No Fried Chicken? (Short Fiction story)

Three thousand habitable planets in the known universe, and I’m stuck on the only one without fried chicken. Gotta Havut couldn’t accept her own thoughts as she plodded down the cobblestone path. She stopped and raised her arms to the purple low-lying clouds and shouted, “Where now?” Then mumbled, “Doggone it! I don’t see any place here that might serve up some delectable fried chicken.” Gotta, still dressed in her illuminated silver space trousers, surveyed the hodgepodge of signs up and down the dingy street. She knew that the sun didn’t shine here, but couldn’t imagine this planet didn’t serve fried chicken.

She continued her quest, scanning the area. Then she noticed a narrow passageway. Maybe I can find a place at the other end of this alley, she thought. She crept between the rat-infested buildings and covered her nose, trying to keep out the rancid smells. Huge, heaped garbage containers lined both sides. The decaying odors of onions, garlic, tuna cans, and perhaps a backed up toilet permeated the air. She felt pebbles under her feet and a wetness seeping through her thin soles. She quickened her pace.

Then she smelled a familiar aroma. She turned, letting her nose guide her toward a dilapidated screen door. With her face planted against the rusty screen, she peered into a dark room. A towering bulbous-looking man jumped from the shadows wearing a blood-saturated apron. “What you looking at,” he growled

“Uh, uh, nothing, Sir. I smelled fried food and thought perhaps this was a restaurant.” The man folded his arms above his chubby belly. She went on, “I haven’t had any good food in a long time. I just came from spending three years on Mars where the only thing they ate was moldy green cheese freighted in from the moon.” She sighed. “What I really hanker for is fried chicken.”

“Well, come on in. We’ll see what we can scrounge up for you.” His belly visibly pumped up and down as he muzzled a laugh. Gotta wondered, is he poking fun at me? The doorway where the man planted his cooler-sized feet was six inches above the spongy ground she stood on, but her eyes seemed level with his belly where his apron strings tied. Underneath the apron, she noticed he wore a partially shredded tee shirt and matching, once-white trousers. She didn’t like the looks of him and thought: Maybe I should just get out of here.

Then the man said, “Well, are you comin’ in?” Gotta nearly tripped over her pointed slippers as she crossed one foot over the other inching away sideways. “Can’t keep the Misses waitin’ much longer,” he said. “Make up your mind…in or out?”

As he held the door open for Gotta to enter, two chickens skedaddled out the door, feathers flying—one chasing the other. A short rounded woman bounded out behind them with the biggest butcher knife Gotta had ever seen. The woman held it high above her head.

Gotta ducked as the gray-haired killer flew past. Only after the woman disappeared down the alley, did she stand up straight again. Then she took in a deliberate breath and said, “I think I’ll pass for…”

Gotta’s words stopped as she noticed a minute stream of light enter the dark room. Her eyes fixed on what looked like the remnants of fried chicken heaped on top of a garbage can just inside the door. She wiped away the drool at the edges of her mouth. Her saliva glands had jumped into overdrive. “Oh, all right,” she said, thinking this place might not be so bad after all. Anyhow, it was worth a peek.

She entered the tiny dark room. The squeaky screen door slammed behind her. She followed the thundering steps of the giant down the dark-paneled hall past a dreary and repulsive-smelling kitchen. Three cooks, wearing tattered, grayed aprons, busied themselves preparing various fares.

One lean Oriental man flipped what looked like watermelon burgers. Gotta’s eyes then shifted to the far end of the room where the plump lady again appeared chasing a headless chicken. The second cook scurried past, obscuring her view of the woman. He was carrying what appeared to be ostrich eggs. Then she noticed a third man shaking a wire basket full of… “Fried eyeballs?”

Gotta choked; she didn’t want to stick around to find out if what she saw was real. She turned on her heels and dashed back down the dark hall. As she shoved the screen door open, one of her slippers stuck on the metal edging. She didn’t stop. Instead, she hot-padded it back to her ship favoring the one slippered foot. She lasered the latch, climbed the cobweb-like ladder, strapped herself into the swing, and commanded the engine to commence. The spacecraft lifted, and then sped off into the celestial universe.

As Gotta Havut gazed out on the sparkling planets from her cockpit viewer, she mused: Maybe I’ll head for planet Earth. I heard a man named Kentucky serves fried chicken there.