It’s The Little Things

The dumpster behind the KFC was the best; she could hop in under the closed half around 10 when the drive in slowed, and then the last of everything went into the open half around 1030. Hot leftover chicken, potatoes, gravy, drippings, mac and cheese — it was all warm and it made the cold recede a bit. Plus, chicken. The newer franchises did roaster chickens, halves tucked in to those paper cartons with biscuits and sides, and when those ended up in the dumpster it was like heaven.

She knew where to shove her thumbs and peel out the gelled marrow from the split pelvic bones; she ate that first and then moved on to the rest of the feast. The only problem was getting back out when it was all over–she was usually filthy with grease, and it made climbing difficult. Still, the joy of a full belly outweighed the irritation; she was drawn back there, night after night, to make the same pilgrimage; it was the only constant, now. The only good thing.

That, and the fact that the rendered chicken fat made her skin fantastically soft.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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