here won’t let you use any of their succulent, fat poultry for any form of food.
>Damn vegan hippies.
>They always ruin blessed nations with their “animal rights” and “non-GMOs” and their “anti-DDT laws.”
>But, having spoken of your master dish for over a year now, Pinkie Pie was dying to try it out, despite her normal reluctance for consuming meat.
>Now, all you have to do is acquire a chicken.
>You march up to Fluttershy’s in your overalls and plaid button-up shirt, hoping the quiet yellow pegasus just happens to be out.
>You sneak behind the chicken coop, but, by the ungraciousness of the Almighty, Fluttershy is there, tending to her flock with a bag of bread crumbs.
>You’re almost certain she can just sense you coming, and she’d probably notice if one of her hens go missing.
>So, you trudge back to town, hoping to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve tofu.
>You fucking hate tofu.
>Food of the Devil himself it is.
>You don’t want to give Pinkie Pie such a disgusting blasphemy against good eats in place of the real deal of soft, juicy chicken.
>As you walk home, mulling over your predicament in your slow-moving mind, you accidentally kick a small orange pegasus.
>“Hey, watch where you’re going buddy!” Scootaloo shouts from her position sprawled on the dry dirt road.
“Sorry, missy. Didn’t see ya there.”
>She glares at you for a bit, but then softens.
>“It’s okay, Anon. Just... be a little more careful, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”
>You slowly scan over body of the petite creature.
>She has just enough meat on her... no, no, NO!
>You are not killing harmless sentient creatures just for...
>But what if she tastes... even better... fried in vegetable oil.
 >You’ve never had horse meat before, but if there is one scientific rule you follow other than the Ten Commandments, it is that everything is better fried.
>Everything.
>“Anon, why are you licking your lips?” Scootaloo asks.
“I’m not. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
>Gears begin to clear off the cobwebs.
“Say, in apology for kickin’ ya, why don’cha come back to my house and I’ll make ya some fresh cornbread?”
>Your cornbread is the second best dish you can make, and everyone in town has tasted its deliciousness at the Summer Sun Festival and other holidays.
>“You’d do that for me, Anon?” Scootaloo asks.
“It’s nothin’. Anythin’ to make up for kickin’ ya.”
>Scootaloo grins.
“Come by my house in ‘bout an hour, and I’ll have it ready for ya.”
>You pull out all the ingredients and a big metal mixing bowl, and begin pouring corn flour, sugar, eggs, milk, and butter into it.
>Meanwhile you boil an ear of corn in a pot and cut off all the kernels, placing them in the bowl.
>You pour the batter in the pan and place the pan in the oven to bake.
>In no time at all, you have the corn bread that won the county fair for 8 years straight.
>Supposedly it was brought down from your great great-granpappy who served in the Civil War, or at least that’s what granma said.
>Whatever its history, it was the best.
>You set it out to cool on the window sill, letting the delicious corny odor waft out over the town.
>“I... I can have the whole pan?” Scootaloo asks once she arrives.
>You merely nod and cut her a slice.
>Horse meat could work as an excellent chicken substitute, but this one is going to need a little more meat on her bones, so to speak.
>Scrawny as a starving cow, this one is.
>Granma wouldn’t stand for it; she’d be nagging this one all the time.
>And so begins your master plan.
>It’s not the Manhattan Project, but you think it’s pretty good.
>You start frequently bumping into Scootaloo, or just being friendly and asking her over for lunch.
>Her parents, if she even has any, don’t seem to mind.
>And, little by little, she grows ready for slaughter.
>The day finally arrives.
>After accidentally tripping the now-obese pegasus for the fifteenth time that month, you ask Scootaloo over for some cornbread that night.
>You also sharpened your meat cleaver last night.
>“This might be... munch munch... the best batch of cornbread you ever made, Anon!” Scootaloo exclaims between bites.
“I sure darn hope it is,” you reply, wiping off the blade of your knife.
>Just one quick slice, and it will all be over.
>You tie an apron around your stomach and raise the blade over Scootaloo’s neck.
>Like a guillotine, you slice the young pegasus’s head clean off.
>She doesn’t even have time to scream.
>A fountain of crimson blood spews onto the kitchen table.
>You’ll have to mop that up later.
>And dispose of the table cloth, now stained bright red.
>You grab a shovel from your closet and begin digging a hole in the blackest corner of your backyard to dump the waste body parts in.
>The inky darkness hides your dirty deeds from any unwanted observers.
>Can’t have anyone finding out you murdered an innocent filly, no-siree.
>You then get to work cleaning the corpse like your dad, an avid hunter, bless his soul, taught you.
>You cut open the ribcage and scoop out the internal organs, then throw them in the hole.
>After that, you carefully cut the pegasus’s skin off and throw it in the hole.
>Finally, you start cutting off good bits of bloody meat, placing them on a wooden cutting board for now.
>Even in her obese form, little Scootaloo didn’t have that much meat on her.
>You could have gone for a bigger pony, but they might not have been as easy to fool.
>Not that you ever considered yourself particularly clever anyways.
>Your string of straight Cs in school attests to that.
>You’re still wondering how you got this plan to work.
>With the corpse picked clean of any edible meat, you dispose of the bones and the table cloth and cover the hole with dirt.
>You place all the meat in the freezer for tomorrow.
>Pinkie is coming over for dinner, and you told her to bring friends for the first batch of your world-famous fried chicken made in Equestria.
>The next day, you make two mixtures: one of buttermilk, eggs, cornstarch, pepper, and salt; and the other of flour and your secret blend of herbs and spices.
>The blend has been a family secret passed down from father to son for generations, never spoken of outside the family kitchen, and kept in a locked box in the master bedroom of your family mansion back on Earth.
>Fortunately, you have it memorized.
>You chop up the horse meat into smaller parts, then begin dipping it first in the wet mixture, then in the dry mixture.
>It all goes in a skillet of hot vegetable oil to fry.
>Once the meat is golden brown, you set it on a plate covered with a paper towel to cool.
>You pick up one of the flaky pieces and take a bite.
>It tastes exactly like the fried chicken you made back on Earth, right down to the texture.
>Not a minute after, you hear a knock at the door, and receive your guests.
>Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie (Fluttershy was defiant about eating any of her animal friends) sit around the table as you reveal the steaming chicken with a flourish.
>“That looks delicious, Anonymous,” Pinkie Pie says.
“Dig in, everyone. There’s plenty more.”
>“Hey, has anyone seen Scootaloo today? Anonymous, I know you’ve been hanging out with her. Have you seen her?” Rainbow Dash asks.
“Nope. Haven’t seen her lately.”
>Today was a finger-lickin’ good day.