“I suppose not,” drawled Col. Harlan Sanders. “The Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise will remain mine, as it should be.”
“So it would seem,” said Banknotes Harper. “Perhaps I’ll console myself by instead purchasing …”
Banknotes Harper stood, and his erection flipped the table. Colonel Sanders stood, too, flaccid as silly, floppy pancakes. “You wouldn’t dare,” Colonel Sanders trailed off.
“By purchasing, yep, every chicken in the world, ass-back,” thundered Banknotes Harper.
“No!” Pleaded Colonel Sanders.
Banknotes Harper buzzed his secretary. “Eunice, arrange to purchase all chickens everywhere. For lunch I’ll have some sirloins and then more sirloins.”
“Fuck-stick!” bellowed Colonel Sanders, as he brandished the pearl-handled .38 he’d been carrying in his sock.
Banknotes sprung into action, stripped nude and bounded across the tits-table. He disarmed Colonel Sanders with a textbook Krav Maga maneuver, and then landed a right cross on each of his teeth, individually. Colonel Sanders tumbled to the ground in a heap but quickly ate a bunch of chicken — the last bites of chicken that Banknotes Harper did not yet own (Eunice, moments ago, had buzzed him to say that the purchase order had gone through) — for nourishment. Colonel Sanders rose up with a huge gun and shot Banknotes Harper in the lungs and feet. Banknotes Harper then began punching the crap out of Colonel Sanders, who died.
Banknotes Harper then tied a Gadsden flag to his executive letter opener and planted it in Colonel Sanders’s forehead. It whipped in the indoor business breeze. Watching the whole time had been Barbi Benton. She was sitting on the Banknotes Harper Excalibur’s Choice Office SofaTM.
“Eunice,” Banknotes Harper said with his finger on the buzzer. “Hold those sirloins. I’m going to have sex. Give the chickens to the people.”
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