Kentucky Fried

A sort of farcical story based on that recent news flash, 'KFC President Roger Eaton prepares to move Colonel Sanders' Recipe to New Security'. What would happen if two guys decided to steal the recipe?

 

I couldn’t believe myself when I found that I was actually across the road from the KFC headquarters, watching the Company President Roger Eaton and his security man walk towards the armored car, with a Beretta in my hand.

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it started—Rig had always hated Colonel Sanders, KFC and Kentucky since he claimed he was served fried rat-meat at a local KFC. So whenever he saw the bearded, drawling old colonel or smelled any of his fried chicken he scoffed and looked on in anger. I sincerely thought that it was just a joke, all of this disdain—and that was my biggest mistake.

This whole awful business really started for me a day ago. I was sitting on the edge of Rig’s mattress, determinedly playing a game of Super Smash Bros. Brawl with Rig’s marble-white Wii.

“KFC President Roger Eaton To Shore Up Security on the Original Colonel Sanders’ Recipe,” Rig commented, looking at the morning news.

“Darn! Sonic goes nasty when he gets enough kills,” I said, shaking my head.

“What if someone stole that recipe, I wonder,” I heard behind me.

I should have said no right then and there. But I didn’t.

“He’d make a fool of Eaton, KFC and probably most of America. Hey—which do you like better; Falco or Ganondorf?”

I heard Rig moving on the mattress behind me. He turned over as the news blared and whispered in my ear.

“Why don’t we do it?”

I still didn’t look at him. I was only half-conscious of what he was saying as I swung the rectangular controller around in a frantic motion. I sat back disappointed as the game went back to the main menu. I dropped the controller.

“I don’t know what kind of security they’re going to have on that little slip of paper and whatever else is in that case, but I can bet you Eaton doesn’t want to be the president to lose that. Uh-uh.”

“I know the security they have on it,” Rig replied quietly, dangerously, “it’s all over the news. It isn’t slight, but we could get it. I have a friend who works at the headquarters. She’s even talked to Eaton himself. She doesn’t know where the recipe is going, but she knows what time it’s leaving.”

I still didn’t realize his motives were serious. Though Rig had never given himself over to complete insincerity and jested about everything, he still made jokes here and there. Thus my guard was down; he lead me into a trap.

“Alright,” I said after a minute. I grinned at his face from where I was perched on the edge of his mattress. “What security have they got?”

“Two guards and a police detective in an armored car. The recipe is handcuffed to the detective’s hand.”

“So,” I replied, grinning, “we find a way to get at least the policeman out of the car, spray the scene with bullets, grab him by the wrist and make our getaway.”

“No, no,” Rig replied, “We shoot the handcuffs off and get rid of him.”

“Problem,” I said with a grunt, getting up from the floor. “I heard that the guy is Bo Dietl, a detective who’s written an autobiography and is pretty hardcore.”

“Just because he’s written an autobiography? He’s one man.”

I shrugged.

“When’s it leaving?” I asked, turning off the Wii.

“Tomorrow.”

“What about armaments?”

He stood up and walked over to his closet. Opening the door he reached in and grabbed out a semi-automatic pistol.

“A Beretta for you, a Beretta for me.” He tossed me the handgun.

I laughed as I caught it. I still believed it all to be a joke.

“Great.” I held the gun at arm’s length, sighting up the barrel.

“And I’ve got it all figured out.” He replied. “It’ll be easy.”

“What?”

“The heist. We’ll make away with the recipe and sell it on the black market or something.”

“Wait…” I began to have a feeling that he had been planning where I had been jesting. “Are you serious?”

He nodded at me.

 

And the next day I found myself in his Honda Civic, watching the KFC headquarters as the van pulled up.

“Here,” Rig said, handing me a pair of shades. “Put these on.”

He was already wearing a pair, so I took them disgustedly.

“The security van is bulletproof, but the windows probably aren’t,” he said, looking through his window and the electric fence.

“I must be crazy,” I replied, staring out the front windshield.

He paid no attention to my sentiment.

“The president’s leaving them; Dietl’s getting in the van.”

“We both must be crazy.”

“They’re starting up!”

“We’re both crazy.”

“Alright,” he said, shoving the pistol into his back pocket and opening the door, “Let’s go.”

He slid out of the car and opened the back. Handing me my skateboard, he cradled his under his arm and motioned for me to follow him.

We weren’t dressed like professional robbers; I wore a pink, short-sleeved shirt and he wore a white muscle shirt. We both had jeans and I could see Rig’s boxers over his waistband.

The two of us walked several blocks until we heard the armored van behind us. I turned and shaded my eyes against it. It was some company security van, with a logo on the side that probably said something like “Sure ‘n’ Secure Armored Van Services” or “SecuriT Armored”—I couldn’t tell over the glare of the sun.

As the car neared Rig turned and jumped on his skateboard, steering it out into the street. There were no cars around except for the armored van, which was coming on at something like thirty miles an hour.

            I could just see the conversation going on inside. “Now, son,” Dietl would be saying to the driver, “you can imagine the consequences if you got us in an accident, right?” Perhaps the guards would be hassling him for a look at the secret recipe. “Come on, Mr. Dietl, just one peek?” He would reply; “According to the president, the real recipe will have some surprises. Those surprises might not be the pleasant, kind, eh? Perhaps we should just let well enough alone.”

I stepped onto my skateboard and pushed off from the curb onto the sea of asphalt. I turned my chest towards the drivers so they wouldn’t see the pistol tucked in my back pocket.

The van slowed.

I knew I was sweating and I hoped the detective would think it was just the sun’s heat. I peered into the window of the van. There was the driver in the front seat—he had been eating a few too many fried chickens, I thought—and what looked like a well-dressed man sitting next to him.

They waved for us to pass, as Rig was already in the middle of the street. I followed close behind him. As Rig passed right in front of the van he made as if to wave and brought out his Beretta, cocked and ready. He sprayed the van with bullets, shattering the front windshield and catching the portly driver with a shocked wheeze on his face. The detective next to him, doing nothing. He only bobbed when two bullets hit him.

“Ha ha!” said Bo Dietl, jumping out of the back seat. “I knew that front-seat dummy would save my skin!” He was reaching for his gun.

            Thankfully for Rig’s hide—and mine too, probably—it happened that the important case was handcuffed to Detective Dietl’s right hand, which was his gun hand. His hand went down to grab the pistol easily enough, but it didn’t come up as quickly as he had hoped.

            Rig’s Beretta swung around and blasted the chain connecting Dietl’s arm and the case, which then fell to the ground. Dietl jumped back with a yell and brought his pistol to bear. Rig was already running behind the hood of the car and I had my gun out and ran after him.

            Dietl grabbed the case as the other guard—also a fried chicken lover judging from the amount of his girth—swung the other side door opened and confronted us with a good old-fashioned “Howdee”, gun in hand.

            I thought quickly and slammed the door on him as the detective popped the hood open and fired under it at Rig. Rig yelped and leapt out of the way as bullets tore up the inside of the car.

            “Oof! Ooh!” the guard inside the van shoved against my weight. I fell back and he flew out of the car on his own weight, hitting the asphalt with a sliding thud.

            The detective and Rig fired at each other again and again over and under the armored hood of the van. Cars were stopping far ahead and behind, women screaming and men shouting into cell-phones about the gunfight.

            I pulled myself into the backseat of the car and came out the other side. I saw Dietl’s backside and the case lying on the ground. I deftly knocked the detective on the back of the head with the stock of my Beretta and picked up the case as he slumped to the ground.

            We ran. Off the street and into the darkness, passing into a parking lot where three restaurants stood; a Burger King, a Taco Bell and a KFC. I looked at Rig, who was grinning stupidly at me as we ran. We didn’t even think of the consequences—it would take a while for that realization to set in. We just ran, and Colonel Sanders winked angrily at us from his perch atop the restaurant as we passed.

 

Author's Note

Please spare me any comments about the spacing. I pasted it off of my word document. Sorry!

Reviews

[Michael]

I like your story, it is a real attention getter. I understand about formatting on here. It does leave something to be desired. One suggestion that might add to the story some, instead of talking about the detective's biography, have a copy of it, to retort Rig. You might have some real fun with that. Just a suggestion though, I really enjoyed the read.

[A.R. Freeman]

This story is hilarious. It definitely kept my interest and attention all the way through. The plot was well thought out and fun. I really hope you do a part 2.

[Love Struck]

I'm glad you posted this piece, Scott! Humorous, but dangerous at the same time. I've never seen anything like it. Rig was an especially fun part of the story; you have a real knack for getting into character. Are you intending to do a sequel???